Monday means hills. Tuesday is the day for multiple-mile runs. Wednesday presents the challenge of speed work, with Thursday resulting in another burst of trail-running mania. Finally, Friday presents itself with a fairly easy workout, saving up for Saturday.

Oh, Saturday, how we love the scent of the early dew and the warm glow of your 5 a.m. sunrise. Anxious and minimally fed, we board the rumbling yellow bus hoping that the morning race will be canceled. Some of us sleep in an effort to replace our worry with silence, while others are listening to our “pump up” music.

Everyone is dismissed from their seats, and the boys unload and set up the tent with all the reluctance in the world. Girls usher themselves into the restrooms to retie their hair in front of the dirty mirror.

Now everything is settled and the true preparation begins. Die-hards like me strap on racing flats and sip rather distasteful energy gel. The coaches' meeting is over, and the girls are making their way to the starting line.

I watch as my teammates prepare with a set of strides. I, however, decide to save my energy for the actual race, and settle for a healthy combination of leg-shakes and small sips of water. At last the commotion dies down, and I join my teammates in a quick prayer.

The official should arrive soon. After what feels like eons, the man in white presents himself to the crowd. “Runners to your home!” My legs naturally set themselves into a starting stance.

Bang! The single shot sends us off, chasing the four-wheeler down the stretch. After half a mile, the pace settles, and I find myself among the top ten. Before I know it, we blaze under the sign that indicates one mile.

I stay with the group until the halfway mark. Then, slowly increasing my pace, I pass two competitors as we speed down the hill. Eighth place now.

Behind the caution tape that marks the trail, I can see familiar faces cheering me on. The wind picks up just before the biggest hill of the course, and I am lucky enough to be able to draft the girl in front of me. She is tired from the hill, but even more so from her battle against the wind. I, however, am unscathed and easily take the seventh-place position.

By now we have passed the two-mile mark. Just ahead is a group of four girls. I catch up with them and then pass, careful to avoid being cleated. From here, I can't see anyone ahead or behind me, so I am free to settle into my own pace. Only half a mile left.

I steadily gain on the second-place runner, who is comfortable with the fast pace. We work off each other until the quarter-mile mark.

There she is – my target. By now the lead runner has shaken off any worry of being passed. The finish line is just 200 meters away. I leave the now-third-place girl in the dust and fly stealthily toward the leader. I zoom past her blind spot, but she isn't going to give up her position easily.

In the final sprint, I throw every ounce of strength to my legs and give everything I have left to cross the finish line first.

It happens all in a dizzy blur, but I have won. I have broken the tape and come out on top. This is the moment I live for. Now is the time when I thank that mile-long hill and the merciless back roads. This time I am the champion.