Creative Writing: My Father's Journey

Standing to the right of the starting line, I waited impatiently for the race. “It is just a race, I have done this hundred of times.” I remind myself. However, my stomach would not stop turning and my legs already feel like liquid, as if all the strength has drained out of them. Looking to my left, I saw a never-ending row of competitors, waiting to run toward the same finish line as I am.

My dad comes up behind me and when I turn, I see tears in his eyes. He is so proud of me, and I know then that no matter how I do, he’ll be there when it’s over. He gives me a big hug and I can feel that he is even more nervous than I am.

“Good luck,” he whispers; he can’t say it too loud or his voice will crack. That’s when I lose it. Great. Now I’m crying.

Looking over his shoulder, I see my mother. She’s waiting for her turn

It’s all stuff I’ve heard before, but for some reason, this time, it just seems much more complicated.

With one more good-luck pat on the back, Mr Vincent is gone and I’m left alone with my nerves. Then comes the dreadful shout, “Runners, on your marks!” A wave of nausea sweeps through me but I force it down. This is my race.

With a loud crack, the gun goes off and a few hundred runners headed out at a sprint, trying to get to the front of the pack. Screams come from all sides, making it hard to focus. Forcing the noise from my mind, I move forward quickly, my adrenaline flowing, trying to get me to go faster even though everything feels like Jell-O.

In no time, a mile has passed and I am somewhere in the middle of the group. I have the taste of blood in my mouth and it has been a while since I last felt my legs. My lungs burn, and my feet are hurting in my too-small running spikes. I put all my effort, both physical and mental, into keeping my pace. I have to do well for everyone who is here supporting me. I have to do well for