With all the delicate joy of an aesthete I took my slim, spiked running shoes. I patted them with affection as I pushed my feet into them. I removed the corks from the shining spikes....
I struck out with long, low-running, greyhound strides ... around and around ... the wind streamed by me....
I knew I was being watched admiringly. I could see it out of the tail of my eyes. So I threw forward in a final sprint, that brought me up, my eyes stinging with the salt of sweat, my legs aching ... my chest heaving....
"Good boy," complimented Dunn, coming up to me, and patting me on the back ... Gregory, I'm for you. I'm so glad you've come out a clean, fine, clear-cut Christian."
For the two-mile, the half, and the mile, each—a single athlete was training, his heart set on the record. It seemed impossible that I should win all three races. Yet I did.
I was all nerves and sinews for the two-mile. The night before I had lain awake. I could not sleep so I read a poor translation of the odes of Pindar. But behind the bad verbiage of the translator, I fed on the shining spirit of the poetry. With Pindar's music in me, I was ready for the two-mile.
Tensely we leaned forward, at the scratch. I had my plan of campaign evolved. I would leap to the fore, at the crack of the pistol, set a terrific pace, sprint the first quarter, and then settle into my long, steady stride, and trust to my good lung power ... for I had paid special attention to my lung-development, at "Perfection City."
I felt a melting fire of nervousness running through my body, a weakness.