Narrative Essay On Rosedale Park

I was in a semi-asleep state of mind when the bus finally pulled up to Rosedale Park; my arm was mildly chafed from sleeping against the seat handle and the heated earbuds swiveled uncomfortably in its squeezed position against my ear canal. Fluctuating feelings of dread and anticipation washed over me as I took in the fact that I was about to race my first 5K of the season after not having run for half of a week due to my metatarsal injury. As I ripped the earphones off from my ears and shoved the cross-country spikes and stale mini-pretzels in the crumpled, pale-white paper bag, I tried to settle my blenching nerves. Recalling the dozens of starting gunshots and striders along the grasslands and tracks did not help in the slightest. I was consumed by self-deprecating thoughts: thoughts about letting down and having the whole effort be in vain, thoughts about shriveling into a crouching quitter in the middle of the race, clobbered down by asthma. I grabbed the Med-Kit on the leftmost seat of the front row and hopped off the bus. A rather pleasant breeze brushed on my face as I took in the unexpectedly flat topography of the course. At first glance, the park seemed to consist of wide

The straightaway formed along the edge of the lake was filled to the brim with coatings of cinder, and it crunched uncomfortably against the shoes. But that was not the problem; it was the upcoming incline that approached us by the second. A vague voice called out that the mile time by the mark was 6:35. Then, unsurprisingly, the ground lurched upwards and the searing pain flushed through the body as I jammed my feet against the ground to claw up the hill. What was worse, however, was that the metatarsal bone creaked inside my foot with an excruciating throb. Marissa and Paige were to the either side of me, and it was my duty to stick to the pack. But I simply couldn’t with the crippling pain