Get the Gold

I was spoiled with the luxury of choice. Ice cream or brownies for dessert? Swimming or running over the summer? Race for fun or seriously this time? 

Perhaps because I had all of these moments where I could casually decide my destiny, regularly met with a fork in the road, and harbored this freedom marred by a sprinkle of slothfulness, I did what any spoiled child may do: I let someone else decide for me. 

I incited a sort of Double-Slit Experiment type situation. By disregarding how my actions affected my future, I handed my destiny to the unstable hands of fate. As time continued, so did all of the possibilities of my life, left unable to collapse into one sure outcome. I obtained the so-called “unseeing eye,” delighting in the prospect of what could be and delaying the inevitable “choice” even past the very last second. But by disregarding any hard work or concern toward myself or others, I simply, as one may put it, screwed myself over, and now I’m left wondering what would’ve happened if I’d just decided to sprint the last 100 meters of my damn race. 

Like any typical teenager, I lived two different lives: a school life and a non-school life. My school life consisted of standard academic classes, a lunch period, and track practice. My non-school life was anything not strictly mandated by the high school principal, teacher, coach, or whatever. I liked to call these moments in-betweens–times that typically consisted of me being alone, such as the period between classes where I ran to the library and hid in the cubicles to read, the seconds I stood in line waiting for my food to heat up in the microwave and jacked up the volume on my headphones, and the breaths I took on each stride at the end of a long-run where I was too tired to care about getting lost and keeping up with the faster girls. But, another part of my second life–one which I have ceased to share with anyone (until now), for fears of it ruining my personal image in case I became a famous politician or something–consumed my life in a less ordinary way. 

It is not as though I stole from the school store or ate worms or anything extreme in today’s society, but I did do something quite odd, I guess. At school, I was perceived as reasonable, studious, and well-liked, and so it was only the English teachers who read my creative writing assignments who knew of the slight insanity that brewed inside me. 

My bare feet pounded against the dirty earth as I clutched my memories and chanted my prayers. My lungs burned, aching for just one full draw of oxygen, but the night was too cold for that to be realistic. 

“Get some good rest before the race tomorrow,” my coach reminded me an hour before as I hurled my guts on the turf despite the easier pre-meet practice. “You’ll do fine!” 

His words knocked around in my head that evening. Fallen sticks sliced fresh cuts into my arches, and I bruised my knees, stumbling into rocks and ditches invisible in the dark. Each time I fell, my thoughts jumbled, but I picked myself back up, and the words re-righted themselves again, each syllable taking a new roller coaster route through my brain, infecting my mind and body alike. 

These thoughts were like the air molecules that filled the space in hot air balloons, pulling upward to the top half of my head. My ears, my forehead, and even the saliva that dripped from my tongue yearned to burst forth from my scalp like the babies that crawled out of Athena’s head. I felt myself being lifted, flying on the tips of trees, then mountains, and all the way up until my toes kissed the skies. It was beautiful up there; only my beloved wishing well brought me back down.

Each night, when the sun fell from the sky and the stars came out to play, I ran to the little abandoned well in the trails behind my house and wished. 

It was an ugly thing, that well. From the weeds that escaped from the cracks of its washed-up gray stone to its slanted roof that endured one too many hurricanes, I now see the well as something that was way too old to have been capable of anything. 

Nevertheless, each time I arrived, a great joy warmed my heart, and I routinely threw myself onto its wonderfully cold stone and shucked my wishes down the drain. The words would echo throughout its hollow body as its cylindrical structure rebounded each spoken desire this way and that. 

Its dried-up contents, forgotten and neglected, repeatedly overlooked and ignored my words, whose use had been exhausted by all the previous wishers. But this notion didn’t bother me. Instead, I relished the anticipation that something might happen, crediting myself as the special key to unlocking the well’s magic.

I would wish at the well the evening before a difficult test, a seemingly dreadful morning, or an important evaluation, and most of the time, I believed my wishes of good fortune to come true.

This particular night, I felt more desperate than usual. So, rather than exercising self-control by peering over the edge, I sat crouched, holding onto the extended palings and allowing my head to slump forward as my lips moved. 

I brought a gold coin I found lying around the sidewalk at school. Pulling it out of my pocket, I grinned at its bright tint, illuminated by the light of the moon. 

I flung the coin down the well and said my wish, “Please, help me win. Please, help me win. Please, don’t let me fail.” 

I never waited for the rattle of the coin as it found a new home at the bottom. I just wiped my mouth, pushed my tousled hair behind my shoulders, and began my trek back home.

I needed a good night's rest for my race the next day. 

I was running the 500-meter dash. 

The morning before the race was fine. I passed my chemistry exam. 

The bus ride there was fine. I shoved my headphones over my ears and closed my eyes. 

Entering the sports complex was fine. It was a 200-meter indoor track with dozens of bleachers, a food concessions stand, a time clock, and an enormous screen that projected results. Everyone on my team was buzzing with excitement and nerves. This was real. This was it. This was the very moment we had all been preparing for. 

The moments leading up to my race all seemed to blur together: getting my spikes checked, warming up, eating snacks, talking to peers, cheering on teammates, watching other races, getting my race number, making small talk with my competitors, and finally hearing my heat number called. 

The air was dry, and my mouth was parched. There was no wind in the indoor complex, yet my hair was knotted from raking my hands across my scalp in vain attempts to calm myself. 

My lungs were already screaming. 

Everything was ringing, but before I could soak in all the lights and voices, my legs were already moving me to the start line. 

It was a waterfall start, and I was on the outside. 

I could feel the anxiety perspiring in my armpits. 

Ever since I was a toddler, I was told I needed to control my emotions. My mother told me, “Don’t impose your emotions on others. When you get upset, you make everyone else around you upset too.”After mathematics homework with my father, he would scold me and my tear-streaked face, saying, “It’s only when I scream at you that you do the problem.” 

I always knew I had a terribly weak mind. My mental toughness is mere zero, so during times of intense anxiety and need to perform well, I have shut that emotional side of me out and chosen logic. 

Think, I thought to myself in the seconds before we had to set. These long sprints are merely tactical races. Get out hard, shove or get shoved, find your comfortable pace, float, then sprint to the finish. 

I can do this. 

It is already fated that I will win. I know that I will win. 

You will win. 

“Set.” I jumped up to the line. My ears straining to hear beyond our collective breaths, my muscles daring not to move before–

Gunshot. Go. 

Pressure was on both sides of me, so I flew to the front. 

Ha ha ha, I chuckled to myself. It was glorious being up in the front. I felt excellent; light. My legs had itched to move, and this was my time to race. I knew there wasn’t anyone behind me for another twenty meters, so all I had to worry about was keeping clean form. 

I was full-on soaring. This was just like practice. This was just like late at night. Everything and everyone was gone, and it was just me and the wind I created. 

One hundred meters done. Easy peasy. Coach met me at the side of the track, two hands cupping his mouth, yelling, “Relax! Relax!” 

Everything inside of me took one collective stop. My joy dropped, and confusion reigned. A joint in my neck strained as I slightly turned to look at him. What? My arms filled a smaller range. I thought I was relaxed? My legs took longer steps. My legs feel really heavy right now. I could hear the girls catching up to me.

At the 250-meter mark, a couple of girls passed me on the curve. 

I want to go faster, I thought, still keeping that same rhythm I slowed–relaxed to. Should I stay here or change pace? When? Now? I lifted my eyes to the ponytail of the other girl in front of me. I’m so tired now. 

Three hundred meters done. I hit it in 50 seconds—one more lap. I crossed the line for the second to last time and thought, oh no. 

It was like poison. It seeped through my singlet, spreading and infecting my muscles and mind. Up and around, all about, the lactic acid ran up my arms and around my calves, and panic curled its warm embrace into my neck, inciting a soft gasp. My skin was sopping, and my socks were itchy, but the poison moved on. Its grasp tugged at the base of my brain, and my eyes widened as I could feel it slipping down my spine. I couldn’t see the finish. I couldn’t feel my feet. I could only hear the great masses roaring above me, filling stands and seats, the air above the seats, leaning over railings, and everybody telling me to “Go, go, go.” Who will I let dominate this game of power? Its path relentless, my body a playground, the thoughts didn’t stop. 

That night, I poured myself a glass of milk, showered, and found myself back at the wishing well. I walked slowly, making myself look at all the stupid trees and all their stupid leaves, feeling each nick and pull when a loose branch decided to injure me. 

Once I arrived at my stupid wishing well, despising myself and all my foolish glory, I allowed myself to collapse. 

I rested there–slack on the well’s familiar stone, wet hair matted to my back, disappointed, drunk on milk, feeling rather terrible about myself because I didn’t do it. It’s not like writing, a lengthy task where one can refine, give up, and go at it again. You’ve got to be somewhat of a simpleton to run all of that race with all of your might for those few minutes. 

I took a swig of the milk and cringed as its thick contents slipped down my throat. 

I felt that if my life were on the line, I would not run faster but rather give up running altogether. What was wrong with me? Did I have no higher purpose? Why did I keep living life, then? Was it because it was convenient? Pure laziness? 

I had quite a terrible way of thinking. 

You always hear that Phillip McGraw phrase, “Life’s a marathon, not a sprint.” So, wasn’t that why Coach told me to relax a bit? Yet, doing so prompted me to be aware of how much of a race I had left. Because when my body slowed down, my brain assumed I was giving up, and all I understood was that I couldn’t go faster because that’s what they all said–to relax. Rest. Stop stressing. You’ve really gotta slow the fuck down. 

So, by the end, everyone’s passed me, and I’m just thinking, “How do I make this look like I tried so He doesn’t get mad at me?” By the end, when all is done, I’m pissed and convinced I could win another race if I had another chance. 

Still, I will lie to myself in the validation of a pity hug and welcome the words of sympathy from friends. As I stand there, dehydrated and sore, limply and stiff, nothing will change. I will continue to cheer my teammates on, composing and collecting myself because life keeps going, they’re still racing, and they’re doing fantastic. I’m just wondering if all I’m meant to do and be in life is a spectator, the person watching the author compose their masterpiece, that number on a scoreboard that people only glance over and briefly consider from a distance. 

Sometimes I wished I was a simpleton–simple in not caring about my shortness of breath or the latter half of the race. In another life, I’d just run to run, sprinting because of my pride and sustaining that pace just because.

Because I want to win. Because I have to. Because it’s what I’m supposed to do. Because Because Because. It’s really such a simpleton word that this happened, and this is that, so that’s why.

But to some extent, it’s true. Everything in life is just one straightforward answer. Wish upon the gold or get it yourself.