Knowing the horror stories of the 400-meter hurdles, as a new runner I showed up to the track on day one astonished and relieved when making it through a basic sprint workout. After all, it was more practical to train me in hurdles once I’ve first established a strong foundation as a quality sprinter. For good reason, I returned the second day reigning with unrivaled joie de vivre, perhaps rejoicing at what I naively believed was an understanding of the demand required to excel. I had asked my mind and body to endure and adapt to an onslaught of psychological and physiological changes. The workout had undoubtedly set the tone for the day as I traveled with certainty of what was to come. In fact, week two presented greater challenges for this new runner. So I continued training to pick up on the Secret of the more elite runners in my cohort—falling short every time--however, it’s only when the delayed onset muscle soreness recruited an idiosyncratic realization that the shift occurred in my novice perspective. I began to understand more about the Secret.

Every runner knows there’s always one last kick in ’em at the end of a race. My mental muscle memory was my kick. My mental prowess was the spec of hope at the bottom of Pandora’s box. I thought back to my first week on the track team when my knees gave out and I chose to continue my pursuit anyway. With no one to take me to the doctor, I rose to my feet with the last ounce of strength I had in me, as though I were determined to cross the finish line with a personal best. My emotions had more calluses than my feet, but I refused to give up on myself, as I didn’t in the beginning. Along with running being an outlet to earn my right to live, I felt like my running mastery gave me the authority over my condition to make it happen. We run races counterclockwise, which meant that each time I placed one foot in front of the other I felt I was turning back the clock just enough to reclaim the power over my life.