Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

I cheer, too. After all the embarrassment and inferiority I’ve faced
today, I’m ready to show them all what I’m really good at.
“We’re going to start out with a nice, easy warm-up before we
run the qualifying race.” Coach Lenny looks happy, like he loves
running and thinks it’s great luck he gets to make a living doing it.
“Follow me.”
He turns and heads out of the tunnel, into the afternoon sun.
Now Coach Lenny looks like an athlete. There’s no trace of belly,
beer or otherwise, on his wiry frame—he’s not hiding one, either,
because his white tank and blue running shorts leave little to the
imagination. He sets the pace—the twenty kids who’d assembled in
the tunnel fall in behind him—a gentle run that’s not about to get
anyone sweaty. I focus on the footfalls of his sneakers, counting out
the rhythm in my mind and letting it sink into me.
The steady rhythm matches my heart rate.
I am vaguely aware that our pace is increasing. As we build up
speed I stay focused on Coach Lenny’s sneakers, never letting him
get more than a few feet ahead of me.
I get lost in the run.
Barely noticing my surroundings, I’m surprised when he looks
over his shoulder and announces, “We’ll make two more laps around
the stadium before heading to the course.”
I’m in the middle of the lead group, content for the warm-up
to hold back my pace. Don’t want to wear myself out before the
qualifier.
I love everything about running: the steady rhythm of my sneakers
hitting the ground, the adrenaline and endorphins pulsing
through my bloodstream, the cotton of my PAIN IS WEAKNESS LEAVING
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