Course Correction

Course Correction by Ginny Gilder Read Free Book Online

Book: Course Correction by Ginny Gilder Read Free Book Online
Authors: Ginny Gilder
to the gym and saw a solitary runner several long blocks ahead of me. Come on, move it! You can catch up to that girl. By now, the furious pace I had maintained throughout the run, well above my predictable capacity, was taking its toll. Although I valiantly attempted to ignore the crescendo of my pain, I was no athlete. I knew my body was not up to this competitive challenge that had come out of nowhere. But …
    You can take her. I heard it loud and clear.
    I turned onto Edwards Street. A horribly steep incline greeted me. No time to die; I put my head down and dug in. Of course I slowed, but I didn’t stop, although I was gasping for air, my legs felt like concrete, and the sidewalk ahead wavered as my vision blurred. As I crested the hill, I tripped on an uneven section of sidewalk and staggered a couple of steps, but I recovered. No quitting!
    I ignored the dizziness as I turned the corner to run the downhill section. Keep on going! I didn’t recognize the inner voice that was calling the shots, and I didn’t think to ask. I kicked into an alien gear and started to sprint.
    I chased the girl ahead of me the entire way down Science Hill, about two-thirds of a mile. As we turned onto Grove Street right outside Woolsey Hall, with about a quarter of a mile to go, I pulled alongside her.
    This girl knew something about responding to a challenge. I could hear her breathing, fast and rough. She glanced at me, but I couldn’t tell if she was wincing or glaring. Ten steps later, it seemed as if she’d sprinted a mile ahead.
    The race was over. The timed run ended less than a minute later, as I crossed the last street and ran all out past Nat, who represented the finish line. He noted the time on his stopwatch and made an entry on his clipboard.
    Stopping abruptly didn’t end my physical pain. For several minutes, I battled competing sensations of nausea, exhaustion, and exhilaration. I wanted to lie down, close my eyes, and let my respiration rate return to normal, but I was standing on a concrete sidewalk in the middle of a city while my insides bucked like an angry horse. Instead, I stepped off to the side, out of the way of incoming runners, breathless, waiting, unsure what came next. I heard Nat tell the fast girl her finish time and ask her if it was a personal best. She nodded yes.
    Then she introduced herself to me. Turns out I had challenged an up-and-coming Olympian. Anne Warner wasn’t going to let some upstart freshman pass her. No fucking way.
    Two members of the Yale Women’s Crew were Olympic aspirants. I had met Chris Ernst, the captain, at my first practice, and Anne Warner the day she kicked my butt at the end of the timed run. They had rowed in the US women’s eight (eight-oared rowing shell) the previous summer, earning a silver medal at the World Championships in Nottingham, England. The following summer, women’s rowing would join the roster of Olympic events for the first time in Montreal. Chris and Anne intended to make the US team and row for gold.
    I hadn’t yet figured out how to drop my oar in the water in sync with the other rowers. I hadn’t taken one hard stroke. But what I felt for rowing was for real: so real that when I discovered that women who were going to the Olympics in less than a year’s time were going to be my teammates, I decided I wanted to make an Olympic team, too. If they could do it, I could do it.
    I was smart enough not to voice my impulsive desire. Even though I knew my instantaneous decision would stick, I also knew anything I said out loud would sound totally ridiculous. Besides, I had no one to tell. I barely knew my teammates. My coach already thought I was aloser. My father would be unimpressed; hell, Mr. Skeptical would tease me out of the room.
    What business did I have getting serious about sports? I knew how my dad would answer that question, and any rational person would agree with him. Starting with my past and

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