THE DAY I WON THE GOLD

 By Joshua Horton - Age 11

        As I lie in my bed pondering what might happen today, I look back and see a 10-year-old boy running around, trying to be faster than anyone was before. I can see him watching the Olympics, screaming and cheering as his favorite racer springs past all the others.  

     And now, six years later, I'm here! As I regain my senses from a restless night, I see a gold medal taunting me, saying, "I bet you can't get me!" The mouth-watering fragrance of bacon and eggs seeps into my waiting nose, but no matter how irresistible the temptation is, I have to train.  I try to hop out of my bed, but my muscles start screaming at me, yelling, "Please!  Mercy!"  I can't give my legs mercy; I must get out of these confining covers and slip on my racing gear. My legs and I play a vicious game of Push-of-War. I struggle to get my legs stretched out, but they just shoot right back in. After what seems like decades, I am out of bed and in my gear.

     At the starting line I say a silent prayer as the gun goes off. Mechanically I spring forward and sprint past the other racers, who are stampeding behind me like a herd of wild buffalo. I hear the crowd roaring louder than a lion, and I feel my feet beginning to swell up as if stung by a thousand bees. I glimpse the finish line slowly creeping up. 

     My heart skips a beat as I hurl my body over the finish line. I look at the clock, my eyes stinging from sweat. I have won the gold!