End u ran

Slap slap go the Saltwaters on my eight year old feet against the pavement. The trees shed their leaves, their branches caught in autumn's breath. Two laps around the man made lake is two laps more than my dad thought I would run. My brother only cared because his run was interrupted in order to look for me.
How far did you go, Rachael?
Two laps. I went two whole laps.
That's over a mile. If I had known you would get so far ahead of me, I wouldn't have let you run after your brother. I thought you would get tired sooner.
It was that day, I think, that the idea was planted. Not during Spring, when kids normally run around blissfully barefoot after the months of chill and snow, but during the Fall, when the big kids trained for cross-country, when my brother was training. The idea that I could run longer than others, this endurance, did not take long to sprout, though its vine would first scale around basketball before bursting forth on its own.
Clap clap go the converse against the cement. My bike has a flat and so I must catch the bus everyday to work. 7:00AM. If I miss it, I'm late, so I run to maintain that balance of sleeping as much as I can and getting to work on time. My legs roll downhill. It should be effortless, but I huff and puff and perspire slightly. I certainly got a bang for my buck.
Tap tap goes the metal rod against my fibula. Does that hurt? the trainer asks me. My face contorts. Yes, I answer.
So that's the spot. 2cm. In likelihood you have a stress reaction.
A stress reaction means no running. It means hours of elliptical or biking. Hours of keeping one's heart rate for that singular end. It is not fun. There are no endorphins. There is no banter between comrades. I sit out a race. I run to race, without competition it's a silly pastime indeed.
Pad pad go the Nike Zoom Miler against the red, flat 200m track. It's my third race in two days. I'm just happy that I have the opportunity to keep racing, though the first of my races ended in vomiting and left me stumbling. It's a new day, a new race, same distance. First lap, I'm in last. Second lap, I'm in last. Third lap, some girls are starting to falter, those first two laps were killer. My grandpa's dead? Fourth lap, smooth...relax the face...grandpa...breathe...toe plant below my center of gravity...and push off. A blast off in my mind, but I know it appears to be a typical, dying throw of a stride across the finish line. Seventh. People ask me about my race, I tell them seventh with pride and joy. They're awkward for a second. In the nation, I remind them. In the country. They nod their head, oh, that's good, then. Nice job. Way to go.
Pat pat go the hands on my back.