The track feels like home, and sometimes you must break into your own house…
Saturday morning. Crunched for time. If I was going to be able to handle the rest of my responsibilities that day, my track workout needed to start by 7am. As I approached the entrance to the track area, it was clear that it was locked.
Option 1: Drive to the next township, and see if their track is open? That would eat more precious time. No.
Option 2: Climb the six feet high fence, and enter the track illegally? Smiling…Yes.
As I started my climb, my inner monologue was: “What the bleep are you doing?” However, as one leg went over the top, I shifted to: “Breakin’ the Law, Breakin’ the Law” from Judas Priest with eyes wide open and grinning. I know, a minor infraction, but when I landed on the other side of the fence, freedom was before me.
The track was mine, and nobody else’s. It would stay that way for the entire workout. This. This place feels like home. Familiar: With a sense of place. Finite: yet so many possibilities…memories to be made, work to be done.
I’ll spare you the details of the actual workout because you’ve done your own such workouts; however, I’d like to share some of the sounds of the track from that snowy, windy morning with you…
On the turns: The relentless sloshing sounds of my feet from the wet, slippery track
Back Straight: The unforgiving, dissonant howl of the winter wind blaring in my ears and face.
Front Straight: The transition to the quiet serenity of the tailwind, with silence broken by my labored breathing.
Across the street: The metronomic clanging of the flagpole, mocking my temporary pain.
That inner voice: “200m more – don’t leave it here.”
Breaking the law to do this was worth the effort. As I climbed my way out of there, I cut myself just below my left knee. This was a small price to pay for the opportunity to be there. To be home.