Each Thursday, join me for my once a week practice, Through the Glass Backwards. The title of this series came from my former commute into work, when I took the light rail downtown. Even though I tend to get motion sick easily, I usually ended up facing backwards, watching as the city slipped by. Now that I work from home, these vignettes will be a 200 word glimpse of things I see as the world outside me lives its life, and I am fortunate enough to see, but not necessarily from the light rail window.
A moment from the Baltimore Running Festival half-marathon.
Every single step that I take, my hips are screaming at me. Lift my foot, move forward. Breathing. Trying to remember to breathe. There are people around me. The person who matters most is walking right next to me. The miles are adding up. We keep going. It is a beautiful day; I couldn’t have asked for better. The sun is out and when we’re out in the open, the sun drips into the black fabric of my long sleeve shirt. When we duck under the cover of trees, I feel my body cooling.
In retrospect, a good reminder that nothing stays the same. Ever.
The road looks long. We’re about two miles from home. We’re three, four miles from the finish line. There’s another hill coming. Even the speed bumps in the road feel like too much.
I can’t do this. This is the story I am telling myself.
In retrospect, I know that this is where I learn to dig deep. The last half mile of the Cherry Blossom Run. The last mile of the 10 1-mile laps in a flat Virginia suburb. This is remembering why I run.
To come this far and not finish?
Never an option.