Word Picture

               In a sea of robust men twice my size, I stood anxiously. My heart pounded against my chest, adrenaline rushed through my body, and my mind focused on only one thought: nationals. The sun still hid behind the mountainous train that I was about to face, and a cool breeze brushed against the bleak, frosted ground that would soon be trampled by a stampede of ruthless beings who all shared the same goal as I. Moments before I entered the starting gate, only covered by a thin black shirt and mossy green short, the bitter climate froze my skin. My muscles were nearly immobilized; I felt like I hauled a ball and chain as I approached the starting corral.  Once I entered the corral, the bodies surrounding me radiated a warmth that thawed out my frozen body and relieved me of my overbearing weights. Being only five foot seven, I could not see anything past the mosh of giants except for the inflatable, mud covered arc that stood above the start line and the director standing on a raised platform beside it. The director, pale, oddly clean looking, and slim, paired a red flannel with grey kakis. His appearance was strikingly similar to a retail worker’s. This man proudly gripped the starting pistol in his right ape-like palm. He raised it above his head. Knowing that with the twitch of finger he would start a charge of determined, unstoppable beasts, the man smirked. He waited. My heart rate sped up, and I felt my breaths becoming more and more shallow by the second. This quick anticipation building moment felt like an endless eternity. Finally, he pulled the trigger.