Coach McGarity, known for his intense stares, absurd jokes, and motivational words, gathered my teammates and I around in a circle on the field at Lemon Bay High School on the early morning of October 31th, 2015. I heard the shouts of other coaches telling their top seven runners to “Do your strides!” and “Stay warmed up!” I witnessed runners scurry past me, kicking up the water from the wet grass. The sun was still covered by the clouds and the scorching heat hadn’t yet begun to touch us. Ever since my freshman year of high school, when I joined the cross-country team, Coach McGarity had welcomed me, along with everyone else on the team, so it felt like a family. He would gladly accept each new team member with welcoming embraces and poorly thought of “dad jokes”. He would continually make conversation with every individual, even the most apprehensive of the team. If someone was having a tough time, he would pull them aside and talk to them individually to show his sincerity. 

On the bus ride to the Regional meet this early morning, I was not excited. My stomach ached with annoyance and my eyes burned with exhaustion. I secretly hoped we wouldn’t qualify for the state meet. If you ask any other runner, they would jump at the opportunity to compete at states. So why was I so pessimistic about this rare opportunity? I had almost reached the top.

The previous years leading up to my junior year, running started to stress me out more than it was supposed to. Every morning before going to school I would immediately dread the thought of practice afterschool or the looming meet in the coming weekend. This constant worry and stress caused me to start hating running. After all, who actually wants to wake up at 4 A.M. to run at a meet, hours away, or practice in the sizzling Florida sun at 2:30 in the afternoon?

I stumbled over to the group, already knowing that I wasn’t going to give it my all during the race. I frowned, thinking about how I wanted the season to end already. However, Coach McGarity offered advice that completely changed my outlook on running. 

“Okay guys-this is it!” He eyed us each individually, so we would know the severity of the situation.

“I got news for you, each of you has to run your best race ever. It’s going to be a really close race with Labelle. You have to pass as many red as you can!” We all shuffled nervously, and he sensed this, so he stopped and thought. Then he said,

“Each of you has worked hard for this and you deserve this. Whatever happens, I will be tremendously proud of each of you, but you must do this for you. You’re only racing against yourselves. I’ve seen you all run hard for years at practice and I know you guys have the capability, but I can’t make you run hard. And for some of you, you seniors, this could be the last cross-country race of your life.” I could see the formation of tears in his blue eyes.

“This could be your only chance to ever compete at States. This is most deserving team I have ever coached. You guys have to do this together, as a team, and make yourself proud when you look back on this moment years from now.”

He looked at us with his puppy dog eyes. He believed in us. We could each sense the feeling of comradery and togetherness. My friend and I walked away shared a glace of disbelief. I immediately felt guilty for planning to do anything less than my best. I realized that although running involved waking up at crazy hours of the early morning and sweating more than I thought possible, it was all worth it in the end. After all my runs, I feel accomplished and closer to everyone on the team, including my coach. Being a runner was a part of identity and I enjoyed how it gave me something to be a part of.

We all took our last-minute sips of water, stretched our legs, and tightened our ponytails. We toed the starting line and our hearts were already beating fast. A stillness emerged from the crowd of girls as the group of over 100 hundred runners all eyed the Starter raise the gun.

“BANG!” Feet kicked. Arms pushed. Mouths exhaled. I began to sprint, and attempt to keep up with the people in front of me. My lungs ached for air and my legs screamed for me to stop. The first mile I followed the dirt trail into the woods. Girls were heavy breathing around me. The second mile I tried to pass people. A girl a few steps ahead saw me out of the corner of her eye and side-stepped in front of me. I tripped, but eventually got around her, despite her passive aggressive performance. The third mile I tried to survive while swerving through the sandy path. I saw the finish line appear in my line of sight. I saw the clock with my time changing. I saw my teammates and coach cheering me on.

“Bailey! Quick! She’s behind you!” They all screamed with wide eyes.

Truthfully, there usually wasn’t someone behind you. This was just a tactic to get someone to run faster. The thought of getting snaked right at the finish line after three endless miles was dreadful. But, it worked. I sprinted the last .1 of the race trying finish as fast I could.

I had finally finished. I was on the ground, heavy breathing, with a water cup in my hand. Now, we waited for the score to be added up. The top 6 teams would proceed to compete at the State championship. My teammates and I all congregated together and discussed the challenges of our races. We laughed at the difficulty of the course and congratulated each other on our times. We were all so anxious when Coach McGarity told us to come over to stand by our team in a group. The announcer started in 15th place. His voice seemed to drone on forever, despite his unwavering enthusiasm. With every name my teammates’ and I began becoming more nervous. Would our school be next? Would we fall short of top six out of the fifteen teams? I waited until finally the announcer bellowed,

“Number seven...Immokalee High School”. My teammates erupted in cheers. We were top six! We had made it! All of us starting crying. These were tears of excitement and happiness. We held hands in disbelief.

The announcer continued, “number six…Labelle High School.” We cried harder. Not only were we top six in the region, but we had done better than predicted.

“Number five…Lely High School”, the announcer said. That was us! We gathered together for pictures. Our coaches looked at us with proud expressions and grins.

Now that we had made it, I’m able to reminisce on the past years of running and realize how that race has changed my outlook on running, even years later. 

              Now, I still run for my own enjoyment. My feet pound the sidewalks of my hometown of Marco Island, Florida. My dad pedals steadily in front of me on his beaten bike. I wipe the sweat from my cheek and trudge onward. We have made it to our halfway point, the bridge, and we stop at the very top and I yank out my headphones. Both of our eyes scan the horizon and spot the sun setting over the ocean. My dad searches the water below us for any trace of sea life. We had been doing this ever since my freshman year of high school. My dad always supported me during my high school cross country experience and encouraged me, even when I didn’t want to continue with running. On these runs, he would point out his favorite cars on the road and make comments on the dolphins he had spotted in the water while I struggled to keep up with him. Meanwhile, for myself, these runs remind me that despite how old I get, running has the power to connect people in a variety of ways.