We would meet in the foyer of the athletic wing of the school for practice. One door off the foyer lead to the main gym where the varsity volleyball girls squeezed to play, ponytails crafted on their perfectly make-up'd heads. The other door lead to the mini gym full of leotard-clad gymnasts, springing off the floor like popcorn kernels at the start of a cook and picking wedgies after sticking their routines. Both teams would criss-cross our space to get to the drinking fountains, tiptoeing their way through our bags of crackers and dirty socks, not to mention our bodies sprawled out across the floor before and after practice. Thinking of it now, I wonder if they went to get drinks that often while we were out running. We certainly didn't.

Members of the team would trickle in starting at 3:30 and we'd start stripping down to the bare minimum of layers needed to run. The hooligan boys would always find some mischief involving a tennis ball or some other obscure object they stole from a more serious team, and would have broken a light or a person's eye before practice even started. The girls would sit on the ground and munch on carbs while rubbing their calves and chatting about boys in their classes then whispering in underhand tones about the boys on the other side of the room. That was all before Coach came tumbling in, spare meet sheets floating in behind him and his bag falling out of his arms onto the floor before he started his pre-practice speech.

"Ok, guys, we've got Cherry Creek this week." He stood with one hand on his hip and the other rubbing his bleach-tipped hair back and forth. "Running is 90% mental, so just go out there and get 'em. Alright... umm...we got 45 minutes today for varsity and 30 for JV, so...." never at a loss for words. Just never a need for more, "...yeah. Let's go."

We'd gallivant across the country side-cross the country, you could say. We'd run through the fields, traverse the valleys, explore the tunnels, cross the rivers. The world surrounding Doherty High School was ours, and at the top of hills we would turn around and scoff at the miniature doors to the foyer where we knew the volleyball girls were gulping gallons from the drinking fountain. Towards the end of the season the sun would set sooner and the air would taste more like crisp croutons than the slurpy otter pops from August's atmosphere. Every second was beautiful. Even when the calves of the girl in front of you were bulging more than you hoped yours were as you shuffled up the huge hill on Barnes, there was no denying that other citizens of the city were living a less glorified existence than you at that moment.

And we'd come back. Down the last stretch of sidewalk to the foyer doors, stopping our watches only when we touched the doorknobs and let our eyes adjust to the dimly lit area we had left in chaos. We'd sprawl our sweaty bodies across the room, breathing calmly and triumphantly. And Coach would say

planks.

So up we'd go, our quads quivering and our hamstrings hurting. Don't look at the time. Just concentrate on the bead of sweat slowly inching down your face until it hits your tense hands. And then

down.

Again. Up. Look around. Just before making eye contact with your struggling teammate for support, you see a pair a long skinny legs, prance around your quivering bodies and dodge over to the drinking fountain. Their gulps match time with the seconds you've been holding this position.

We would always try, at least, to not scoff.