Dunkin Donuts Narrative
It is a cool, crisp fall morning in October. It is early, as my coach always wants to arrive at our cross country meets first. He seems to think there's a direct link to when you get to the meet and where your team places. In my opinion, the only direct link is between the earlier we have to get up and the size of the coffee we each get at Dunkin Donuts. My teammates, excited about the day ahead of them, feverishly exchange “Secret buddy” gifts, and pass around the purple war paint, ready to face the day ahead.
All I see and smell is the torn-up mud and grass beneath me, all I hear is the thunderous pound of hundreds of feet, each wearing 6 small spikes, making contact with the narrow path on either side of my body. Somehow every runner
All I see and smell is the torn-up mud and grass beneath me, all I hear is the thunderous pound of hundreds of feet, each wearing 6 small spikes, making contact with the narrow path on either side of my body. Somehow every runner