Site search
sponsored by
News
By the time I reached the fifth grade, I had developed quite the athletic resume. With three first-place awards in the 50-yard dash, an assortment of prizes for skipping, throwing and hurdling, I was feeling confident as the annual track-and-field day approached. I knew my classmates would have faith in my ability to lead our homeroom to victory and would nominate me to compete in my blue-ribbon events.
Unfortunately for me, the discipline issues (as in needing extra) that haunted me in the fifth grade caught up with me the afternoon of race nominations. We had looked forward to this all week long; who was going to try the high-jump, the long-jump, the 100-yard dash? These were all new events, and we were a class full of wannabe track stars.
I heard the initial “Put your books away and be quiet,” but as I continued to chat with my neighbor, apparently there were two friendly reminders, an elevated-toned “final warning,” and then it was time-out.
Mrs. X’s time-out zone was a giant cardboard box in the corner of the room. I was admonished with her trademark finger-pointing toward the cave, and the class was silent. All eyes were on me as I squeezed into the box like a scolded dog. Being a bit chubbier than most of my classmates, it took some extra effort to wedge myself into this cardboard prison. As my natural reaction to most embarrassing situations was to laugh, the effort put forth into stuffing myself through the time-out portal sent me into an uncontrollable, contagious giggle.
Mrs. X was neither amused nor tolerant of the laughing cardboard box and the disruption it was causing to the task at hand. I heard my favorite events being called out, and one by one, they were assigned to others. No long jump for me, no 100-yard-dash, and no softball throw. Suddenly, things weren’t so funny anymore.
The last race needing participants was the mile. The class was silent as everyone looked around to see who would be brave enough to run an entire mile. That was four whole laps around the high school track. All the way around. Four times. Mrs. X was getting very little response for participants in this unheard-of distance.
“Elizabeth, would you like to try the mile? You can do it.”
“Sure,” I whimpered from the box. I wasn’t entirely sure how I was going to accomplish that, but my classmates clapped like I was a brave hero, so I decided to worry about the technicalities later.
Race day came and I dressed up in my favorite jeans, blue blouse with a ribbon and my sneakers. People were amazed at my self-assurance in not even needing to wear shorts for my big race. I chose not to be bothered with minor details of sweatpants, a T-shirt, or finding out how far a mile actually was.
The gun went off, and I sprinted to the front. Being seasoned in the shorter distances, I knew no other way to race than all-out sprinting. Half of a lap later, the steam ran out; I slowed to a jog and started regretting my chosen race attire.
After the first lap, I did some quick math and realized I had three more. There was no way. My jeans were hot, the ribbon on my blouse was drooping, and my perm was frizzing from the sweat. I lumbered around the track again, holding a side cramp with one hand and fixing my hair with the other.
The third lap I feigned a heart attack, but after realizing no one was buying it from a 10-year-old, I got back up for one final lap. What seemed like hours later, I crossed the finish line. I had done the impossible: I ran a mile.
That 1-mile race in the fifth grade turned into 3, then 6, and now it’s up to 26.2. I still have the side cramps, frizzy hair and impromptu short-distance sprints, but without the nomination from Mrs. X, I might still be running 100 yards at a time.
The next time someone invites you to try something new and insists “you can do it,” you probably can. And you might even like it. Just do it in comfortable clothing.
Elizabeth Schnittker and her husband, Chris, own and operate Running Tracks, downtown Grand Junction’s specialty running store with lap counting watches in case you have to run more than one. They welcome your questions and comments at rfrdepo@aol.com.
Unfortunately for me, the discipline issues (as in needing extra) that haunted me in the fifth grade caught up with me the afternoon of race nominations. We had looked forward to this all week long; who was going to try the high-jump, the long-jump, the 100-yard dash? These were all new events, and we were a class full of wannabe track stars.
I heard the initial “Put your books away and be quiet,” but as I continued to chat with my neighbor, apparently there were two friendly reminders, an elevated-toned “final warning,” and then it was time-out.
Mrs. X’s time-out zone was a giant cardboard box in the corner of the room. I was admonished with her trademark finger-pointing toward the cave, and the class was silent. All eyes were on me as I squeezed into the box like a scolded dog. Being a bit chubbier than most of my classmates, it took some extra effort to wedge myself into this cardboard prison. As my natural reaction to most embarrassing situations was to laugh, the effort put forth into stuffing myself through the time-out portal sent me into an uncontrollable, contagious giggle.
Mrs. X was neither amused nor tolerant of the laughing cardboard box and the disruption it was causing to the task at hand. I heard my favorite events being called out, and one by one, they were assigned to others. No long jump for me, no 100-yard-dash, and no softball throw. Suddenly, things weren’t so funny anymore.
The last race needing participants was the mile. The class was silent as everyone looked around to see who would be brave enough to run an entire mile. That was four whole laps around the high school track. All the way around. Four times. Mrs. X was getting very little response for participants in this unheard-of distance.
“Elizabeth, would you like to try the mile? You can do it.”
“Sure,” I whimpered from the box. I wasn’t entirely sure how I was going to accomplish that, but my classmates clapped like I was a brave hero, so I decided to worry about the technicalities later.
Race day came and I dressed up in my favorite jeans, blue blouse with a ribbon and my sneakers. People were amazed at my self-assurance in not even needing to wear shorts for my big race. I chose not to be bothered with minor details of sweatpants, a T-shirt, or finding out how far a mile actually was.
The gun went off, and I sprinted to the front. Being seasoned in the shorter distances, I knew no other way to race than all-out sprinting. Half of a lap later, the steam ran out; I slowed to a jog and started regretting my chosen race attire.
After the first lap, I did some quick math and realized I had three more. There was no way. My jeans were hot, the ribbon on my blouse was drooping, and my perm was frizzing from the sweat. I lumbered around the track again, holding a side cramp with one hand and fixing my hair with the other.
The third lap I feigned a heart attack, but after realizing no one was buying it from a 10-year-old, I got back up for one final lap. What seemed like hours later, I crossed the finish line. I had done the impossible: I ran a mile.
That 1-mile race in the fifth grade turned into 3, then 6, and now it’s up to 26.2. I still have the side cramps, frizzy hair and impromptu short-distance sprints, but without the nomination from Mrs. X, I might still be running 100 yards at a time.
The next time someone invites you to try something new and insists “you can do it,” you probably can. And you might even like it. Just do it in comfortable clothing.
Elizabeth Schnittker and her husband, Chris, own and operate Running Tracks, downtown Grand Junction’s specialty running store with lap counting watches in case you have to run more than one. They welcome your questions and comments at rfrdepo@aol.com.
