Conversion

It runs in my blodd, I used to tell people, cleverly throwing up my hands and forming quote mark with the words runs to emphasize what I thought was a good pun. My oldest sister was second in state in the 300m hurdles, and the one younger than she was once called the "fastest white girl on the track" because she kept up with or beat all the black sprinters. The sister just older than me was a long jumper and could sprint faster than a lizard looking for shade in Arizona when she was on the basketball court. With a first, second and third heat to go before me in the running world, there was no question. I, too, was a sprinter. It "runs" in my blood.

Yet.

I remember my feet turning to stone, just like when I hit the teasing top tier of a hurdle, when I saw my name scribbled on the schedule for that week's track meet. There had to be a mistake or Coach misjudged something. I wove my way between plyo boxes and dumbbells littering the floor until I made it to my coach. His stopwatch hung casually from his neck and he smiled as I approached.

"The mile, Coach!?" The look of disbelief on my face would have scared any missionary away but didn't seem to phase Joiner. . His attention snapped from the clipboard in his hand. "The mile!?"

The sunburnt lips cracked into a devious smile while his leather skin formed laugh wrinkles around his eyes.

"That's right, all 1600 meters, Krista!" He swallowed before continuing. "I know you've run hurdles all season, but I thought we might try your legs at the distance events!"

Distance! Never in my life did I ever want to run longer than a 400, and here he was asking me to do that 4 times. Who did he think I was, a marathoner!?