You’re fighting to suck oxygen into your lungs through stringy saliva. Your breath is fast and heavy, each inhalation tinged with the taste of copper lingering in the back of your throat. Ears pound with the sound of blood pulsing through your body while muscles begin to surrender to the flood of lactic acid. Your legs feel like they’re coated in cement as you mechanically force yourself to over-stride towards the finish.
And yet, these sensations of fatigue are nothing compared to the overwhelming sense of relief and calm of finally hitting that 1000-meter mark, quickly striding left over the railing that separates lane one from the infield.