I hated track practice. Even though my main event was the mile, which was technically considered "long distance" for track, I still had to complete the sprint workouts each day after school. I hated sprinting. Today's torture was eight 200m repeats with thirty seconds of rest in between. We went in groups. At first I had been honored to be running in the fastest group with the upperclassmen, but now I just wanted to be done. After the fifth time sprinting halfway around the track - which sounds easy but trust me, it's not - I was ready to be done. I slowed down on the sixth rep, falling to the back of my group, hoping to conserve as much energy as possible for the last two that were inevitable, but at the same time knowing that Coach would be timing with her stopwatch. Finally, six done; two to go. We leaned on the wire fence that surrounded the track as we took our breather, using it to help us stay standing. I bent over, gasping for breath, knowing that the thirty seconds were almost up. The grimaces on my teammates' faces mirrored my pain. Two left. We lined up by group on the start line, knowing what was coming next.

"Your time is up. Better run!" Called the assistant coach.

We took off again. I used the inside lane to give me a little head start as we rounded the turn, then push hard on the straightaway. Once I was done with this one I only had one left. I could do it. Arms pumping, my breathing shuddering, I tried to go a little faster, chasing the two girls in front of me. 200 meters had never felt so long. I could not wait to go home.