Practice Makes Perfect, right?

I believe I previously mentioned preparing for track in one of my posts. It's a good thing you folks only read my blog and allow me to do all the esplaining because, well...allow me to esplain some more.

could go on and on about how running three miles or doing sprints everyday for a couple weeks previous to practice payed off. I could blabber about how I'm even better than the last year I joined and how my scrawny Hansen calves (and no, I'm not reffering to cows for this one) have found their fight and propel me right on by those other runners.

But that would be lying. And lying is bad.

Actually, I've gone from keeping up with the senior guys my freshman year, to the last-person-to-trundle-in pitty clap this year.

Humbling? A tad.

But that's only the beginning. For one of the warm ups we were slowly lifting our legs over the hurdles as we walked by them. Not hurdling over them. Not jumping over them. Not even kicking over them. Just lifting.

And I biffed it. Yep. Hurdle clattered to the ground. I hopped around one leg for awhile. And my poor coach just shook his head.

Next warm up we had to cross the width of the football field by standing in place and jumping. I made it and was tempted to puff out my chest to myself a little--I hadn't lost balance.

"How many leaps did it take you?" my coach boomed to one of my teammates.
"17."
"Good. You?"
"17"
"18," the next groaned.
"16!"

And on down the staggered line. Thank goodness for staggardness because I think that's how he skipped me. It wasn't until he turned his back that I meekly turned to my friend and whispered, "24."

We weren't done yet. My athletic abilities still had another refining furnace to pass through: jumping back and forth over a cone.

I was so focused on not crumpling the wimply little thing that, to make up for it, my ankle caught and I crumpled myself. I giggled to, as I'd been doing the entire time, and got back up to take another stab at it. I tripped again, only bringing it with me.
Time was finally up.
"Alright, you spazzes who knocked them over, pick them up and let your partner try."

"Yeah," I tell people when they ask if I'm one the crazy people in track, "I'm there for the excercise.