The cold black polyurethane grips to the tips of my pink spikes while I run; I run like a speedometer reaching towards unknown speeds. The eight lanes marked by the white, chipped lines that are traveled by runners became faded from the years of use. Lining the sides of the fence, the parents from the rival schools made sure they never miss an event. The spring of my seventh grade year was one that cannot be forgotten. Ever since the scary moment of breaking my arm, the well-known surface of the track is distraught.
        

This particular frigid spring afternoon started with the beginning of the track meet. I lined up towards the ten white hurdles that stood in my way; these few obstacles blocked in my way from gaining points for my team. While the bright sun shined from my right, I dropped down into the blocks, and I position myself into starting positions. The familiar face of a man holding a steal gun stood to the left of my competitors; he held the gun towards the sky full of fire. Becoming dark, the sky was left like logs charred by flames. His heavy breathing became words; he uttered, “On your mark… Get set… Go!” The sound of a gunshot filled the air, which fueled my body with momentum to complete the 110-meter hurdles. I jumped over the obstacles that stared down at me, and the crowd stood in awe of the shortest runner finishing the race in first. A four foot ten inch boy who beat out the colossal competitors left the fans sitting still silently around the perimeter. As I leaped off the track, feeling like I owned the track, Coach Mix stopped me and shouted, “Wow, wasn’t that something! I didn’t expect someone your size to be able to jump that high.” Trotting towards the stands, I waited for my following event; I leisurely walked towards the spot my parents always seemed to sit.
        

As I sat and waited for the 4x200 relay, I motivated my fellow teammates. I kicked off my pink spikes, which hugged my feet; they landed onto the seat next to my mom. Sitting startled, she jumped at the loud sound the spikes made. Each time an event ended, my next chance to run came closer. As I sat upon the freezing steel bleachers, I listened to Mrs. Miller over the speaker announce, “First call boys 4x200 relay.” My heart froze as my cheeks turned pink to thought of running with my teammates to gain momentum for points, but my legs began to shake to the thought of running with eighth graders. My mom proclaimed, “I am so proud of you! I know you will do great.” She thought she aided my anxiety but fed the fire. I overheard the same voice of Mrs. Miller over the speaker: “Second call boys 4x200 relay.” Grabbing the spikes that lay beside my mom, I shoved the spikes onto my feet and rushed towards the uneven track. As my foot hit the polyurethane, I heard Mrs. Miller over the speaker proclaiming, “Last call boys 4x200 relay.” My relay team all met me at the track, and they were ready to gain another victory.
        

The familiar gun blast sound signaled me to the track to wait for my team member to get to 200 mark. He passed off the baton within the exchange zone. Grasping the metal with my hands, I took off to gain a lead from opposing teams. I dashed around the bend of the track and spotted the exchange zone. A burst of energy rushed through my bones, which propelled me, closer to Isaac. As I ran closer to Isaac, he started off too early towards the end of the exchange zone. While I sprinted towards Isaac, I yelled, “Stop,” but the momentum of the race prevented him from being able to hear me. As a last minute resort, I decided to dive the metallic baton into his hand, but there was too much space between us. I began to fall towards the cold track, so I lobbed the baton into his sweaty hand to prevent from earning a disqualification. As I fell to the textured track, I attempted to catch myself but felt a snap, and a numb feeling overcame my left arm. The bones of my arm dangled like a broken tree limb. As I lay on the side of the track, my eyes filled with tears while the race progressed on. My sister, Allie, rushed towards me from her position where she timed the previous race. While her chilled hands held me, she showed me compassion, but I sensed disbelief in her blue eyes. I looked towards the silent stands for my parents as distress filled the prospectors. While attempting to call for help, she tried to calm me down; she softly proclaimed, “You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.”  The trainer, Perkins, stopped the meet after the race and put my fragile arm into a black splint.

My parents hustled down to the track, and they sent fellow teammates to get my bags out from under the grandstands. Perkins called an ambulance, but my parents wanted to drive me to the hospital. Frantically walking me out from the track, I heard team members crying and wondering why this could happen to me. Everyone worked together to get me to my dad’s white work truck.

During the rushed drive, my parents called the hospital to tell them we were coming. The speedometer of the truck jumped to eighty miles per hour, and the hazard lights flashed, as we ventured closer to the hospital. We drove over an uneven railroad crossing, which felt like a never-ending earthquake.

Reaching the hospital across town, my parents and nurses forced me into this small room for X-rays. A short lady sternly vocalized, “Rotate your arm because that’s what we need.” My face turned so red and full of tears and the forcefulness of nurses made it worse. While they hurried me inside of a UFO, the unknown lights creeped into my eyes like a stranger lurking in the shadows. The nurse forcefully put the IV into my right arm to pumped medication into my body to help ease the pain. While I lay there in the hospital room, I sobbed my eyes out not wanting to fall asleep as the medication made me drowsy. In a calm voice, my mom added, ”Just go to bed. Stop fighting the medicine. Everything will be okay.” My heavy eyes cause the room to become black like the spring evening sky.

Awakening two hours later, I wondered what had happened to me in this span of time. The first person I noticed in the room was my trainer Perkins. He talked, but I didn’t comprehend what he was saying. As I gained a sturdy consciousness, I asked only one question: “Did we win the 4x200 relay?” The whole room filled with laughter. The laughter and smiles made the room shine brighter than ever before. Perkins happily shouted, “Yes, they couldn’t have done it without you.”