I am going to die. You’re not going to die stop being ridiculous. I looked down at my bruised and scarred legs, bouncing up and down on the floor matt. Sweaty and calloused fingers grip the edges of the seat. One breath in. One breath out. Okay. Slamming the car door shut I picture it as the end of an era. Leaving everything else behind me. Every stress, every distraction, gone in the slam of a car door. It’s time to focus. My legs threaten to start trembling as I walk around the corner, and I give them each a shake. Hard. Nervous smiles greeted me, along with pained grimaces. An arm is thrown around my shoulders.
“You ready?”
“Of course not”
Everything is a blur. Running, jumping, twisting. Splitting into groups I feel like a cow lined up for slaughter.
It’s time. How is it time already? I gently sit on the rock solid seat. Stand back up again. Sit back down. Leaning forward I grasp the cool bar and pull it. It has become an extension of my body, something familiar, but today it is not comforting. Not in the least.
I yank the straps over my mud splattered sneakers.
One breath in. One breath out.
5…4…3…2…1
With a huge pull it begins, faster, faster and settle. I feel light as air, completely at ease. What if I just went a little faster? You know you’ll regret it later. With each pull my body slowly starts to complain. It starts in the arms. Why are my arms so tired. Breaths are shorter now. Push with the legs. My knees bend, I jump backwards and pull. Down, up, back, down, up, back. The motion is so monotonous but each one feels harder and harder. They told me I’d be good at this because I was a swimmer. Knives are stabbing my legs, my arms, my stomach. My throat is trying to close in on itself. I don’t notice the sweat until it runs down the side of my face. Looking at the numbers I feel an internal moan, barely half-way. Through my peripherals I can only see two other girls next to me pushing, pulling. I drown out the world around me except for the blaring music, the thumping bass. I try and distract myself by focusing on the lyrics, but the number on my screen pulls me back to reality. I hear a voice in my ear and see a tiny girl, clipboard in hand, her small figure visible in the glass in front of me.
“Good. Good.
Come on now, now is the time to go.
Show me what you’re made of, where is that number.”
I hear her, but only barely, the pain is filling up my body like sand.
Another voice joins the chorus, quiet, but sharp and intense.
“Beat her, beat her.”
My eyes flick down, +1 meters ahead.
100 m left, 10 strokes to go.
My brain and body are telling me to stop. I’ve hit the wall with full force, but somehow I find myself pushing harder. My legs are screaming now, vision blurring as I see the numbers drop.
30 meters…20 meters… 10…
My eyes fog as everything rushes to a stop. The room is spinning and I can’t unhook myself. My hands find the wheel, holding myself so I don’t collapse to the floor.
“Nice job ladies. You have 5 minutes before the next group then it’s time to go again”