Miles arrived at the Westridge track thirty minutes early, the facility eerily quiet on a Saturday morning. The sun had barely crested the horizon, bathing the red rubber surface in golden light. He set his bag down on the aluminum bleachers and began his warm-up jog, trying to burn off the nervous energy that had kept him up half the night.
Marcus Johnson. Olympic bronze medalist in the 200m. Four-time national champion. Westridge alum who had gone on to become one of the most technically perfect sprinters in American track. And in less than half an hour, Miles would be training with him.
He had spent the previous evening watching Johnson's races online—the fluid stride, the immaculate form through the curve, the seemingly effortless acceleration. Johnson wasn't the biggest name in American sprinting, but among athletes and coaches, he was revered for his technical precision.
The Velocity System activated as Miles completed his second lap: *Pre-training assessment: Nervous system slightly hyperactive Priority learning objectives:
Drive phase mechanics Arm carriage at top speed Race strategy at national level*
Miles shook out his arms, trying to loosen the tension in his shoulders. He had changed his warm-up outfit three times that morning, finally settling on plain black shorts and a gray Westridge Track shirt—wanting to look serious but not like he was trying too hard. Now he felt ridiculous for having worried about it at all.
He was midway through his dynamic stretches when he heard the sound of the gate opening. Coach Dormer entered first, clipboard in hand as always. Behind him walked a man who seemed both taller and leaner in person than in videos—Marcus Johnson's 6'1" frame moving with the casual grace that elite athletes carried even when walking.
Miles forced himself to continue his routine, pretending not to notice their arrival while acutely aware of every step as they approached.
"Carter," Coach Dormer called, gesturing him over.
Miles jogged to where they stood at the edge of the track, wiping suddenly sweaty palms against his shorts.
"Marcus, this is Miles Carter. Mile, Marcus Johnson."
Johnson extended his hand, his grip firm but not overpowering. "The freshman phenom. Coach has been telling me about you."
"It's really great to meet you," Miles managed, hoping he didn't sound as starstruck as he felt. "I've studied a lot of your races."
Johnson nodded, his expression neutral but assessing. "Your state championship time in the three hundred was impressive. Especially for a ninth-grader."
"Thanks," Miles said, unsure how else to respond to the simple acknowledgment.
"I'll leave you to it," Coach Dormer said, backing away toward the bleachers. "I'll observe from there."
Johnson waited until Coach was out of earshot before speaking again. "So, Coach tells me you've got Nationals in a week. First time?"
"Yeah," Miles nodded. "New Balance Indoors."
"Nervous?"
The direct question caught Miles off-guard. Athletes were supposed to project confidence, weren't they? But something in Johnson's tone suggested honesty was expected.
"A little," Miles admitted. "Maybe a lot, actually."
Johnson's serious expression softened slightly. "Good. Nerves mean you care. Let's put them to work." He gestured toward the track. "Finish your warm-up. I want to see your natural mechanics before we change anything."
The next fifteen minutes felt like the most scrutinized warm-up of Miles's life. Johnson watched silently as he completed his routine, occasionally making notes on his phone. When Miles finished, Johnson walked onto the track.
"I'll be straight with you," he said without preamble. "You've got natural gifts. Speed, power, decent instincts. But your technique still looks like a freshman's."
Miles felt a flash of defensiveness that must have shown on his face.
"That's not an insult," Johnson continued. "It's an opportunity. The fact that you're running those times with developing technique means you've got a lot of room to grow."
Put that way, it didn't sound so bad.
"Let's start with your drive phase," Johnson said, positioning himself at the start line. "Show me your first thirty meters from blocks."
Miles set up his blocks with practiced precision, trying not to overthink every movement under Johnson's watchful eye. At Johnson's signal, he exploded from the blocks, focusing on his drive angle and arm action as he'd been taught.
After he passed the thirty-meter mark, he gradually decelerated, turning to find Johnson jogging alongside him.
"Again," Johnson said. "But this time, I want you to focus on your left arm. It's crossing your midline slightly."
Miles returned to the blocks, mentally noting his left arm position. This time when he drove out, he concentrated on keeping that arm tracking straight back and forth.
"Better," Johnson nodded when Miles finished. "One more time. Now think about your first step out of the blocks. It's slightly too high."
They repeated the drill five more times, each rep focusing on a single technical element. By the sixth attempt, Miles felt a noticeable difference in his acceleration—smoother, more connected from ground to hips to shoulders.
"Good," Johnson said finally. "You pick things up quickly. That's rare."
The simple compliment carried unexpected weight coming from an Olympian.
"Now let's look at your arm carriage at top speed. Give me a flying thirty—full speed through this zone." Johnson walked down the track, marking off a thirty-meter section in the middle of the straightaway.
Miles backed up to give himself adequate acceleration distance, then charged into the zone at maximum velocity. This time, Johnson recorded the sprint on his phone.
"Come look at this," he said when Miles returned. He played the video in slow motion, pointing out details. "See how your right hand comes up almost to your face? That's wasted vertical motion. And here—your shoulders tense up at peak velocity. That tension cascades down to your arms, then your hips, then your stride."
Miles watched himself in high-definition slow motion, seeing flaws he'd never noticed before.
"In the three hundred especially, those small inefficiencies compound with fatigue," Johnson explained. "Clean this up, and you'll maintain your mechanics deeper into the race."
They spent the next forty-five minutes drilling arm position at race pace—shorter, more focused reps with specific cues. Each time, Miles felt subtle adjustments taking hold, the Velocity System periodically confirming improvements:
Mechanical efficiency: +3.2% in arm carriage Power transmission: +2.1% at top speed Form consistency: +4.7% under fatigue
As they paused for water, Johnson's expression turned more thoughtful. "So, Nationals. It's a different environment than anything you've experienced. How are you preparing mentally?"
Miles took a sip from his bottle, considering the question. "Visualization, mostly. Coach has us run the races in our minds before bed."
Johnson nodded. "That's good. But here's something they don't always tell you—at Nationals, everyone is fast. You might be used to being the quickest one out there, but now you'll be in a field where everyone has credentials."
"I know," Miles said, though the reality of it hadn't fully sunk in.
"The difference comes down to who handles the pressure and who makes the fewest mistakes," Johnson continued. "For your first time, focus on execution, not outcome. Don't get caught up in who's in the next lane or what their PR is."
"Easier said than done," Miles admitted.
"True," Johnson smiled slightly. "I still get caught up in it sometimes. But remember—the track doesn't know who's supposed to win. It just knows who gets there first."
The simple wisdom struck Miles as profound in its practicality.
"Let's move to some speed endurance work," Johnson said, switching gears. "For the three hundred, you'll need to maintain form through that second curve."
The workout that followed was unlike anything Miles had experienced—not necessarily harder in volume or intensity than Coach Dormer's sessions, but more precisely targeted. Each rep focused on a specific weakness Johnson had identified, with immediate feedback and adjustment.
By the final rep, Miles was gasping for air, hands on his knees as sweat dripped onto the track surface.
"How'd that feel?" Johnson asked, seemingly unaffected by the workout he'd been demonstrating alongside Miles.
"Hard," Miles managed between breaths. "But... different. More focused."
Johnson nodded approvingly. "That's the difference at the next level. Not just working hard, but working precisely. Attacking weaknesses systematically."
As they began a cooldown jog, Johnson's tone shifted slightly. "Coach Dormer tells me you broke the national freshman record pretty convincingly."
"Yeah," Miles confirmed, still adjusting to the reality of that achievement.
"That puts you on the radar," Johnson said matter-of-factly. "College coaches are already watching. The next few years, expectations will build. How are you handling that so far?"
The question caught Miles off-guard again. "I'm... still figuring it out, I guess. It's weird having people I don't know talking about me online or whatever."
Johnson gave a knowing nod. "It'll get weirder. But here's my advice—find your anchors. The people who knew you before the times and records. Keep them close."
"My family," Miles said immediately. "My sister. A few teammates."
"Good. Anyone else?"
Miles hesitated, then admitted, "There's this girl from Central. She's a sprinter too. We met at counties."
Something knowing flashed in Johnson's eyes. "That helps. Someone who understands the sport but isn't on your team. Gives perspective."
They completed another lap in companionable silence before Johnson spoke again. "The hardest part about being young and fast is figuring out what's noise and what matters. Media, rankings, expectations—mostly noise. Your training, your development, your people—that's what matters."
As they finished the cooldown, Coach Dormer approached from the bleachers. "Good session?"
"Very," Johnson replied. "He's coachable. Applies corrections immediately."
Coach nodded as if this confirmed something he already knew. "Technical points to focus on this week?"
"I've noted them here," Johnson said, sending something from his phone to Coach's. "Mainly arm carriage and drive phase. The second curve in the three hundred will be critical against national competition."
Miles listened to them discuss him as if he weren't present, struck by the strange reality of being analyzed by an Olympic medalist.
"Carter," Coach addressed him finally. "Take what you learned today. Apply it Monday. We have one week to integrate these changes before Nationals."
"Yes, Coach," Miles nodded.
As Coach walked toward the facility entrance, Johnson turned to Miles one last time. "You've got real potential, Miles. Not just good-for-a-freshman potential. The real thing." He pulled a business card from his pocket. "My contact info. If you have questions before Nationals or need advice down the road, reach out."
Miles accepted the card with a mixture of disbelief and gratitude. "Thank you. For everything today."
"Thank Coach Dormer," Johnson smiled. "He's the one who called in the favor." He extended his hand again. "Good luck at Nationals. Run your race."
As Miles gathered his things, the Velocity System provided a session summary:
Training session assessment: Elite-level instruction integrated
Technical improvements: Multiple (see performance log)
Mental preparation: Enhanced competition strategy
New contact added: Professional mentor network initiated
On the walk home, Miles tried to process everything that had happened. The session had been both humbling and encouraging—revealing how much he still had to improve while suggesting he had the capacity to reach that next level.
His phone buzzed with a text from Andre: how was the session with johnson?
Miles paused, unsure how to summarize the experience in a text. intense. learned a lot. he's actually pretty cool
coach says you're leading warmup monday to show us the new technique
Miles groaned. Of course Coach would put him on the spot like that. great. no pressure or anything
He continued walking, his legs tired but his mind racing with new information. Another text came through, this one from Kayla:
how was the olympic training session? turned into a gold medalist yet?
Miles smiled, typing: bronze medalist actually. and no, just got a list of everything i'm doing wrong
harsh. details pls
He found himself explaining the technical points Johnson had emphasized, surprised at how easily he could recall each cue and correction.
sounds like he didn't go easy on you, she replied.
nope. said my technique still looks like a freshman's
ouch. but also... you ARE a freshman so...
Miles laughed out loud, typing: true. helps to have perspective
that's what i'm here for. keeping your feet on the ground while you break records
Something about her response warmed him unexpectedly. thanks for the birthday gift btw. the keychain is on my bag now
good. wear it at nationals. need all the luck we can get
we?
yeah, WE. unless you forgot i'll be there too
Miles stopped walking, realizing he'd been so focused on his own races that he hadn't thought much about Kayla's. what events are you qualified in?
300 and 4x400. sophomore girls don't get as much attention as record-breaking freshmen boys
your 300 time would've won states in like 5 other divisions, he pointed out.
There was a longer pause before her next text: sweet of you to check. didn't know you were keeping track of my times
Miles felt a flutter in his chest, suddenly self-conscious about admitting he'd looked up her results. just happened to notice
sure you did, carter. anyway, it'll be nice to see a familiar face there. nationals is supposed to be intimidating
that's what johnson said too. but we've got this
confidence looks good on you. so does that ice cream keychain
Miles found himself smiling at his phone like an idiot on the sidewalk. speaking of ice cream, still on for after nationals?
absolutely. win or lose, mint chip awaits
cookie dough
we're not starting that again
already did
He continued home, their conversation shifting to nationals logistics—when their events were scheduled, where they might cross paths between races. There was something different in their exchange now, a subtle shift he couldn't quite name but definitely felt.
At home, he found his mom in the kitchen preparing lunch. "How was the session?" she asked, looking up from the cutting board.
"Good," Miles said, dropping his bag. "Really good, actually. Learned a ton."
"I'm glad," she smiled. "Not every day an Olympic medalist offers to train you."
"He gave me his contact info," Miles said, still slightly disbelieving. "Said I could reach out if I had questions."
His mom stopped chopping, giving him her full attention. "That's a big deal, Miles. These connections matter."
"I know," he nodded. "It's just... a lot, sometimes. Everything happening so fast."
She studied him for a moment. "Are you happy, though? With all of it?"
The question struck him as both simple and profound. Was he happy? Six months ago, he'd joined the team reluctantly, solely due to Coach Dormer's persistence. Now he had state titles, a national record, was preparing for Nationals, and had just trained with an Olympic medalist.
"Yeah," he realized. "I am. It's overwhelming sometimes, but... I like having something I'm good at. Something that's mine."
His mom's eyes softened. "That's all that matters then." She resumed chopping. "Zoe's at her friend's house. Want to help me with lunch and tell me more about this training session?"
As Miles washed his hands to help, he glanced at his phone one more time. Kayla had sent a final text:
looking forward to seeing you there. not just for the ice cream
He replied: same. def not just for the ice cream
The Velocity System offered a brief notification:
Mission: Prepare for Nationals - 91% complete
Social support network: Strong
Technical preparation: Advanced
Mental readiness: Developing
Next recommended action: Apply technical refinements in final practice sessions
Miles dismissed the notification, focusing instead on the conversation with his mom. The technical adjustments, the national competition, the pressure of expectations—all of it would be waiting for him on Monday. For now, there was just lunch with his mom, texts from friends, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing he was on the right path.
As he described Johnson's insights to his mom, Miles found himself looking forward to Nationals with a mix of nerves and excitement that felt different than before—more focused, more purposeful. Johnson was right; the track didn't know who was supposed to win. It just knew who got there first.
And Miles intended to get there first.