Page 4 of Running
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.The club music reverberates through my earbuds.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.The sound of my shoes hitting the pavement punctuates the beat of the music.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Over and over again, everything in rhythm, everything in sync.
Everything under my control.
Everything perfect.
Just the way I like it.
As I run past three guys who have started to slow down, I don’t look left or right. I’m not worried so much about who I’m beating, male or female. Instead, I’d love to do better than my own best time at a local 10K road race since I moved to Orlando.
In ninety-degree Florida heat, it’s a lot to ask of most people, but I don’t let those kind of factors enter my mind.
In my family, it’s win or go home. I’m not wired any differently from my brothers, and historically, I’ve hated to fail.
Though, running is different for me now. I’m not trying to be the best on the planet. That dream has passed.
I see a marker for the ninth kilometer, and I keep my eyes focused on getting there.
One. Two. Three. Four.The predictable rhythm is soothing and keeps all external distractions away.
As I pass the marker, I look for my next visual target. I don’t allow myself to recognize the aches and pains creeping into my body or how thirsty I am. Just that next goal.
Once I spot the race’s end point in the distance, all bets are off. In competitive running, you tightly control your pace at each phase of the race. I know exactly what’s left in the tank at the end, because I planned it that way. Some of my better habits still linger from my college days.
As I kick up my speed, I moderate my breathing to handle the higher demands of my body.
And when I pass the finish line, there’s the result I hoped for.
“Congratulations to Grace Battle, our ladies winner today!”
Yes, that, but it’s also the personal best time I was looking for.
I breathe in and out for several minutes, walking around by a fan station to recover while the race staff hands me a cooling wrap and water. Even though I’m in great shape, I pushed myself hard in hot, humid conditions.
These road races are a complete shift from my college days. No spotlight, no one calculating points, just me, the road, and my favorite orange running shoes.
They’redefinitelynot the Olympics, or a national championship.
I’ve already tried to go down that path, and now I’ve veered left.
“Grace! Grace!”
I look around, my eyes landing on my younger brother Rawley, who watched the race. With our older brother Landon in London for Wimbledon, we’re both crashing at his place to house-sit.
His college football season at the University of Texas over, Rawley’s flown in to hang with us in Florida a lot lately, as we fight to keep him on the straight and narrow until the NFL draft next year. He’s a bit of a wild child, though with a heart of gold.
“How was that time?” he asks, knowing what my goal was.
“Personal best for a 10K since I moved here,” I say, a big grin spreading across my face.
“Hell yes!” He gives me a big hug, picking me up off the ground. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
Rawley is the third oldest in the family, twenty years old to my twenty-two. Our youngest sibling, Connor, is eighteen years old and headed to Princeton in the fall. A legacy after I graduated just over a year ago myself.
