The Race

The Race Crouch at the start, Count down, three seconds mark. Exhale sharp with the clap, Creating power, push to surge. Cutting to the bend in the first lane, Three hundred feeling the pace. Listening to the rhythmic heaves, Too slow? My stride increases. Breathing to the beat for more air, Two hundred left, take the lead. Never looking back, just the line, Last lap, the bell chimes. Rhythmic breathing, keep it tight, Visualizing the fly, knees to height. Three hundred, it's time to kick, Stride lengthens, elbows stick. With two hundred to go, I sprint, Breathing deep, three in, one out, flow. Only the track ahead, body length I see, Keeping knees high, maintaining the fight. The last hundred, the world fades away, Lean forward, more momentum in play. Down the final stretch, ground's all I see, Then suddenly, the crowd comes into view for me. Lifted high, off the ground, a winning swing, I can stop running now – I have won. The stands alive, my name in their roar, Commentator's voice rises in a shriek. A record broken, a new peak to crown, I go limp, faint, I am man down. By Cathrin Stuart