Victory

Shift gears.

The mental command fires through my head as I round the corner of the track to the back stretch. I can see Cara in front of me, just a few meters ahead, but it’s a few meters too far.

Power surges down my legs as my body responds to my mental command. I pump my arms higher and faster, pushing myself forward to close the gap as quickly as possible. It’s working. Cara is closer now, and we’re rounding the final curve. Once she sees me in her peripheral, it’ll all just be a mental game. Who can will themselves to finish first.

Just as we round the final corner, I pass her on her right. I don’t look directly at her, but I can see in my periphery that her own mental command has gone off and she’s pushing hard. But I don’t let her gain for long. With all the strength I have left—mental and physical—my body flies forward. I get the lead on her, and I know all I need to do is hold it until we get to the finish line. My body goes, as if there’s a force pushing me away from Cara. Finally, the finish line is less than 10 meters away…

48:36.

Not terrible, but I need to do better. The thought flies through my head as I cross the finish line, body decelerating to a stomping halt, chest heaving for air. I expect the blur of the next few minutes to start, the other athletes giving me congratulatory pats on the back as they slowly make their way off the track. It’s my time to process the race, think about what I did well, what I could have done better.

The first few congratulatory pats come, but as I stand to walk off the track, I’m stopped short by someone in my way.

Cara.

She holds out her hand. “Good race.”

I shake it, and nod once to her. “You too.”

“It’s no world record though.”

I feel tense, as if all the energy coursing through me had just stopped. I can’t even say anything, so she continues.

“I know you beat me here today, but that world record still holds. And I’m gonna get it.” Cara points up at the electronic scoreboard above the crowd, showing the finishing times from the race. Her time was 48:42. “Looks like I’m in. I’ll see you in two days.”

I feel my stomach drop, not unlike the feeling my legs get after a hard run. After a run like today. Cara Brown, my college best friend, just turned and walked away after dropping what felt to me like a threat. What started our separation as friends was how she seemed to threaten me whenever I was about to succeed on the track. I didn’t immediately notice it, I was too busy admiring her from behind. Every time she would whip past me in practice, or on meet days, I would stare at her muscular frame, watch the kick of her spikes powering her ahead of me on the track.

“What’s your secret yo?” I asked her one day after she had completely obliterated the distance between us in a practice run.

She smiled, and bent to put a hand on my shoulder, which was lowered since I had put my hands on my knees to catch my breath. “There’s no secret. I just do it.”

“Like Nike,” I said.

She laughed. “Exactly. You can do it too, girl. Let go of all that doubt.”

I didn’t think I had any doubt. Cara and I had become best friends because we both ran track and we both had drive. Both of us knew we would make it to the Olympics one day, and both of us had beating the world record in the 400m as our goal. As we worked for it, it seemed to me we were in it together.

That was, until we each made it to qualifying rounds, and the instead of encouraging me, she seemed to be pressuring me.

I had two days until the finals in the women’s open 400m at the Olympics—just the rest of today, and tomorrow. That was less than 48 hours to rest and prepare to beat Cara.

And get the world record.

Race day seemed to come in a blink. My coach—who also happened to be our coach—walked us through the race. “Just breathe. Relax. Focus on your arm drive, and trust your training.”

Nerves spiked through me, like the electricity in my body was on overdrive. We walked out onto the track together, Cara leading. I watched her from behind as she made her way to her lane. I was two lanes behind her.

The noise of the crowd spikes as the camera comes to each of us. Each of the athletes smile and wave at the camera. When it reaches Cara, the crowd roars, and she gives them all a Hollywood smile and two-hand wave. When the camera gets to me, I hear the crowd cheer, but I don’t look at the camera. I’m still looking at Cara.

Then, we’re called to our blocks. The stadium goes silent. Though my I’m facing the ground, all I can see is my racing, me passing Cara, me breaking the world record.

“Set.”

Pow.

I explode from the blocks, moving as fast as I possibly can. Nothing was getting in the way of me reaching the finish line the fastest.

I remember my coaching as I round the first corner. My arms are pumping, and I’m in a good spot. I can see Cara in front of me as we come up on the final curve. A feeling in my chest lights me up. I’m gaining on Cara. I’m on top of her as we round the corner to the final 100 meters.

She breaks away.

Something in her has pushed her forward. She’s moving faster than I’ve ever seen her, and for a second, I’m afraid. I feel the doubt.

Shift gears.

The command fires through my head like an automatic reflex. And I listen to it.

I pump my arms harder, grit my teeth, send power down my muscles. It’s working. As I come up closer to Cara, she seems to slow down. No—she is slowing down.

The finish line is less than 10 meters away. My legs are protesting, my shoulders are screaming as I make myself go faster. I’m next to Cara. The finish line is just a few steps away—

The crowd ROARS. It’s like someone turned the volume up to max and it had just been on silent. My body stomps to a halt and I drop to my toes.

What was my time? Did I beat Cara?

I snap my head up to look at the electric scoreboard. My heart nearly stops.

47.55. A new world record.

I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn behind me. It’s Cara. The way she looks at me, it doesn’t look like all the other times. She looks…proud?

“Congratulations.” She holds out her hand. I stare at it. I feel tense again, my body at rest besides my heaving chest.

Suddenly I’m handed a giant American flag and a gold medal. Other athletes come to congratulate me, and before Cara can be fully pushed back, she says with a wink, “You’re lucky I was injured.”

I don’t want to believe it, but as she walks away I see her limp, hesitant to out weight on her left foot.

“Congratulations!” My attention snaps back to the people surrounding me. Another athlete, one from Barbados whose name I don’t know, is beaming at me. I feel a weight on my chest again and realize it’s my medal. My gold medal. I touch it, feeling it’s cold, smooth surface on my fingertips. A smile creeps across my face.

“Thank you!” I say back. I look up at the stands. The crowd is going crazy, cameras are flashing, the energy feels explosive. Everyone is celebrating. I finally spot my coach, who is jumping up and down in the front row of the stands, his face so expressive that though I can’t completely hear what he’s saying, I know exactly what he wants me to feel.

Then I lift the American flag in both my hands and take my victory lap down the track.