|C is for Crazy Curls|
My sophomore year of high school, I signed up for the track team after my best friends joined. I practiced with the sprinters because it seemed running the 200 meter dash and the high hurdles would be easier for a novice runner than say the 3200 meter run.
It didn’t come easy for me. I think my parents were only invited to one track meet that season because I consistently finished in middle of the pack. How average. But I fought hard. I had the shin splints and the sports medicine referrals to prove it.
Track was tough. Thankfully, my friends agreed. We were surrounded by star athletes and we only joined to stay busy in the spring season. To fuel our aching bodies and defeated egos, we made an after-school McDonald’s run on more than one occasion. There’s nothing like running laps and practicing calisthenics on a Big Mac and a French fry hangover.
Then, one track meet my seventh grade teacher was there to clock times at the finish line. I ran my little heart out. My legs throbbed and my little toothpick arms flapped in the wind. I crossed that finish line and had to ask the coach, “How was that for average effort?”