manage to negative-split this last lap.
I bear down to try, call on my hamstrings and hip flexors, my calves and quads, my lungs. I ask for effort they are not eager to give this late into the race. I envision Greta’s back drawing closer, the track unspooling beneath me, all the air around me inflating my lungs, refreshing my blood. And I begin to close the gap.
I pick off Melody like she’s standing still, then pass Rachel from Texas A&M until I am gaining on Greta’s right shoulder, taking the outside of the curve even though it costs me an extra few steps. She doesn’t turn and look—a suicidal, desperate move a runner like Greta would never make—but she knows I’m there. I don’t let myself pay attention to her stride, just beg and plead my lungs for a little more, just a little more.
We’re on the final straightaway, about eighty meters from the finish line, and I pull even with Greta. I am a seething ball of white-hot pain, and I know if I can just hold on for a handful more seconds, I will negative split like never before. My effort expands to push everything else out of my consciousness except this overwhelming want, a reckless desire. I think my muscles might tear themselves from my bones, but I gut out the last few steps and lunge at the line. I stagger, collapsing to the track without even knowing which of us has won.