The Track: Satan's 7th Circle of Hell

I hate gym class.

It's the worst class in the whole wide world.

I silently whimpered to myself as I awkwardly laced my feet into the clunky, boyish tennis-shoes. My mother had bought them for me for the new school year; they smelled like the inside of a sports store, which translated to intense dread and terror.

Usually, we have to run around cones and play stupid games with balls or flags. I would have to race across the floor--shoes squeaking, trying not to fall--with pointy elbows flying and kneecaps pumping. One time, during Kick-Ball, when all eyes were on me, I charged at my stupid rubber foe for all I was worth. I closed my eyes and kicked so hard I almost got whip lashed. Then everybody laughed. When I opened my eyes, I saw with horror that the ball stood motionless beside me and my left shoe was spinning toward the ceiling.

Today, however, was not a Kick-Ball day. Nor was it a Dodge-Ball day. Dodge-Ball day was a hellish eternity of my skinny 8 year old body being abused and pelted by the more athletic boys and girls, in which I would have to escape to the edge of the room and sit with the other losers who couldn't defend themselves, where I would gratefully play with my shoe laces or pretend to ice skate with my fingers until Coach B blew her whistle and started a new game.

Rather, today was a Mile day. The third graders were herded outside of the crisp air-conditioned building, and left to the brutal mercy of Mother Nature's hot-flashes. The interminable menopause of the Texas Deity--a blazing 110 degrees painfully magnified by the blackness of the rubber Track. We were told by our decrepit, vulture-like teachers (who rested in the shade with a couple cans of soda) that the Track was only one quarter of a mile, but we all knew they lied. The thing stretched for years and years, burning through my new shoes, dampening my socks and scourging my bare feet. On the far end of the Track, the elementary school could be seen through the wobble of heat waves. An ugly oasis of brick. I would squish it between my fingers (one eye shut tight) and imagine squeezing out the cold of the air conditioning and rubbing it all over my flushed and dehydrated body.

The worst part about the Track was the smell. It stunk like melted rubber. Tiers that that be caught on fire by the rays of the sun, under the magnifying lens of the atmosphere. The scent would stick in my nose and make my tummy hurt at lunch, in which case I'd push away my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, or squish it in the bag and stab holes in it with my fingers.

After all of the kids completed four laps around the Track--and could prove it with four freshly punched holes in our exercise tickets, we were allowed to go back inside and make the greatly desired stop at the drinking fountain. I'd wait in line, with all of the other sweaty third graders, for the chance to gulp down as much water as humanly possible in an appropriate amount of time.

Water was never so desirable, sweet, or quenching, as it was after the Track was through with me.