I arrived at the track on base fifteen minutes early for my annual fitness assessment. It was early May. The temperature was in the mid 80’s and the wind was no more than a slow breeze. The conditions were perfect. All I had to do was go out there and perform. Sitting in my car with Eminem pumping through my speakers, I looked at the track and mentally went over my race.
My running background has always worked to my advantage in these types of military tests. Before I joined the Air Force, when I ran in college, I used to go to the track early and walk a lap visualizing every second of my event. I knew how fast I was going to take off when the starter shot the gun. I knew which way the wind was blowing so I could try to draft at certain points. I knew how to accelerate off the turn and when to try to maintain the pace I was already running. Today’s evaluation was a waist measurement, a minute of push-ups, a minute of sit-ups, and a mile and half run. I had been training for months. Between my weekend escapades, there were five other days I had been hitting the gym, running regularly, and eating a steady diet of chicken, beans and rice. I was zoned in and ready to make that test beg for mercy. Nothing could distract me from the task at hand.
As some of the other testers began to arrive, I gave myself one last pep talk,
“leave it all on the track Steve” and headed toward the shade canopy the Physical Training Leaders (PTLs) had set up in the middle of the track. For privacy reasons, the canopy was set up with tarps secured to the sides so no one could see us lifting our shirts for the waist measurement. Standing outside the tent was a tall, slender man, holding a clipboard and pen, dressed in a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt.
“Name?” said the man as I approached the tent.
“Hart Stephen E” I said.
But you can call me the track slayer, I thought to myself.
“Alright Hart, wait here outside the canopy until a male PTL is available to measure your waist.” He pointed to a spot next to two other guys who were waiting there as well. No big deal, spare the track a few extra minutes before it suffers the rapid ferocity of Steve “legs of track destruction” Hart.
“Name?” The slender man motioned for the person in line behind me to move forward.
Or the merciless wrath of Steve “I eat track for breakfast” Hart.
“Connors Janelle A” responded the woman who was next in line.
How about, Steve “track smack down” Hart?
“Ok, Connors, go see Airman Morey for your waist measurement.”
My heart pounded one big, hard thump, and then accelerated to what felt like twice my previous standing heart rate.
She was here? Airman Morey was HERE? I instantly remembered that day on the truck with vivid clarity. I could see her smiling and laughing in the midst of conversation, her beautiful eyes proving her honest and true, and her fading out of sight as she walked up the stairs. I remembered the brief peace in my heart when I first saw her and the piece of my heart that left when she walked away.
“Airman Levi, you can go in, stay to the right and see Sergeant Simms.” Said the slender man as one person left the tent motioning for the next guy in line to go in to get his measurement.
Looking to my right, I realized, there was only one person and a blue tarp between
her and I. My mind started racing.
What did I do this morning? What do I smell like? Was this shirt clean or did I pick it out of the laundry? I shaved, I know I shaved. I inconspicuously rubbed the back of my hand on the side of my face.
Yeah, I shaved. Breath check. What did I eat? I casually took a drink from my water bottle, swished it around in my mouth, and spit it on the grass.
That should do the trick. Ok, if I see her what do I say?
“Airman Jones, you can go in, stay to the right and see Sergeant Simms.”
I was next.
Think Steve, why didn’t you say anything last time? This is your place, the track is your domain, you can do this! I was right. If there was ever a place where I felt comfortable and confident talking to women, it was on the track. In an attempt to not make the same mistakes as the last time I saw her, I thought back through the series of events that transpired that day on the truck. I remembered feeling intimidated, trying (unsuccessfully) not to stare at her, and a conversation between Kevin and Selena as we drove away from the airplane…Then, like a brick hurled through a glass door, I remembered...she was married. In all of my excitement and the time I’d spent away in training, I had forgotten the most devastating part of my truck experience. The part where my body felt weak and my heart empty. The part where I felt like a fool for getting myself so worked up. The part that left me asking why my heart wants what it can’t have.
“Airman Hart, you can go in, stay to the right and see Sergeant Simms.”
Here we go. As I turned into the canopy, there was another tarp hanging from the ceiling that separated the male and female areas. I reported in to Sergeant Simms. While he was measuring my waist, I could hear a female voice giving some instruction to another female on the other side of the tarp. It was her. I recognized her sweet, upbeat tone right away. Even when giving directions, hearing her voice made me smile. It was comforting. When my measurement was finished, I left the canopy and waited by the starting line with the rest of the people who were finished with this part of the assessment.
There were about fifteen of us testing that day. We all stood in a gaggle by the starting line waiting for the PTL’s to emerge from the canopy and give us instructions for the next evaluation component. Some people were talking to each other about push-up strategies. Others were complaining about the testing policy. Some had head phones on and were getting themselves focused. I stood slightly outside the pack pretending to stretch and trying to wrap my mind around the unexpected climb and dive of my emotions. I hadn’t felt
that since the last time I saw Airman Morey. There wasn’t a party in New Jersey or a bikini in Ocean City that came through me like a tornado; sweeping me off my feet and leaving me in shambles. Just the knowldege of her presence filled a void in me that a bite of the Big Apple or a drink with the Dover locals couldn’t even begin to satisfy.
The PTL’s were ready. Sergeant Simms stepped out from the canopy followed by the one and only Airman Morey. As she walked toward us in running shoes, green shorts and a black top, I turned to watch her walk our way. I couldn’t see the others, but I was sure they were mesmerized by her beauty in the same way that I was. Her toned, bronze legs stemmed from her shoes and seemed to go on forever before they met the bottom of her shorts. She was the perfect compromise of beauty and intelligence and walked toward us in a way that was not attention seeking, but confident. She gave us instructions in a professional and encouraging manner. It was as if she had no idea that she was the single most fascinating woman I’d ever seen. She didn’t know what I would give to meet a woman like her out there in the harsh, unforgiving, ruthless real world I had to take on every day.
After my test that day I made myself realize that I would never have her, but found relief knowing that there could be another woman like her out there. Once I was finished with my technical training, there was a good chance I would be working with her on the flightline and I couldn’t have my emotions going all cardiac arrest on me every time I saw her. I told myself it was good to have felt those feelings so I knew what love
could feel like. That way, when I felt it again, I would know that girl was the one.
**Feel free to leave comments below and tune in Monday for Stacy's newest blog post and come back next Thursday for Chapter 7!
