I've never sprinted. Not once. Until Sunday. 400 meters (or .262 miles). On pavement. Downtown, in the heat. In my minimal running shoes (which was a stupid idea). Pacing myself against a kid (a 9 year old). Also in the race? A local Olympic hopeful (I won't mention his name).
The "gun" sounded to start the race, and I took off like a bat out of hell, the little kid of front of me. Twenty seconds into my mad dash and I asked myself, "What the hell are you doing? You don't sprint!" I slowed my pace to a neutral jog/run (I'm not 18...or 9 anymore).
The Olympic hopeful won the race of course, but there was beer at the finish line, and I was running for the joy of running.
This was my first, and most likely, my last sprint (I say that now, but I have a year to change my mind), but hey, it's one more 'book' I've added to my "ignoring fear and self-doubt offers up a happy life" shelf....custom designed and built by me.
The 9 year old? He beat me, but it's not like he totally kicked my ass. I came in 74th. He came in 61st. I'll take that.