It’s a typical weekend, and here I am pounding away down the road, a hot sun beating down on the back of my neck. Dust is collecting on my damp face and hands. A fly zooms in a casual circle around my head.

I’m just finishing up my normal weekend workout. I see my black mailbox looming up in the distance, and feel relieved that I will soon be home. I’m so thirsty that I am dreaming about the ocean, Niagara Falls, and a cool French mountain stream all at once. I can picture the cold clear water flowing freely out of the tap and into a nice glass, ready to refresh my parched body.

It’s normal that I’m feeling this way. At about nine o'clock this morning I started my workout. After stretching out for a few minutes, I headed out. My weekend workout is the hardest workout I ever do. At a time when most of the other girls on my track team are still sleeping, I head out onto the pavement. I first run about five miles into my town, taking the back roads. This takes me about forty five minutes to do. When I get into town I head down to my high schools track. After a few more stretches I start the hardest part of my workout. I run around the entire track around twelve to fourteen times at my mile race pace. This basically translates into running over three more miles of sprints. After I finish this, feeling thoroughly exhausted, I head back home over five more miles of back roads. Somewhere deep inside me I’m amazed that I can find the initiative to do this. As I run I sometimes think about the girls who lay moaning on the track after running just two or three 400s. It makes me laugh, I wonder what they would think if they had to come on one of my workouts with me.

Really, as I finish my run and walk stiffly up my gravel driveway, I think it’s just something inside me. I have some kind of initiative, some kind of drive that just won’t let me stop before I do my best. That’s why I like distance running. It requires no finesse of any kind. The best runner is the best runner. There are no judgment calls. The person who works out the hardest, who sweats the most, and who gets up every morning do their workout without fail, well, that’s the person who wins. There’s almost no luck involved, it’s all sheer guts. That’s why I like distance running. If you put in the time, you get what you deserve. In almost every other sport I’ve ever played in my life I’ve put in the time and gotten screwed anyway, but not distance running. There’s no way you can get screwed if you put the time in. That’s what gives me my drive. That’s what keeps me on the track, still running my legs off, even after all of my other teammates have finished their practice and went home.

I do that all the time actually, its one of my rules of thumb. When the coach says we’re running ten 400 meter runs for practice, in my head I always prepare myself to run at least twelve, if not more. I love staying after practice and doing sprints on my own, fighting against the clock. I love fighting against other runners too. I remember one rainy day at practice when the distance runners, totally exhausted after almost finishing our entire workout, had to run against the sprinters who were fresh in a 400 meter run. I was so pissed, watching the sprinters stretch their springy, unexhausted legs. When we took off I felt like I exploded out of a gun. Nobody was going to beat me. I caught up with the very best 400 meter runner on the team, and in the very last stretch we ran neck in neck. We both totally opened up and sprinted our butts off, legs flying and arms pumping. She had nothing on me though, and I passed her up before the end. Imagine that, an exhausted distance runner beating the best 400 runner on the team, while she was fresh. After that my coach tried to convince me to actually run the 400 in track meets, but I was too attached to the mile to switch. The mile is my event, and nothing can change that.

In my opinion, the mile is the hardest race in high school track. Why? Well, to run a good mile you have to run almost the same 400 times as the 400 runners do in their race and the 800 runners do in their race. The only difference is that the instead of just running for 400 meters or 800 meters you have to run at that speed for 1600 meters. A full mile. For example, a lot of 800 runners run times around 2 minutes and 40 seconds for their race. When I run the mile, my first 800 meters is almost always 2 minutes and 40 seconds, my second 800 is more around 2 minutes and 45 seconds. So while 800 runners collapse on the ground after running their 2:40 guess what, I’m still running. I’ve still got another 800 to go.

I guess I sound like I’m bragging don’t I? Well, I suppose it happens. And after the workouts I do to keep in shape, I think I deserve to brag just a little, right? I mean its not everyone that gets up early on Saturdays to go run 13 miles, three of them all out sprints, now is it?

But then, I’ve got regionals to worry about.

This green army blanket always comes to the big meets with me. I find a nice spot in the shade, and lay it out. I plop down on it, and jam to my pump up music until its time for my race to start.

Right now I’m just trying to relax. My stomach is a ball of huge knots, kind of like the silver sky is a ball of bizarre clouds. The weather is perfect, I’m lamenting, almost no wind, and not too hot, only in the sixties. A Hilary Duff song that I’ve listened to about 800 times today is ringing in my ears. The thoughts of what has happened today take me over, and I reflect on it.

Its regionals, and I’m in Calumet. When I got on the bus today I was so stressed I almost couldn’t manage myself. I always freak out at regionals. My adrenaline goes crazy, and every time I think about running my races I get a fresh rush. This results in me feeling completely disconnected from reality for almost the entire day. It’s ok though, as this is the fourth time I’ve done this, I’m getting kind of used to it now.

Anyway, to make a long story short, I did just fine in the mile. I got myself so psyched up for it I thought I was going to burst on the starting line, and so I took off with an insane amount of energy. I took the lead for three whole laps of the race. Smiling, I remember the way my teammates looked when my coach shouted out my 800 time to me, as it was faster than almost every single one of them had ever managed to race when running just that, the 800, and yet I kept going. It was on the very last lap of the race that I got passed, first by a girl from Houghton, and then by another girl from Calumet. I kind of burned out in the end, and finished in third with a respectable, though not exceptional time. It was more than enough to qualify for UPs, and so I was happy.

But now I’m not. Laying here on my army blanket, I’m thinking about the fact that I didn’t reach my goal time, and I didn’t do any better than third. I so could have beaten those girls, I’m thinking. I’m pissed; I could have done much better. I get up to warm up for my two mile race, and decide that its time I go out there and show what I’m really made of.

I love how that happens too. It’s consistently worked that way for me. I always run either a good mile, or a good two mile, but rarely ever both. If I run an excellent mile, I always feel a little less initiative to go out and kill myself in the two mile, just because I feel like I’ve already left my mark. But if I run a crappy mile, watch out, I’m going to run a screaming two mile just to make up for it.

The two mile line up is the dreaded waterfall start, and all of the distance runners are groaning as we step up to the line. From my position in the middle of the track, I can see both my coaches on the inside of track, and my parents on the outside of the track. My resolve grows stronger, and as the gun shoots I take off with a bang.

After just a lap I find myself running directly behind the girl from Houghton who won the mile run. She’s running at a fair pace, and so I stick with her. At the third lap around, however, I start to feel like she’s going slowly. As we pass the starting line I do a quick mental calculation of the time I would like to have for my split, and if it’s slower than that, I decide to pass her.

Amazingly, it is, and so I do the best thing, I pass her up right then and there. There’s no turning back after this. I’m now in second place, behind a Calumet runner who is way in front of me. There’s no hope of catching her, so instead I focus on my pace, and set out to get a great time. I’m on perhaps my fourth or fifth lap when I realize that I’m running stronger than normal. I’m just not feeling tired at all. My arms are pumping along great and my legs are flying, striding out perfectly. Further on in the race, with about two laps left, my teammates start lining the track. They all can see I’m running strong. I pray that my time will be as phenomenal as I hope it will be. Every few seconds as I run along I can hear one of my teammates call out my name, cheer me on, and tell me to finish strong.

And I do finish strong. I sprint right through the finish line with a strength that I never knew I possessed. The crowd is cheering me on like crazy. It was a solid second place I think, as I lean my head back and try to gulp in enormous amounts of greatly needed oxygen. At the end of every race, if you score well that is, a timer will come over to collect your name and tell your place and time. When my timer came over I was bent over, leaning my hands on my knees, resting my body.

"Name." I hear, as I see stop watch appears in front of my face. I am about to say "Hunt," which is the standard response to the name question, but I find myself unable to speak. My mind is blank, and I stammer out my name as I struggle to absorb this fabulous information.

"Nice race." My timer says. I can barely hear him. I’m still hearing the rush of the cheering crowd in my head. I run up to my dad, who is standing on the edge of the track very near to me.

"What time did you get?" I ask, running up to him, and ignoring all of the other onlookers who are watching me with looks of reverence in their eyes. This always happens to me, as it does to all other crazy distance runners. People are so amazed by what we do that they treat the best of us like gods. I don’t have the time to feel flattered though.

"Nice run, Corker." My Dad says showing me his stopwatch time, and I don’t even bother to tell him not to use that ridiculous nickname with me in public.

"I ran a 12:30!!!" I shout out, finally believing that it’s true. I just ran two miles in 12 minutes and thirty seconds! It’s almost unbelievable. That’s the best I’ve ever done by almost thirty seconds. I can’t believe it. I actually reached my two mile goal time! I never actually thought I would be able to run a 12:30, but I always wanted to!

I turned and sprinted back across the track, right up to my coaches. At the same moment as I scream, "I ran a 12:30!" They both cry out, "You ran a 12:30!" And we collide into a huge sweaty hug. They were both so proud of me. I remember my distance coach just smiling and saying, "Goddamn it, Julie. I am so proud of you. I anyone deserves it, its you."

I ran back across the track to my parents and gave them both bear hugs in turn. My dad was so happy. He was really laughing for the first time in a long time.

After that I went back across the track in search of my greatly needed water bottle, and on the way I got about 500 hugs, high fives, and slaps on the back from different members of my team. I remember JoBeth, a shot put thrower and one of my best friends on the team, running up to me and lifting me straight off the ground in a huge hug.

"I told you that you could do it!" She cheered. She was always so enthusiastic.

To put it short, it was the best two mile I ever ran. I was so happy with myself after that race, there was just nothing more to say. That night on the bus the whole team celebrated all the way home. The next day at school I was, of course, exhausted, but it always lifted my spirits to hear one of my teachers congratulate me on how well I ran.

That day when I got home from school I saw something on the porch. I remembered that my mom was spending the weekend at a dance camp, and so she wasn’t there. On the porch I discovered a big red rose in a vase, and at first I thought it was for her. I brought it inside, lamenting on how beautiful it was, and read the notecard attached to it. It was just one line. It brought tears to my eyes, I was so happy.

“I’m so proud of you. Love, Mom.”