Case Study: Guantanamo Bay

Seconds before the big race started they called every individual runner by name to step up and wave for one last time. It was dead silent that you can hear the wind whistle through the tons of fans standing around with cameras and posters of family members. I can hear my heartbeat speed up as the man raises his hand followed with a “on your mark, get set, go” and a big bang shot out. Feet beating the ground almost sounding like horse running on a field with no

“Final call girl’s four by eight-hundred-meter relay” called the official. The Ontario Track girl’s four by eight-meter team trooped up to lane one, in unison. I would not have wanted to be racing with anyone else but my relay family. We had trained all season for this one race. Every workout, asthma attack, tear, and shin splint has lead up to this one race to break a twenty year old school record. As we jogged with the official from the bullpen to the starting line, the crowd had uproars of excitement for the athletes. An immense smile grew across my face, not only from the ecstatic crowd, but from the anticipation to race. I approached the starting line, in the first lane, while my teammates arrayed along the fence with the other second,

The weather is perfect for racing: not too hot, not too humid, not too windy. I dash down the twisted trails in the woods, trying not to stumble on the gnarled roots protruding from the dirt. My spikes puncture the soft earth with every stride, and my legs repeatedly pound on the ground, soreness surging through them. As sweat trickles down my face and dirt smears across my aching calves, I ascend a steep hill, trying to bring forth the strength I have accumulated throughout endless hours of practice. Now that I am nearing the final two hundred meters, I must force my body to begin sprinting. Breathing heavily, I dart for the imminent finish line, trying to beat the uninterrupted tick of the timer. Even though the crowd surrounds all around me, I can barely hear their animated cheers, because all I can focus on is crossing the line before the girl next to me. I can feel adrenaline surging through my body, and I widen my stride to cap off the remaining distance. When I glance at my Garmin watch, a new personal best time flashes across the screen. I realize that all of the gruelling work I have put in is worth the final result: happiness. (Snapshot Lead)

“Come on guys! Get moving!” Sam yelled. “Regan focus on your kicks.” she told me. Feeling the looks of the others, not yet placed in lanes. I kept swimming. I skipped a flip turn to regain my breath, but I’d known I would pay for it later because the coaches punished us for not doing stuff we knew we should. At the end of practice

The flags are in sight and off on a wild sprint! I’m going and across the line I am! Exhausted but satisfied. I thought I saw my time was 28 minutes. I had to know the seconds. ( Yes, every second counts.) I was preparing myself mentally for what my time would be. I was eager to know. I ran to my Coach as soon as he was in sight. I ran to him and I immediately asked for my times. He told me and I had to see for myself. 28:04. 28:04!! I was excited! I can’t remember if I jumped up and down or not. Wouldn't be surprising. One thing I did for sure was, walked away and cried. Not only was it 28:04. It was my heart's desire. Coming close to the end of the season, I couldn’t see myself running a varsity time. So the lowest time I hoped I’d get would be 28 and it was!!

I soon snapped out of this state, hastily trying to stretch my muscles, which were cramping because I was so anxious. I heard the announcer yell “Ready, Set, Go!” followed by the pop of the starting pistol. Startled I took off running as fast as I could momentary forgetting to pace myself. I knew I would run out of energy if I didn’t do something to correct myself, so I slowed down and matched my breath to my steps. This way I could get an adequate amount of air into my lungs for aerobic respiration. By doing this I cruised through the first mile of the

Cresting the hill, I struggled with my ragged breathing and the pain in my hips. I focused on my rhythm I in order to keep going. My running shoes slapped the pavement as onlookers expressed their encouragement with cowbells and cheers. I wondered again why I put myself into the situation by choice. As I passed mile 13 I remembered. I felt my eyes water and my legs shake as the finish line approached. Marines in uniform stood ready with medals and smiles as they encouraged us in our own hardships to rise above the pain and finish. The announcer spoke my name but I hardly heard him as a medal slipped over my head and I marveled at the weight, not of the medal, but the accomplishment which seemed impossible for the past three hours. I finished in 3 hours, 7 minutes. It was not an Olympic record and I detested running at mile two, but I did it.

I ran back up the hill to our camp, trying to move quickly without wasting too much energy, took my inhaler, and rushed back down the hill. Soon, it was time for the race to start. The officials gave an overview of information about the race and how it would start. The official behind us blew a long whistle. We stood, motionless, just waiting for that starting gunshot. Pow! The race was off. I sprinted out of the pack. I tried to find a good pace and settle in. We ran up a few hills, and then we made it to the first entrance to the creek. Unintelligently, I didn’t slow down very much going into the creek. Because I didn’t slow down, I splashed into the creek with a belly flop, almost submerging my whole body underwater. I got up quickly, then began to climb up the mud wall. I clawed at that wall like it was my enemy. I avoided the rope, even though it actually wasn’t that busy at the moment. I was too focused to switch strategies. We continued to run on, passing many fans, their cheers a chaotic blur. We passed through the second part of the creek, which was not nearly as deep. It was only about mid-shin to knee level, so I made my way through just fine. We ran all over the vineyard. I wasn’t feeling too awful. I was just caught up in the thrill of the race! We made it to the cornfields, and there were lots of small hills. I ran through them staring at the ground, and I kept seeing the same pair of shoes. For some strange reason, I kept staring at those shoes. People do crazy things when they run, you could say! Anyways, I passed the person wearing those shoes. We ran away from the corn fields and under a bridge. I was coming closer and closer to the finish. I was struggling to continue, but I would not quit! I pushed through the pain, but by the end of the race, I was just done. I saw the final hill in front of me. It was one of the biggest hills on the course, if not the biggest, and it was definitely the most difficult after

The final seconds of a cross country meet when you are sprinting down the straight away, looking at the finish line, trying to beat just one more person, is one of the most mentally and physically exhausting moments I’ve ever encountered. In the Fall of 2014 things just clicked with our girls cross country team. Winning Bi-county, Conference, Sectional, and advancing to Regional and Semi-state, was unexpected to everyone around us. Losing five of our seven varsity runners the year before got us moved from our small school rank of 3rd to 13th. Getting moved ten spots on that list motivated us even more to prove to everyone what we could do without those graduated seniors.

“Good Job keep going, you can do it, run run faster, you got this!” These were the words coming from the audience as I was finishing my last 100 meters in the cold, pouring, rain during sectionals. I was in second place in my heat and my heart was thumping and I couldn't see through the water stains on my glasses, but I heard someone someone breathing hard and their spikes hitting the track as they ran behind me and I knew I had to push even harder.I remembered the rough trading I had in practice and knew I could do it.

I led a few stretches, ran a few warmup laps, and headed up to the stands. With my parents and teammates beside me, I felt ready to go, until my race was called. Then my heart dropped and the pressure of not false-starting, successfully passing the baton, and running faster than I ever have fell on me. My Coach led the three other runners and me down a tunnel to the track. Then we are placed in order by heat and leg

A start and a finish line, hundreds of competitors lined up with faces of determination ready to compete in what they have been training hard for. Runners warming up, stretching, drinking water, and finishing routines with their coaches and teammates; anxiously waiting for the loud signal of the gun shot to begin the race. Once the shot has been fired you see the competitors sprint as fast their legs can go, to try to get a spot up front. Through out the race you see the rival schools go head to head speeding up inch by inch trying to get ahead. The sweat dripping from foreheads to chins, tired faces, heavy breathing, and pained looks are characteristics the competitors obtain midway through the race, which always seems to catch the crowd’s

Too many Guantanamo Bay detainees have been abused in the prison by the large, deep water harbor on Cuba’s southeastern coast; one of the best-protected bays in the world (“Guantanamo

I stood at the top of the hill. It was Regional day. My team and I trained all year for that day. The sun was shining and the snow was crisp—just like the air. The wind was silent and allowed the clamor of the festivities to hang in the air undisturbed. I could hear everything. The chanting of names and times from the loudspeaker. The racers’ skis slicing into the snow. My favorite rhythmic clapping of shins on gates. Then, to my surprise, “Tylor Kistler, bib 156?” a pause, “racer may go when ready”. Oh no. If my mind wasn’t racing before, it was racing then. All my thoughts jumbled into a chaotic scream.

With a rousing cheer we bounced on our toes, yelling in a steady roar, our arms around each other’s shoulders. With the command to start running, we raced across the pavement, leaping over curbs and tree roots, yelling “STEP” as a warning to those behind us. When people could no longer run they fell out of the group, only to be joined by a fellow company member encouraging them to continue running. At 0530 all 500 of us made it to the field, leaning on each other and gasping for air, only to be greeted by a former Navy Seal ready to begin our workout.