It is nearly indescribable. The gritty texture pressing into my thumb and first finger, the eager, nervous anticipation spreading through my body, the hollowed breathing as I focus and bow my head though eager muscles twitch with expectancy. The pressure of the soles of my rubber flats against the steel of the starting blocks, every fiber of my body yearning to start yet my mind reminding me to wait for the signal. Just when I think I absolutely cannot wait any longer, the starting gun sounds and instincts govern. The track spreads before my eyes with each stride bringing me closer to my goal.
             Though seemingly paradoxical, my toes pounded the track yet instantly lightly flew upward. This first step, I knew, was going to determine how well I was to place. It was essential the rhythm of my race was to be found in that lone step. The beauty of a routine shines in the first step of a race, no longer is thought an issue, full reliance is placed upon my body. Blood courses through my arms, hands gliding from ear to waist in flawless pace with each stride of my legs. The staggered starting positions of my opposition, meant to equal the difference between the inner and outer lanes, only accomplish to play mental games with me. The constant battle between straining to pace myself with lane number one and patiently waiting for the straightaway to balance lanes, never ceases.
             Rounding the 200m mark, though I was beginning to feel fatigued, I knew I had half the race to go and therefore would have to strive onward. Hours of practice on countless tracks allowed the quality of a dream to take over, so that while I am physically running, I am mentally replaying the final steps of a race. A shiver of anticipation flows through me as I gain one painful stride over an opponent, my goal one step closer.
             Sheer dedication is what gets any runner through the third 100m of a 400m race, every muscle is screaming for you to stop, muscles ten...