At the end of the race they handed me a medal. Dull heavy amulet on a yellow string. A consolation prize, for coming seven-thousand-three-hundred-and-forty-eighth.
I didn't run thirteen miles for this.
I did it for the pain.
I did it so my heart would thump against my ribs.
So my feet would hurt and blister and bleed.
So my legs would cramp.
So my throat would burn with the cold.
So my stomach would churn.
So my brain would rattle inside my skull.
I did it for the sound of twenty-four-thousand-four-hundred-and-ten feet pounding tarmac, out of time.
I did it for the relief of it all being over.
I ran so I could finish.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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