The 40-meter sprint is a short-distance dash designed to measure a person's acceleration and top speed over a relatively brief time span. Unlike longer sprints such as the 100 meters, the 40-meter sprint focuses on explosive power and how quickly someone can reach full speed from a stationary position. This makes it an effective test for sports or activities that require rapid movement—like football, rugby, or even certain martial arts. Because of its short distance, reaction time and the explosiveness of the first step are just as crucial as overall speed.
The sprint offers valuable insight into lower body power, stride efficiency, and overall sprinting mechanics. Beyond assessing athletic ability, the 40-meter dash can be used in general fitness evaluations to assess cardiovascular response and muscle coordination during a high-intensity effort. It's a fast, measurable, and physically demanding activity that reveals how well someone can generate and sustain force in a short time. Whether you're training for sports or simply curious about your physical capabilities, the 40-meter sprint provides a quick and effective way to understand how your body moves—and how fast.
Tami and Najam stood on their respective lanes while I stood 40 meters away beside the track, holding a stopwatch and a whistle. I felt a bit guilty about using Najam like this, but I wanted to see firsthand just how capable Tami really was. Besides the sprint, the two other events were also designed to measure speed, strength, and accuracy. I wanted to witness her abilities with my own eyes.
I signaled them to begin. Both runners moved into their starting positions with calm precision, like they had done this a hundred times before—and maybe they had. Their bodies crouched low with perfect control, backs straight, legs coiled like springs, and fingertips brushing the ground. No wasted motion, no hesitation—just focus etched into muscle memory. Their heads tilted slightly downward, eyes fixed straight ahead, not at each other but at the space before them, as if the 40 meters ahead already belonged to them. This wasn't just a sprint—it was a demonstration of discipline, experience, and quiet grace, honed through repetition and self-trust.
"On your mark!"
Silence fell.
"Get set!"
...
Prrriiiit!
I blew the whistle sharply, signaling the start. The moment it sounded, they both shot forward—not with frantic energy but with a smooth, trained rhythm, like people who had done this hundreds of times. Their movements were sharp but controlled, as if their bodies instinctively knew what to do. Every step was clean and powerful, devouring the ground beneath them. It wasn't flashy, but it was beautiful—the calm confidence of people who trust their speed over this short, intense stretch.
They matched each other stride for stride. No one stumbled or faltered. It was focused, quiet—and honestly, intense. You could feel how badly they wanted it, but there was no desperation. Everything was in the details—the way their arms pumped in rhythm with their breath, how their eyes stayed fixed ahead.
In the final meters, one of them leaned forward just slightly—a subtle shift, enough to finish a fraction of a second ahead. It wasn't luck; it was timing. Experience. The calm instinct of someone who's been here before and knows just when to commit without losing control. As they both slowed to a stop, breathing heavily but steadily, there was no disappointment—only mutual respect. One of them had won, yes, but both had raced with grace that made it clear: this wasn't just a race. It was a display of what it means to be an athlete.
I approached them while they were still catching their breath. I told them Tami had won the race, though they seemed to already know.
"I knew it. You're no ordinary guy," Tami said with a pleased smile.
"Huh? Thanks," Najam replied with a smile, though he looked frustrated.
Yeah, of course he was frustrated—even if it was just a little, he still lost.
"We'll start the next event in 10 minutes, so make sure you're ready," I announced as I left to prepare for the next competition: the Medicine Ball Throw.
The Medicine Ball Throw is a simple yet highly effective test for upper body strength. The goal is straightforward: throw a heavy ball as far as possible with strong, controlled movement. The farther it goes, the more force the body generates at that moment.
This test is valuable because it mirrors real-world functional strength. Unlike isolated strength tests using machines or single-joint movements, the Medicine Ball Throw simulates athletic actions like passing, pushing, or striking—all of which involve explosive upper body power. In short, it doesn't just measure how strong someone is—it evaluates how well they can use that strength when it matters.
After retrieving the equipment from the storage room near the track, I returned to find both of them ready. Najam approached me.
"I'll go first. She agreed," he said, nodding toward Tami.
I glanced at her for confirmation.
"Yep," she replied with a smile.
I handed the heavy ball to Najam and he walked confidently to the marked spot. He stood at the line with the ball held tightly to his chest, his body aligned with the target. His stance was balanced—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, core engaged—every part of his posture showed years of training. No rushed movements, only a calm, deliberate rhythm as he took a deep breath, focused. When he threw, his arms extended with power and control, hips and shoulders rotating in perfect sync, transferring force smoothly through his body. It wasn't just a throw—it was a performance of trained strength, a graceful fusion of timing, control, and athletic instinct. The throw looked easy, not because it was, but because it had been practiced—refined through repetition and discipline.
When the ball finally hit the ground, I measured the distance: 11.23 meters. I was impressed. From what I remembered, the average high school throw is around 5-7 meters. This was outstanding. Still, despite the result, Najam didn't look satisfied.
Next, it was Tami's turn. I handed her the same ball and she stepped up to the line. Her stance was immediately unorthodox—feet staggered instead of parallel, one foot slightly ahead like she was preparing for a strike rather than a throw. The ball rested on her shoulder, not her chest, elbow flared as if she were about to launch a shot put. It wasn't textbook form, but the tension in her muscles and the way she held her spine straight made it clear: this wasn't a mistake. It was her style, and it worked.
With a loud grunt, she rotated her body and launched the ball forward with raw force. No flair, no finesse—just sheer power, turning her unusual stance into something unforgettable. The ball soared in a wide arc and slammed into the ground with a heavy thud. I measured it: 12.6 meters.
Once again, I was amazed. Not only had she beaten Najam's score, but she did it as a girl—and generally, males tend to have a natural physical edge in upper body strength. This wasn't just impressive. It was monstrous.
I now understood why Najam was unsatisfied. He probably knew he was going to lose after his throw. On the other hand, Tami looked delighted, whether from winning or simply enjoying the competition.
The final event was the Solo Target Toss. I set up the target 10 meters away then return to everyone.
"Given your skills, I think 10 meters is a fair challenge," I announced.
"Yup, you know your stuff," Tami said with a nod.
"So, who's going first?"
"I went first last time, so it's her turn," Najam said, glancing at Tami.
I handed the ball to Tami. She stepped up with a stance that instantly felt unconventional—feet slightly angled, one hand on her hip, the other holding the ball casually. Instead of squaring her shoulders to the target like most people would, she turned slightly, almost like prepping for a billiard shot or a trick throw. She seemed relaxed, almost too relaxed, but there was a quiet confidence in how she squinted and exhaled slowly before the throw. It wasn't textbook—it was hers, built from instinct and repetition, and somehow, it worked. The ball sailed cleanly and hit dead center.
Not just fast and strong—she was precise. Yeah, she really is a monster.
I handed another ball to Najam. Before throwing, he turned to Tami.
"You mind if I don't use my hands?" he asked.
Tami studied him and smiled.
"Of course not," she said, clearly excited.
"Alright," Najam replied with a grin and moved to the throwing line.
He placed the ball carefully on the ground instead of throwing it by hand. Then he stepped back like preparing for a free kick in soccer—one foot planted firmly, the other poised, muscles coiled. It wasn't a conventional form, but the way he focused and aligned himself made it clear he knew exactly what he was doing. With a sharp swing, the ball soared in a low, controlled arc and struck the center of the target—the exact same spot as Tami's.
I was stunned—and relieved. At least I had one monster in my own class. Tami, on the other hand, was beaming. The third match ended in a draw, but she didn't seem to care about the result.
We all gathered by the side of the field.
"I knew it. My eyes never lie," Tami said, smiling at Najam.
Najam gave a faint smile back, still frustrated.
"You're welcome to challenge me again anytime," Tami added.
"Huh, thanks," Najam muttered, still a bit sore from losing.
Tami chuckled.
"My name is Tami. Tami Zulaika," as she looked at each of us in turn.
"I'm Sahabi. Sahabi Pratama," I replied.
"I'm Betania. Betania Halimah," she followed.
"I'm, um, Najam. Najam Firmansyah," he added.
"Since I enjoyed that match, I won't be claiming a prize," she said cheerfully.
We all exchanged relieved smiles.
Then we heard footsteps approaching. Turning around, we saw someone with a stocky build, wearing a sleeveless undershirt and blue training pants. Our original target had finally arrived: Caraka Gunawan.