February, the start of the indoor track and field season, and Flash was ready. "Flash" was his nickname, given to him by his Cleveland Area Track Club teammate Avery Benson because of his last name. Not to mention Vincent Allen was a huge fan of "The Flash" comic books. It was a funny nickname to Vince, since he was a 110m High Hurdler in the outdoor season, and a 60m High Hurdler indoors. He always thought it more fitting for a sprinter, not someone who leaps over standards. At 6 feet 1 inches tall, and a 180lbs, Allen was a long, lean runner with long legs built for an event like this.
The team's first meet was in Mosier Indoor Facility in Oklahoma. A nice crowd had gathered here for what would be a tune-up meet for Allen, the number three-ranked hurdler in the world behind Britain Ray Collinwood and the surprise of last season, world champion Jean-Pierre de Gaulle of France. In two weeks, he'd have a meeting with one of the two in Boston, but for now, his focus was on the field before him, the lane he'd occupy during his event, the hurdles.
The sound of the starter's gun echoed through the indoor halls, people applauded the runners as they'd cross the finish line,and Vincent paced about the tunnel waiting for his race to be set up. He would stop and shake his legs violently to loosen his muscles, his nerves were extra tight today. Last year he was an unknown, this year he's a very common name in the sport of Track and Field. There were six other men who were waiting with, some listening to their mp3 players, others were stretching and talking amongst themselves. He overheard one talking softly toward the rear of the staging area.
"Hey, what's Vincent Allen doing here," he asked. His companion shrugged.
They're looking at me, Vince thought to himself. He snatched up the hood of his windbreaker and stopped pacing. The orange and black nylon jacket and he wore silenced and now his mind began to run with more thoughts.
It's nerves, Vince. Just nerves. Breath, keep calm and run your race, he thought to himself as he watched the end of the men's 1500m final.
The track club was small, mostly locals from the Cleveland, Ohio area consisting of eight runners and field athletes. Avery Benson was the sprinter, along with Josh Harris, Marcus Waite, and Ron Yance. There was a high jumper; Nat Roman, a long jumper named Will Jackson, and two shot putters, Mike Harris, no relation to Josh, and Martin Warren. They were a team created in 1992 after the Summer games in Barcelona, Spain, inspiring the area track and field athletes to continue their dreams after high school and college. Until now, none of the participants had made an impact on the sport like Allen. Running as fast as he had last year, he was feeling more and more pressure to perform, to do better. He had missed the world championships by finishing sixth in the national championships last season with a time in the 110m hurdles with a time of 13.38 seconds. However fast his time was, the faster runners in the field for the American's were all retiring veterans. His primary competition was gone in the country, this was his year. "This is my season" was written on a t-shirt he wore beneath his windbreaker.
The track officials were setting up the straight away for the hurdles. He and the other athletes ventured out and began their warm-ups on their lanes, jogging and jumping over the forty-two inch-high barriers as race officials prepared. Vincent trotted forward, knees high toward his chest and smoothly jumped the fiberglass hurdle as one would step over a curb. He felt good, his body was loose, but his nerves were making his stomach flutter. Excitement began to move him, and he felt that familiar rush of adrenaline course through his body when the announcer called his name in lane three on the track, the prime lane to be in.
Undressing from his nylon wind suit, the custom t-shirt and his black tights, Allen stood near his blocks in an orange and black running unitard short set, a pair of black and orange track cleats and white and black stripped socks. A silver chain hung loose around his neck when the official lanes were announced over the loud speaker. He raised a hand to enthusiastic applause and settled in to envision his race.
"Runners, take your marks," came the starter's voice cutting through Vincent's concentration. The crowd had gone to a hushed murmur in the stands. He heard the click and adjustments of the starting blocks as runners got to their places. He was more deliberate, taking his time, going through his routine before he folded down. Stretching his arms above his head, hands together, raising up on his toes. He then reached deep down and placed the palms of his hands flush to the track, giving his hamstrings a good final stretch before they would coil up in the blocks. Coming to one knee, he kicked his left foot back, then placed it in the forward block. The his right foot and placed it in the trailing block. Drawing a breath, he let it out in a huff, Vincent placed his fingers behind the starting line, spreading them wide and locking his elbows out. His head dropped and the silver chain dangled beneath his chin as he looked at the ground. He'd entered his zone, and there were only three things he was concerned with from here: The starter's voice and gun, a great start from the blocks, and the standards before him. No one else was on the track, nothing else mattered for the next seven-and-a-half seconds.
"Set," the started called, and all six runners lifted their rears in the air, placing their full weight on the fingertips. This would be the first starting gun of many for the number three-ranked hurdler in the world. The number one-ranked in the United States. He felt his nerves come to settle down now, he was calm, within his comfort zone when he felt a twitch in lane four. Such nervousness would cause a less experienced runner to flinch and cause a false start. In Allen's mind, the starter had held them in place for a minute or more, then he heard it.
POW! - POW!
As a group all six runners exploded from their blocks and ran for the first hurdle, but were stopped by a false start. An official moved languidly out to the starting area, coming to stand behind Vincent's blocks. The move caused him to gasp, but the official quickly moved off to lane four and raised a red flag. Despite the fact he was signaling four was at fault, the entire field was charged and the next false start would result in a disqualification of a runner.
All six runners tried again, settling in their blocks. Vincent Allen took his time again when the starter began to call for the runners to take their marks and get set. In place, it seemed everyone had settled in and worked out their excitement, and the gun went off without a second pop.
Allen charged from his blocks like a bullet from a gun. His long lean body shot out low, keeping his head down as he ran hard, driving his arms up with each step, gaining speed. Before long, his first hurdle stood before him, and he leaped over with ease, touching down with his right foot first.
Focus on your technique, get into rhythm, allow your training to win this race, He told himself subconsciously. Focusing on his technique seemed to carry him faster, make him run harder, his legs moved swifter, and the second hurdle came easily to him, and Vince was over it.
On his left in lane two he felt a challenge from the college athlete from Oklahoma State pulling up toward his side. In lane five he caught sight of another man's foot. His form suffered by his momentary distraction, and Allen hit hurdle three. Lane five was now in the lead slightly.
Experience took over and Vincent Allen began to run with a renewed purpose and focus. His form returned and he allowed his raw speed and length to drive him toward the finish. It was a dead heat when he cleared the final hurdle, his right foot touched down at the same time as the runner in lane five, and he and the other runner ran as hard as they could to clear the final ten to twelve meters of the race.
Vince dipped his shoulder, throwing his right hand and shoulder forward as if he were a swimmer to try and beat his opponent across the finish line. The crowd was going insane now with cheering and whistling. The six runners ran hard through the line and soon began to crash into the foam wall along the back of the straightaway. Bouncing off, each of them clapped with pleasure at they way they ran, even Allen, and walked back up the lane slowly toward the officials. Vincent and the other runners were exchanging handshakes and congratulations for a well-run race when they saw something unusual. Three of the officials were convening over their stop watches and determining the winner. It was close. A photo finish.
"7.52 seconds," the official time was announced. Vincent and the other runners were urged to stay in their lanes as they officials continued to sort out the winner. A photo finish was being calculated out. And the process took about five minutes. Five of the longest minutes Vincent had ever experienced.
As the photo was being analyzed, the official time was certified, and in such a new season, this was pretty quick. Yet, to Allen it was difficult to wait this long to hear his name called out as the winner.
Vincent's hand went up in the air in triumph. His coach and other runners came over to congratulate him, but in his mind a phrase lingered, nagging and annoying. It simply said: Do better. Work harder!
The Season: The Story Vincent Allan`s Track and Field Season by SirMac
The team's first meet was in Mosier Indoor Facility in Oklahoma. A nice crowd had gathered here for what would be a tune-up meet for Allen, the number three-ranked hurdler in the world behind Britain Ray Collinwood and the surprise of last season, world champion Jean-Pierre de Gaulle of France. In two weeks, he'd have a meeting with one of the two in Boston, but for now, his focus was on the field before him, the lane he'd occupy during his event, the hurdles.
The sound of the starter's gun echoed through the indoor halls, people applauded the runners as they'd cross the finish line,and Vincent paced about the tunnel waiting for his race to be set up. He would stop and shake his legs violently to loosen his muscles, his nerves were extra tight today. Last year he was an unknown, this year he's a very common name in the sport of Track and Field. There were six other men who were waiting with, some listening to their mp3 players, others were stretching and talking amongst themselves. He overheard one talking softly toward the rear of the staging area.
"Hey, what's Vincent Allen doing here," he asked. His companion shrugged.
They're looking at me, Vince thought to himself. He snatched up the hood of his windbreaker and stopped pacing. The orange and black nylon jacket and he wore silenced and now his mind began to run with more thoughts.
It's nerves, Vince. Just nerves. Breath, keep calm and run your race, he thought to himself as he watched the end of the men's 1500m final.
The track club was small, mostly locals from the Cleveland, Ohio area consisting of eight runners and field athletes. Avery Benson was the sprinter, along with Josh Harris, Marcus Waite, and Ron Yance. There was a high jumper; Nat Roman, a long jumper named Will Jackson, and two shot putters, Mike Harris, no relation to Josh, and Martin Warren. They were a team created in 1992 after the Summer games in Barcelona, Spain, inspiring the area track and field athletes to continue their dreams after high school and college. Until now, none of the participants had made an impact on the sport like Allen. Running as fast as he had last year, he was feeling more and more pressure to perform, to do better. He had missed the world championships by finishing sixth in the national championships last season with a time in the 110m hurdles with a time of 13.38 seconds. However fast his time was, the faster runners in the field for the American's were all retiring veterans. His primary competition was gone in the country, this was his year. "This is my season" was written on a t-shirt he wore beneath his windbreaker.
The track officials were setting up the straight away for the hurdles. He and the other athletes ventured out and began their warm-ups on their lanes, jogging and jumping over the forty-two inch-high barriers as race officials prepared. Vincent trotted forward, knees high toward his chest and smoothly jumped the fiberglass hurdle as one would step over a curb. He felt good, his body was loose, but his nerves were making his stomach flutter. Excitement began to move him, and he felt that familiar rush of adrenaline course through his body when the announcer called his name in lane three on the track, the prime lane to be in.
Undressing from his nylon wind suit, the custom t-shirt and his black tights, Allen stood near his blocks in an orange and black running unitard short set, a pair of black and orange track cleats and white and black stripped socks. A silver chain hung loose around his neck when the official lanes were announced over the loud speaker. He raised a hand to enthusiastic applause and settled in to envision his race.
"Runners, take your marks," came the starter's voice cutting through Vincent's concentration. The crowd had gone to a hushed murmur in the stands. He heard the click and adjustments of the starting blocks as runners got to their places. He was more deliberate, taking his time, going through his routine before he folded down. Stretching his arms above his head, hands together, raising up on his toes. He then reached deep down and placed the palms of his hands flush to the track, giving his hamstrings a good final stretch before they would coil up in the blocks. Coming to one knee, he kicked his left foot back, then placed it in the forward block. The his right foot and placed it in the trailing block. Drawing a breath, he let it out in a huff, Vincent placed his fingers behind the starting line, spreading them wide and locking his elbows out. His head dropped and the silver chain dangled beneath his chin as he looked at the ground. He'd entered his zone, and there were only three things he was concerned with from here: The starter's voice and gun, a great start from the blocks, and the standards before him. No one else was on the track, nothing else mattered for the next seven-and-a-half seconds.
"Set," the started called, and all six runners lifted their rears in the air, placing their full weight on the fingertips. This would be the first starting gun of many for the number three-ranked hurdler in the world. The number one-ranked in the United States. He felt his nerves come to settle down now, he was calm, within his comfort zone when he felt a twitch in lane four. Such nervousness would cause a less experienced runner to flinch and cause a false start. In Allen's mind, the starter had held them in place for a minute or more, then he heard it.
POW! - POW!
As a group all six runners exploded from their blocks and ran for the first hurdle, but were stopped by a false start. An official moved languidly out to the starting area, coming to stand behind Vincent's blocks. The move caused him to gasp, but the official quickly moved off to lane four and raised a red flag. Despite the fact he was signaling four was at fault, the entire field was charged and the next false start would result in a disqualification of a runner.
All six runners tried again, settling in their blocks. Vincent Allen took his time again when the starter began to call for the runners to take their marks and get set. In place, it seemed everyone had settled in and worked out their excitement, and the gun went off without a second pop.
Allen charged from his blocks like a bullet from a gun. His long lean body shot out low, keeping his head down as he ran hard, driving his arms up with each step, gaining speed. Before long, his first hurdle stood before him, and he leaped over with ease, touching down with his right foot first.
Focus on your technique, get into rhythm, allow your training to win this race, He told himself subconsciously. Focusing on his technique seemed to carry him faster, make him run harder, his legs moved swifter, and the second hurdle came easily to him, and Vince was over it.
On his left in lane two he felt a challenge from the college athlete from Oklahoma State pulling up toward his side. In lane five he caught sight of another man's foot. His form suffered by his momentary distraction, and Allen hit hurdle three. Lane five was now in the lead slightly.
Experience took over and Vincent Allen began to run with a renewed purpose and focus. His form returned and he allowed his raw speed and length to drive him toward the finish. It was a dead heat when he cleared the final hurdle, his right foot touched down at the same time as the runner in lane five, and he and the other runner ran as hard as they could to clear the final ten to twelve meters of the race.
Vince dipped his shoulder, throwing his right hand and shoulder forward as if he were a swimmer to try and beat his opponent across the finish line. The crowd was going insane now with cheering and whistling. The six runners ran hard through the line and soon began to crash into the foam wall along the back of the straightaway. Bouncing off, each of them clapped with pleasure at they way they ran, even Allen, and walked back up the lane slowly toward the officials. Vincent and the other runners were exchanging handshakes and congratulations for a well-run race when they saw something unusual. Three of the officials were convening over their stop watches and determining the winner. It was close. A photo finish.
"7.52 seconds," the official time was announced. Vincent and the other runners were urged to stay in their lanes as they officials continued to sort out the winner. A photo finish was being calculated out. And the process took about five minutes. Five of the longest minutes Vincent had ever experienced.
As the photo was being analyzed, the official time was certified, and in such a new season, this was pretty quick. Yet, to Allen it was difficult to wait this long to hear his name called out as the winner.
Vincent's hand went up in the air in triumph. His coach and other runners came over to congratulate him, but in his mind a phrase lingered, nagging and annoying. It simply said: Do better. Work harder!
The Season: The Story Vincent Allan`s Track and Field Season by SirMac
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