7/16/2011 - waiting for the moment. . .

In high school, I ran cross-country for three years.  I was an alright runner, a sometimes-contributor to the team by placing in the top five, but I never excelled or anything.  I mean, I certainly did better than if I were to have tried out for any other sport (one that, for example, required equipment and some modicum of coordination), but my performance was spotty at best.  Every race was a great unknown: will today be a day where I could run forever, or one where every step feels hindered by anchors to my feet?  And because of this uncertainty, I filled every race day with anxiety and nerves.

I would be alright if I didn't think about it.  I could go through my school day about as normally as I ever would, but as soon I thought about it, as soon as the thought hit me that I would have to run two-and-some-odd miles as fast as possible in just a few hours, I would literally feel my heart take an extra beat and I would have to catch my breath.  Not that there was ever any pressure to place or surpass a record of any kind; the anxiety was completely self-induced.

Much like now, where I mostly went about my day as usual--eating my breakfast, taking the dog out, working on this blog.  But as soon as I remembered that in 10 hours, in 8 hours, in 6 1/2, I would be standing in front of a (hopefully packed) restaurant with my a cappella group.  Singing.  And again, just like it did in high school, my heart would flutter, I'd feel my stomach drop, and I'd have to take a deep breath to remind myself that I want this, had wanted it ever since I sat on the concrete in front of Sather Gate in UC Berkeley 13 years ago and watched the Men's Octet perform a kind of music I had admittedly never heard before.

It helps, too, to remember my 15-year-old self on race day, waiting for the moment, changed into my running singlet and shorts, standing at the starting line.  Every time, no matter how many races I had done, I always felt the same: clammy, uncertain, and wishing that I had not signed on for this at all.  But then when I heard the gun go off, and I found myself almost carried by the momentum of all the other runners around me, I would discover that my legs did work, that I had it in me to run the race, that often, even enough to have some fun.