"Last call for the mile."

Off comes my tee shirt and with it my composure. I feel the sun beat down on the open back of my singlet. The track is on the roof of the host school. Below me, the cars are ants preparing for winter. Red ants and blue ants...

"Ladies, you will have two commands: on your marks and the guns."

My mouth is dry. It feels curiously empty. I wish fervently for another drink of water, but it is too late. I need to remain where I am, on the starting line of a red, clay track that has the power to humiliate or uplift me.

The gun explodes. I am momentarily deaf. The shot propels my body forward and around the track.

"Ninety-one seconds."

Too fast, I think furiously. It's ruined. I will not have enough for later. Pace yourself and run smart.

On the backstretch for a second time, I hear the encouraging voices of my teammates. They sound under water or miles away. The race is only one mile.

"Three minutes and eight seconds."

Faster than usual... maybe, it is a result of my breakneck first lap. I want to improve my time desperately. This is the last meet of the entire season. It is my last chance until next year.

"No gain, no pain," I attempt to convince myself. That does not sound right. "No pain, no gain?" Yes, I will breathe as soon as I'm done. Breathing will be nice.

"Four forty-six."

The third lap is over. That terrible, heart-wrenching, lung-shattering lap. Only one more to go, and I am home. The words of the old Simon and Garfunkel song float through my head. "Home where my thoughts' escaping; home where my music's playing..."

Wait, did he say forty-six? Impossible. It means that I can run this lap in one hundred seconds and still beat my time by almost 10 seconds. If I calculated correctly...

"Faster, faster," I exhort myself. Don't lose, hold it, hold...

A popsicle stick with the number five on it is pressed into my hand. I am fifth; I earned points for our team.

"Number five."

I hand the stick to the voice.

"Six fifteen."

Sir, will you please double-check that? I request disbelieving. I do more quick math...eight-nine seconds for the last lap, if he did not make a mistake. Now I realize that the voice has a face with puzzled eyes which are engaged n examining me.

"Zeira from Trumbull, fifth place, six minutes and fifteen seconds."

A twenty-one second personal best.

I try to savor this moment - a teammate's palm on my sweaty back, the rapid beating of my heart, the official's gun as the next race begins.

But all I can hear is "sub six, sub six."