When Every Breath is a Blade

The FitnessGram Pacer Test is a multistage aerobic capacity test that progressively gets more difficult as it continues.

Our class lines up at the end of the court. The 20 meter pacer test will begin in 30 seconds. It’s that time of the year, again. I passed the stretching test handily––I like to tie my shoes standing up. Chin-ups and pull-ups I flunked, but it doesn’t matter. These results are for the state, not for a grade.

The running speed starts slowly, but gets faster each minute after you hear this signal, [beep] A single lap should be completed each time you hear this sound, [ding] We know the drill. This is an endurance test, but more than that: it’s a competition to be the last kid still running. The class try-hards are Noah, Mike, and Richard. Last year, Mike nearly got to 100. But he’s gained weight since then. What with his little brother, and all.

Remember to run in a straight line, and run as long as possible. The second time you fail to complete a lap before the sound, your test is over. Most of the class is going to blow this test off. It’s not like it counts towards anything; it just leaves you going sweaty and breathless  into sixth period. The test will begin on the word start.

On your mark, get ready, start.

We’re off: 30 pairs of feet shuffling across the asphalt. [ding] Already some of the kids are splitting off [beep] Two of the popular girls drop out, going off to gossip somewhere else. Six laps pass. We’re going at a good pace now. Ten laps in––it’s down to mostly boys, cheeks flushed, puffing up and down the court.

I could quit. It wouldn’t matter. I won’t be the last runner, anyways. I probably wouldn’t even make the final four. I feel a crick in my abdomen, and strangely, I feel ashamed. Why don’t you ever try?

Lap fifteen. I’m huffing––I’m not a runner, but I’m running. [ding] Lap twenty comes and goes. [beep] We’re going fast, now; white lines blurring by. [ding] My crick has turned into a cramp. [beep] It feels like someone stabbed me. [ding] I see why they call these suicides.

I look around. Noah, Mike, Richard, Me. Richard’s struggling, I can hear his sneakers scrape across the court. Eyes forward. None of them matter. The next step is all that counts.

We’re sprinting now. Richard’s gone; I didn’t even notice him leave. Where’s Noah? Noah’s dead. Richard’s dead. The whole class is dead. If I stop running, I’ll die too. [beep]

Eighty five. I’m a blur: beyond pain; I’ve transcended the limits of my body. I’m not even running anymore. I’m standing completely still. The Earth is moving beneath me, wobbling on its axis, and Mike is right beside me. Ninety five.

What are you still doing here? [beep]

Same thing as you [ding]

Ninety-Nine.

Okay, Mike. I’m finished. Tapped. It’s your game now. Ninety-nine laps. Not half bad. [beep] The rest is all you. [beep] It’s all you, Mike. [beep] All you. [beep] All you. [beep] All you.

Dillon Cranston 

Image Image by Vlad Vasnetsov from Pixabay – Running track with competitors