<p>Just kidding. </p>
<p>1000 words. An experience that has influenced you.</p>
<p>Comments? Criticism? Let me know:</p>
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<p>I have a sneaky suspicion that Im fooling everyone when it comes to running. Oh sure, I seem experienced, with my knowledge of slow-twitch muscle fibers and advice on fartleks. But when push comes to shove, I collapse in a mess of near-asthmatic wheezing and gasping.</p>
<p>My parents were actually mildly surprised when I decided to take up cross-country in the first place. I had never shown any inclination toward sports, except maybe ping-pong. The truth is, I desperately wanted to be an amazing athlete. I saw them: the bronzed and muscular athletes in Sports Illustrated, on the beach, in the airport. They always had an easy gait, a graceful posture- oozing with confidence and empowerment. I wanted to be like that too.</p>
<p>But, no matter how hard I tried, I always ended up slowing to a walk. Part of it was the burning sensation in my legs. Part of it was the ripping ache in my chest. But mostly, it was the sight of the slowest, most out-of-shape girl on the team ten paces ahead of me. It was so discouraging. How could I be such a phony? </p>
<p>Nonsense, my coach dismissed. Its all mental. I understood perfectly: you had to be mental to take up running.</p>
<p>The meets were the worst. That was when I was forced to mingle with the real runners: the tall, lanky girls who threw around phrases like PR and split time in everyday conversation. The most ironic part was that they usually started the varsity boys teams right after the junior varsity girls. This meant our boys would inevitably catch up with me in mere minutes, yelling encouraging things like Lets go [Raspberry Smoothie! and Longer strides, [Raspberry Smoothie]!</p>
<p>Well, why dont you just quit? my skinny, athletic sister wanted to know after one brutal track meet. (By this time, I had somehow gotten bullied into signing up for winter and spring track as well).</p>
<p>I stared at her incredulously. What? Dont be ridiculous, I said.</p>
<p>Of all my running experiences though, I think I hit my lowest point in the winter of tenth grade. On this particular day, I was running the mile on an indoor track. The cowbell rang, indicating that the first girl had only one more lap to go. In a desperate attempt to reach the girl in front of me, I sped up my pace. I dont think I had any concept of time in the agonizing seconds that followed. All I could recognize was the pitying looks on my teammates faces and that damnable, black silence in the gymnasium.</p>
<p>I finished without any cheering or fanfare. It wasnt even a relief- just a humiliation.</p>
<p>What was my time, I muttered to Coach [X]. [X] had been named All-American in ice hockey when he was younger, and ran the New York City Marathon every year. Rumor had it, he ran with his boys during practice and often outran them in their seven or eight mile treks.</p>
<p>Coach [X] stared at me. Time? What time?</p>
<p>My own coach had forgotten that I was running in the race.</p>
<p>Never mind, I told [X]. The very same night, I switched sports to intramural ping-pong.</p>
<p>But somehow, every sport I took afterwards always came back to running. In basketball, we were first evaluated by our mile times. Our field hockey practice when it was too cold to play outside? A three-mile run. It seemed I would never escape running.</p>
<p>This summer I worked in Washington DC as an intern.</p>
<p>Hey [Raspberry Smoothie], my dad said enthusiastically. Theres a great running route on [X] St., right next to the office. Four miles, goes right onto the boardwalk. I bet youll wanna give this a try?</p>
<p>Yeah, thats just what I was thinking, I said.</p>
<p>So I gave it a try. It was difficult not to, with my father (and his camera) waving in the distance. I told myself it was just to keep in shape. And I would stop as soon as I was out of sight.</p>
<p>And I did stop. But I looked at the runners around me: some of them fast, some of them slow. I began to feel a nagging itch, a guilty sensation about stopping. So I started again. </p>
<p>The next day, I did it again. There were so many senior citizen runners who passed me, I figured there must be an early bird special somewhere on [X] Street. But by the time I finished my run the day afterwards, I knew I had no more choice in the matter. Inexplicably, I was hooked on a running cycle again.</p>
<p>My family soon learned not to ask about times or mileage. Instead, they asked about how it felt, what I saw. And the truth was, it wasn't bad. I liked what I was feeling. I liked what I was seeing. There was no pressure to keep up with the faster girls, no coach yelling to pump my arms more, not even an angry whistle indicating poor form.</p>
<p>Whats the matter, [Raspberry Smoothie]? my sister asked after I snapped at her one day. Miss your morning run or something?</p>
<p>I turned to her, ready with an angry retort. But I surprised myself. Yeah, I said. It feels really weird not starting off the day with a run.</p>
<p>That was last Tuesday. Ive already ordered some new running gear for this school year. I figure Ill use some of the old cross-country routes, maybe explore a little if Im ambitious. Not every day, just three or four days a week.</p>
<p>But just to keep in shape, you know. Not because I really love it or anything.</p>
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