Kaylyn Peck
2009 College Admissions Essay
School is out, finally! It's 4:30 on a Friday afternoon. I am where I routinely am at this time, not hanging out at the mall or going to the movies, but nervously approaching a painted white line knowing all too well about the pain that lies ahead. As we tiptoe towards the line the noise of the spectators fades out and we hear the sound of our competitors focused deep breaths aside from us. The announcer's voice takes over with a “SET" and then a "GO!” quickly followed by the sound of that bullet breaking the sound barrier. Another DHS Lion is let out of its’ cage.
The race goes by like a dream, but in this dream real physical pain is what awakens me. I am on the sidelines next to the finish chute bent over gasping for air. One hand is placed on my knee, and the other is held up in the air longing for a clasp of some sorts. A teammate asks why...
When I was just six years old my Dad got me started with this humbling sport. It first started with Pinewood Elementary Road Runners in first grade and then came the endless local t-shirt road races I participated in throughout the years. What mattered most to me was that he was always there at my races to hold my hand during my last mile to teach me one lesson: "Just keep moving forward, Kay". My father was my crutch that I fell back to in all my races. I always looked forward to seeing him double back for me to not only hold my hand, but also make sure I finished my race and finished with a smile.
This past summer I was lucky enough to crew my Father in the historic, Vermont 100. VT100, like all other hundred milers is an epic endurance challenge. But for my Dad, I firmly believed he could tackle this race with no problem, and finish in usual champion stance with both hands up in the air.
I crewed him illegally through the first night with just a provisional license, saw him tackle through heat exhaustion during the mid-day Summer heat, but always saw him leave each aid station wearing his usual contagious smile. Once again I had no doubt that my invincible superhero would complete his mission.
That changed at 11:00 p.m. when my Dad stumbled in disoriented at mile 88.3 and for the first time he wasn’t holding my hand anymore, but I was holding his, as he lay on a hospital cot surrounded by the medical staff advising him to not only drop out, get IV support and further medical attention right away. Watching him lay there ghostly pale, swollen, covered in bumps, epileptic and exhausted to the point where I could hardly recognize him as he looked ten years aged, I realized he needed my teary covered hand for the first time. It would be his first DNF (Did Not Finish), unfortunately falling just ten miles short of the goal.
Senior year gave me the opportunity to be the captain and hand holder of Dulaney High’s well-respected girl’s cross country and track program, which felt like a sunset to the end of my high school running career. One of my fondest high school memories was circling back to help newer teammates sprint in to the finish, just like as my Dad once did for me. Frankly, I have no idea what running Division I will be like in the Fall, but I know this lesson of helping others complete their race, and with a smile will strengthen me during my time at college, both on and off the course.
2009 College Admissions Essay
School is out, finally! It's 4:30 on a Friday afternoon. I am where I routinely am at this time, not hanging out at the mall or going to the movies, but nervously approaching a painted white line knowing all too well about the pain that lies ahead. As we tiptoe towards the line the noise of the spectators fades out and we hear the sound of our competitors focused deep breaths aside from us. The announcer's voice takes over with a “SET" and then a "GO!” quickly followed by the sound of that bullet breaking the sound barrier. Another DHS Lion is let out of its’ cage.
The race goes by like a dream, but in this dream real physical pain is what awakens me. I am on the sidelines next to the finish chute bent over gasping for air. One hand is placed on my knee, and the other is held up in the air longing for a clasp of some sorts. A teammate asks why...
When I was just six years old my Dad got me started with this humbling sport. It first started with Pinewood Elementary Road Runners in first grade and then came the endless local t-shirt road races I participated in throughout the years. What mattered most to me was that he was always there at my races to hold my hand during my last mile to teach me one lesson: "Just keep moving forward, Kay". My father was my crutch that I fell back to in all my races. I always looked forward to seeing him double back for me to not only hold my hand, but also make sure I finished my race and finished with a smile.
This past summer I was lucky enough to crew my Father in the historic, Vermont 100. VT100, like all other hundred milers is an epic endurance challenge. But for my Dad, I firmly believed he could tackle this race with no problem, and finish in usual champion stance with both hands up in the air.
I crewed him illegally through the first night with just a provisional license, saw him tackle through heat exhaustion during the mid-day Summer heat, but always saw him leave each aid station wearing his usual contagious smile. Once again I had no doubt that my invincible superhero would complete his mission.
That changed at 11:00 p.m. when my Dad stumbled in disoriented at mile 88.3 and for the first time he wasn’t holding my hand anymore, but I was holding his, as he lay on a hospital cot surrounded by the medical staff advising him to not only drop out, get IV support and further medical attention right away. Watching him lay there ghostly pale, swollen, covered in bumps, epileptic and exhausted to the point where I could hardly recognize him as he looked ten years aged, I realized he needed my teary covered hand for the first time. It would be his first DNF (Did Not Finish), unfortunately falling just ten miles short of the goal.
Senior year gave me the opportunity to be the captain and hand holder of Dulaney High’s well-respected girl’s cross country and track program, which felt like a sunset to the end of my high school running career. One of my fondest high school memories was circling back to help newer teammates sprint in to the finish, just like as my Dad once did for me. Frankly, I have no idea what running Division I will be like in the Fall, but I know this lesson of helping others complete their race, and with a smile will strengthen me during my time at college, both on and off the course.
