The high. The runner’s high is what drives me. The runner’s high is what drives me to come back even when I have fallen. The pain cannot stop me. The risk of failure cannot stop me. The only thing in my way is me. As I approach the start line, I feel a rush of adrenaline and I kick my feet up. Like a bull waiting to charge, I am ready. My team lines up beside me, though I do not see them in the state that I’m in. I am the only one on the field, the only one racing, all else is invisible. As I look at the path in front of me, I know where to go. I know where to run. My imagination draws a red line that will lead me through the forest to the finish. I steady my breath, I stretch my legs then hop waiting for the count down. 10-9-8-7-6 my body is ready, the anticipation for the gunshot fills my mind. Nothing will bring me out of my trans-state of mind except the flare up of gunpowder. 5--- the official stops at five. He waits, checks the lines for any false starters and then without hesitation, pulls the trigger. The blast explodes out of the gun; I feel for a second like I have been shot; but only a second, and I join the flood of people. The course loops around an island of trees and up hill. Who knows what may lay ahead? I run up the hill ready for anything. I start to fatigue almost instantly, the sprint to get me here has drained my legs of stamina. I settle back down, I check my watch, I pace myself. As I reach the hilltop, I start to speed up again, ready to descend the other side, but there is no other side to descend, the hill top flattens out and curves with the land. I breathe in deeper breaths, countering any pain my lungs may send me. I hatch on to the runner in front of me, match his speed then I lunge forward toward another runner, and another. The path takes a sharp left, and goes down hill. I learn forward and let it carry me to the bottom. My legs begin to hurt again and sweat now runs into my eyes. A burning sensation comes from my face but I still keep going. I keep running, ever faster, ever stronger. I run as if I am running away from all my fears, away from all the things that try and hold me back. The path bends and now I am going down the same hill we came up from. I smell the air and unclench my fists. I feel the warm blood enter the tips of my fingers, and I feel my heart pumping in my hands. I look down and see the finish, “almost there,” I say in my head, though I feel as I could have said it outloud because I mouth the words. Then the trail arches into the woods and the descending hill turns into the forest, the bottom concealed by trees. The imprints of runners before me are compressed on the ground, and I to begin to make my own imprints. I step one foot in front of the other. The downhill descent begins to end and the trail flattens out. I see the bottom. It is muddy and wet. I try to hurtle the murky water but I splash into it. The cold and bitter water touches my legs and numbs them.  I continue on the trail, wet, but refreshed, I pick off other runners one by one. The hill now spirals up and the elevation becomes steep and the ground uneasy. My knees buckle and I step out of place. I loose my balance and nearly fall, I lean forward gripping the ground and manage to stay up, and I steady myself. The race goes on and exhaustion is already sinking in. A small fire begins to burn in my lungs and I breathe in more air to put it out. Heavier breaths, bigger steps. I stride on, faster, and stronger. The hill now reaches its peak and arches around. The trail once again begins to descend, but less gradually. I open up, running faster down this small change in elevation. I lean back and let my legs work by themselves. I know this part of the trail, I am almost there, almost done. The pathway turns gradually into a straightaway, and begins to descend even more. The trail opens up and the finish is 400 metres away. I open up into a sprint. The outburst of speed sends my body into an aching, burning, tantrum I start to choke on the air I’m breathing in. Then the pain in my legs catching fire to my lungs and arms. I pick up speed trying to catch the guy in front of me before he crosses the finish. I push harder, my feet barely touching the ground, only my toes. I lean forward trying to use my body as a cantilever, trying to put all my weight forward, and when I do,I cross the finish. I catch my breath and wobble on the two sticks I used to call legs. I walk through the queue and take a number. It tells me my place. I smile. I did it. It’s over now.