Being a Champion

Kiera rubbed her arms, hoping her gloved hands would melt the goosebumps off her arms, but knowing they were more a product of nerves than the November chill. Unlike all the other races during the season, the ribbon of girls fanning out on the starting line displayed a more diverse array of uniforms.

Today was the Northeast regional Junior Olympics Cross Country race. 

How can I possibly finish in the top 10 for Nationals in this huge race if I got 10 in that first meet of the season against just two middle school teams?

Kiera tried to put the thought out of her mind, finding it only fueled the rumbling of unsettled toast swirling around her anxious stomach like the blue slushie stuff in the machine at the convenience store. 

Girls wearing sleek bikini bottoms and racing spikes darted out for a few last-minute strides.

Looking down at her own pale legs clad in baggy running shorts and regular training shoes only heightened her nerves and sense of greenness in the sport.

Are these girls professional runners? I’m like the kid in a community theater play with Broadway child stars!

Fortunately, before getting fully sucked into a self-abasing doom spiral, the announcer's voice boomed over the loudspeaker: “Final call for the 3k Midget Girls division.”

Akin to a snow globe being shaken where the swirl of white glitter specks suddenly settle at the base as if they’d never been aloft, the herd of skinny legs sprawling out from the starting line filed back into formation. Kiera swallowed against the restriction of her parched throat. 

She watched as the official donning the characteristic golden jacket for the role slowly made his way to the middle of the frost-covered field. 

BANG! A twirl of gray gun smoke rocketed upward.

Like fireworks exploding across the black sky, girls darted off the starting line, pops of every color uniform fanning out on the olive green tapestry of dying autumnal grass.

Within seconds, Keira found herself near the back of the pack, ponytails and braids bouncing in front of her, every girl seeming to sprint as fast as possible. 

Her heaving lungs burned with the brisk air. The rapid rhythm of her breathing didn’t match her seeming-slow cadence.

However, as the stampede put distance on her, Kiera saw both of her moms jumping on the sidelines ahead.

“You got this, kiddo!”

“Run your own race, champ!”

Their enthusiasm triggered Kiera’s competitive switch.

Just like her first race just two months ago, Kiera realized she wasn’t running slowly. She was right on pace.

I gotta run MY race.

With every stride, her confidence grew. Her breathing relaxed. Her body flowed.

The lumpy grass gave way to cinder. Tiny pebbles kicked up by runners ahead pelted Kiera’s shins. 

Here’s where I use my sensory sensitivities from autism as motivation.

She surged, passing groups of girls as if flying down the vacant carpool lane in stopped traffic. 

By the time the course entered the woods, Keira was ahead of the main pack and trailing the leaders, who had strung out and disappeared into the thick of trees.

Kiera’s feet danced over the rooted trail with alacrity. Mental self-doubt evaporated, her mind seemingly lulled to sleep by her fluid stride.

When she’d occasionally pass other runners, Kiera huffed out encouraging words, feeling equally spurred by her own verbal positivity.

Kiera was so immersed in avoiding roots along the trail, that it wasn’t until she heard the announcer's voice surprisingly close that she realized she was sprinting down the final straightaway.

“And from Massachusetts, here comes Kiera Parsons!” 

Kiera pumped her arms, sprinting towards the clock.

The time read 11:22 as Kiera crossed the finish line: Good time but what place did I get?

She counted the girls already sipping Gatorade or hugging their parents to try and figure out what place she got while looking for Mama Karen and Mama Bee.

I see five, six, hmmm…that looks like seven girls. 

Girls continued finishing the race, now clumped together so much so that the announcer wasn’t able to individually call out every finisher's name and state.

Keira‘s breathing slowed and her legs regained some strength. Finally, she saw Mama Karen and Mama Bee jogging over. They collectively embraced Kiera’s sweaty body. 

“Great job!” Burly Mama Karen nearly lifted Kiera from the ground.

“Was I top 10!?” 

Kiera caught her moms exchange a glance she couldn’t readily interpret, though it didn’t seem to be one of jubilation.

Before Kiera had time to drag it out of either Mom or spend much more time, interpreting nonverbal communication—one of her biggest social challenges due to autism—the huge digital scoreboard populated the top finishers’ results. 

As each place illuminated in order, each of the three stood their with baited breath—two knew the results, one did not. 

Kiera gripped Mama Karen’s thick, strong hand in her own sweaty right hand and Mama Bee’s delicate fingers in her left hand as she stared up at the scoreboard waiting.

Eyes glued to the screen, Kiera was oblivious to the fact that behind her back, her mothers had also taken their free hands and interlaced them, squeezing on to one another for strength.

After all, they both knew how important this race had been for their daughter, and how difficult it was for Kiera to regulate her emotions. 

As Kiera watched more and more unfamiliar names displayed, it became clear that the scoreboard was going to deliver the news that Kiera didn’t want to hear and neither mom wanted to share: 12th place.

Six eyes teared up: Kiera’s from disappointment, her parents’ from knowing that’s how their daughter—their champion—felt.

Kiera couldn’t speak. She knew that opening her mouth would simultaneously open her tear ducts.

Neither mother could speak, both paralyzed in fear that they’d say the wrong thing and upset their emotionally volatile daughter.

So instead, the family stood in their small formation, a silent island of three in the middle of a crowded trampled field, surrounded by runners and their families, loudspeakers and electrical cords, course markers and flags, and long tables with cups of water.

The November breeze was like a lamination machine, wrapping the family unit in stillness.

Finally, Kiera spoke, her voice so meek it barely carried over the commotion around her.

“I didn’t qualify.”

Her three words hung for a long time like the medals that the podium finishers would likely wear for the rest of the day.

Kiera fought back tears. She looked down at her running shoes and the mud splashes on the sides of her calves.

She let go of both of her mothers’ hands. “I didn’t qualify,” she repeated. “I was only two places away.”

Mama Karen and Mama Bee inhaled sharply in unison, as if bracing for impact.

Kiera looked at each mother’s face: Mama Karen with her short buzz cut and Mama Bee with her flowy blond hair and handmade beaded earrings. Though their features and the shapes of their faces couldn’t be any more disparate, the expressions were identical.

Kiera exhaled the sigh both mothers probably longed to release, and said, “But I did my best. And next year, I’ll still be in the same division, so who knows…I guess now I have another year to train, another year to get better at racing, and another year to…adjust to the autism diagnosis. It’s all so new.”

The tension lines etched in Mama Karen and Mama Bee’s faces melted. Color rushed back to their cheeks.

“Sweetie,” said Mama Bee, “You’re such a champion. You continue to surprise us and impress us every day.”

Mama Karen nodded. “We couldn’t be more proud of you. Heck, I think I’m prouder of you right now than if you won the darn thing.”

Kiera smiled, not yet ready to fully agree with the sentiment, but also not needing to refute it.

Maybe I’m proud of myself too.