Wednesday, November 6, 2013
the wind had been so cold and literal on the downward stretch of highway, loneliness seemed to creep along the base of endless rock cuts, until i looked to the side and saw i was leading an anonymous legion of suffering fools.
we were not in the valley yet.
the wind had been so cold that i became acutely aware of every porous stretch between the woven fibers of my shirts, of the holes pushed open by the sharp ends of safety pins lashing a bib to my club shirt, of the droplets of moisture making their ways skyward after a chilling encampment on my skin.
the sun had shone but not brightly enough to warm a damn thing, so one foot turned over the other, again and again and again, barely tapping out the rhythm of a dying percussionist bent on completing a song in time. waving to the crowd did nothing to save the strength. smiles were returned with grimaces. teeth were bared not out of menace or happiness, but of struggle. this is where the skin of one's teeth renders one naked and grasping.
the highway levelled off and gave way to footpaths and cold bridges and walkers and walkers and waddlers in the way. one side then the other, dodging and dying, choking on fuel to maintain the pace, stick with the group, find the pace, breathe, breathe. then we were borne onto the lakeside, dodging more people, rollerbladers and sunday strollers and fellow strugglers, and children. i thought myself too bare and grotesque to be witnessed by onlookers, let alone children. no one should have to see a man turn himself inside out, only to fail.
we were in the valley. the sun came out, blaring, pushing long shadows like suspicious glances of whether or nots and possibles toward that one elusive goal. the goal skipped along like the droplets atop the waves in the lake. we were still running out from the finish. i needed the turnaround.
at 35k, i discovered every pore atop my head and shoulders, stripped off my hat and gloves, steamed my way to the finish. i was a comet, shredding myself through atmosphere to arrive with whatever remained at the end. i was vapor.
about 700m from the line, someone yelled at me that i was almost done, that the finish was just around the bend. four bends later, someone came out from the side and ran with me, yelling at me to stay on her shoulder, right to the line, to go, to finish, to bring it in. i had already lost the goal. i couldn't actually see very much or very well. the sides of the world swelled and the line loomed. i took it.
Boston Qualifying time.
98 seconds past the mark.