The lifespan of my palm's skin begins to dwindle as slivers of rope threads pierce into my blistering hands.  No doubt leaving a permanent track behind to scar me, the rope slides forward through my grip. Teeth clenching tighter and tighter each second, my mouth grasps a gulp of air. As the oxygen fills my lungs, I begin to regain strength.

I quickly release contact to the rope with my left hand and seize it once again farther ahead. With the little remnants of my tenacity, I tug the rope backward. Biceps bulging out threaten to rip through my deep red skin.

Suddenly, I find myself tumbling backward like a wave of heat. Blood rushes to my head as I scramble to pull myself into a sitting position. The blur of green and bystanders nearby flashes through my vision. Blinking the rolling sweat away from my burning eyes, I come to the realization that every pulse of blood through my upper arms sends a flick of pain through my body.

Forcing my eyelids into an increasingly tightened grip, I attempt to deal with the pain. What is hitting against the back of my head? A deep moaning sound unleashes itself from somewhere within this broken body. I strain my knuckles as I lift myself onto my butt with ever-so-sore arms. By the time I'm up, my knuckles have whitened completely and apparently they're in this position permanently.

The announcer's voice sort of stumbles its' way into my ears (which, by the way, are pounding up a storm).

"Congratulations, ladies! Welcome to Round two! Sorry, boys. Looks like you're going home empty-handed."

Did I really go through all that pain in the midst of ten seconds? I think, shaking my head as if disappointed in myself.

I spring up into a standing position and lend a hand to some of my teammates, sprawled across the cement.

"A couple pads would've helped that landing," A woman of about 25 in a blue tank top says, while stretching her back.

"Or maybe some real shoes," Mentions the woman sitting at my left. Currently, she's trying to push the strap of her broken flip flop back through the hole where it's supposed to be. The bottom of her heels are bright red from the hot summer cement.

"Yikes!" I concede, helping her up. "I'll go get something to wrap around your feet. That looks pretty painful."

The girl, probably only a few years older than myself, but at least 3 inches shorter, gives me a half-smile to show her gratitude. I can understand, since she's probably in some major pain.

On my way to the first aid stand across the sidewalk, I shake hands with a couple of the guys.

Okay...Maybe I might've possibly gone to the younger, hotter ones first. But who could blame me?

They congratulated me and I mentioned to one Johnny Steinbeck that he should stay and watch the rest of the competition. He joked that by the look of my palms, there might be a couple casualties of war by the end of the day.

Hurrying over to the stand, I asked the nurse on duty to follow me with some gauze wrap. She carefully, and very gently, I might add, wrapped each sole with multiple layers of white gauze.

After each remaining contestant wipes the grime off her clothes and once everyone seems to be A-OK, the announcer once again takes his place on the podium.

"Alright. May the games continue?"