Heat

My arms windmilled as I waited for my heat. I could feel my muscles loosening and warming up. Adrenaline shot through my veins with vibrating intensity. Bathing suit straps dug into my shoulders-- a small price to pay for decreased resistance. The speakers shrilled a piercing note: "Women's 15-18 200 Breastroke. Heat eight, please step up." Nothing else existed besides the clear strip of water before me. Rolling my shoulders, I stepped up onto the white square- Lane 3.

"Ready," the announcer's voice.

My arms hung down, touching the block. My torso hung over the water. My legs trembled with shaky pre-race energy.

"Swimmers, take your mark."

Body tense-- every muscle ready to fire on command.

Fingertips brush the block-- ready to push.

Feet in a track start-- necessary propulsion.

The light flashes. Bodies coil. The sound. Time starts as I fly through the air. Seems like forever, but I have one goal. Fingers part the water. My shoulders and hips follow; hardly a splash. I glide: follow the black line on the pool's bottom. Shoulders tense to pull hands to my waist, and I hunch my shoulders into my neck-- nothing to break the water. Legs separate and kick out, scribing to small circles to either side. I surge through the surface as I form my first stroke. Mechanical efficiency- my head tucked in tight to my chest. Elbows and hands attached to my arms shoot out and grab water. Glide- rest on the speed created by the kick. The turn. I look up at the audience. So many of them, but they don't matter. They're in a different world.

I duck back under the water and form my body into a sleek line of muscle. Concentration-- pace myself. Overpush and I'll tire long before the last lap. I zone completely and cruise, sprinting, till the seventh lap. This lap is different. I look at my competition: my race will be against the clock. I'm tempted to hurry my stroke, but I stretch it out longer and create more power. This lap is for reserving strength.
The turn again- the wall- cool and smooth white tile. Peeling grout in the gutter.

The eighth lap. Sprinting past exhaustion. Energy fires and fades far too quickly- bring it back with my mind- but don't think. Stay low to the water. Flow-- no resistance. Muscles aching- doesn't matter- seems like forever. Precision through exhaustion.

The wall-- the final push. Shoulders and fingertips strain and stretch. My head is tucked between my shoulders, and my feet and legs are fused together. Hands slam into the wall and I feel the jolt through my spine. My fingertips might be bruised later. I wait for the black clouds to disappear as I fall back into the little waves sloshing into the gutters. The clock flashes-- the crowd is still screaming for the other swimmers. I tread until they finish. Voices: good race. Hands clasp over the lane line. Fatigued muscles pull my body out of the pool-- copper stars in my eyes. Look up at the audience-- a thousand people making noise.

They're already concentrated on the lean men crouched on the blocks.