September 10, 2013


The marathon I'm doing is on Saturday.

I am supposed to say something about how it's a marathon, and anything can happen. That hubris is punished severely. I ought not expect an enjoyable run, comfortable for the most part, cruising.

Perhaps I should invoke war metaphors, epic descriptions of odds overcome, enemies thwarted, pain endured. 

For instance, Zatopek, before the first Olympic marathon: "Men, today we die a little."

But, no. No, I don't feel that. None of it. No fear. No trepidation. No fight. There is no violence in me, regarding this race. What I feel is something other. Something calm. Something satisfied before we start because I know the work I've done, and the distance as well.

A marathon is undiluted sensation. It is life, extracted, concentrated, consumed, and then, all consuming. It is... soon. Very soon and yet not soon enough.

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