BREATHE, ANNIE, BREATHE

BREATHE, ANNIE, BREATHE - Part 1

“What’s your pace so far today?”

I glance at my new watch, tempted to lie and say I’m doing nine--minute miles. “About twelve minutes a m--mile.”

“Not bad. When you’re doing these long runs on the weekend, make sure you run your miles a minute slower than you usually do on your short runs.”

I can’t imagine going any more slowly than this, but I nod as Matt climbs back aboard his bike. “See you at the finish line.”

I must’ve accidentally inhaled glue or something when I signed up for the Country Music Marathon.

•••

I’m at 4.5 miles.

In through my nose, out through my mouth.

In through my nose, out through my mouth.

Point my toes.

Check my watch. I’ve slowed to a 14--minute mile. I’m going about as fast as that cloud, lazily inching across the blue sky. Half a mile to go.

A gorgeous woman with olive--toned skin, bouncy brown curls, and a pink ID bracelet jogs up next to me. Matt makes everybody on our team wear the bracelets so he can identify us and get in touch with our emergency contacts just in case.

“Damn. Our coach is fine.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” I reply, sucking in a breath. “He trains us by making us chase after him.”

The lady chuckles. “You’re probably right.” She speeds up and within the minute, I can’t see her anymore. Not a surprise. Every time I start running, I get a great lead, but then it’s like a parachute opens behind me.

Swaying willow trees and trickling water lead me along the dirt path back toward my car, which is parked at the mouth of the Little Duck. Today’s run is peaceful, but not boring. Considering how much stuff I have to think about, like drinking the right amount of water, looking for mile markers, and studying my watch, there’s not much time left to obsess about graduation, or college, or him.

Instead, I can focus on this new CamelBak water--hydration device I’m wearing like a backpack. It kind of looks like a bong. I slip the plastic tube in my mouth and sip some water, pretending I’m taking a hit. Kyle would laugh at how ridiculous I’m being.

Stop thinking about him. Stop already.

Breathe in, breathe out.

I bet that when I start the longer distances this summer, running upward of fifteen to twenty miles on a Saturday morning, I’ll have even more stuff to obsess over to distract me. Like chafing and Vaseline and continent--sized blisters.

One foot after the other. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I inhale the springy smell of dandelions. They dot the grass like gold coins.

“On your left!”

A boy streaks by me, running backwards. He settles directly in front of me and goes even faster. Wow, he has such vivid light blue eyes—-I nearly lose my footing at the sight of them.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” I gasp.

He grins and slows to a jog. “What?”

I look for his pink bracelet, and finding none, I blurt, “You’re running faster than me and I’m going forward!”

“So speed up then!”

What an ass.

“C’mon.” He tosses his head from side to side, acting like one of those macho guys on a cheesy exercise show. “Let’s go. Faster now. Work it out, girl! Let’s go.”