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MILE BY MILE: 24

Who even knows what matters anymore? The entire concept of road racing is an absurdity. “Hey, let’s close down the street around town while a bunch of scantily-clad amateurs parade around. They’ll find this absolutely fascinating, and they’ll each pay hundreds of dollars just for the opportunity to subject themselves to needless suffering. Oh, and even more people will marvel at the spectacle and they’ll show up to watch people run by. A two-plus-hour race to see someone for 30 whole seconds!


“And next year, we can do it all over again! We’ll make a killing!”
What the hell am I doing out here?
Each stride is a contradiction between sharp pain and utter numbness. The blister on my right foot are completely drowning out my entire left leg. One I am painfully aware of; the other exists outside of my consciousness.


I can’t tell if I’m limping because I am feeling too much pain or not enough.
Don’t slow down / Don’t slow down.
There it is again. It’s a never ending song, just like this godforsaken race.
I am pretty sure that I am starting to hallucinate. ‘Pretty sure,’ because I can’t really be 100% sure about anything right now, other than the fact that every fiber in my being just. Wants. To. Stop. Running.
The double yellow line is starting to waver. It fades in and out of focus. Two lines merge into one, and then separate back into two. I don’t know whether I am seeing double or whether this is normal.
Nothing is normal anymore. Running for two hours straight isn’t normal. Flying across the country for a glorified fun run isn’t normal. Paying $165 to do something I could very well do in my own hometown any time I want to isn’t normal. Watching people torture themselves like this isn’t normal.
I can’t see the lead van anymore. I can make out the gold singlet a steady distance in front of me. I can’t see anyone in that singlet.
I look up. I see … the Citgo sign? That can’t be right. I’m not supposed to see that until the final mile. But it’s not the final mile. Is it?
No, I’m pretty sure. It’s the final mile of my third two-mile segment. But there the sign stands: tall and white and red, just like my shoe, taunting us with the finish.
It disappears.
Can I please, I plead to to myself, can I please just stop running? Or just slow down? There’s no shame in jogging it out.
But my legs keep churning. Newton’s first law: “Every object in a state of uniform motion will remain in that state of motion unless acted on by an outside force.” Is it any coincidence that we ran through the town of Newton? What the fuck am I even thinking right now?
“Holy shit! Let’s go Eliot!” A voice from the crowd, the first individual I have heard all race.
Am I hearing things now, too?
There it is again: “I told you this weather would be your equalizer! You can win the damn thing!”
That can’t…
It couldn’t…
I mean, it is a school day back home…
I think that was Amelia! I’m pretty sure…
That voice -- the faceless, personless voice -- snaps me back into the moment. My vision clears, and I regain what little focus I have left.
Gold Singlet is just 10 meters ahead. His lead over me isn’t growing. His head tilts to one side. He is in the hurt locker. So am I.


I split this mile in 5:01. I slowed down one second.
Don’t slow down.

There it is again. It always comes back around.

**********

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