The Last Quarter Mile

I want to be honest about the last quarter mile. I nearly walked it. Not because my legs gave out, they didn't, technically, but because there was a moment where the math of finishing felt less real than the math of how tired I was, and I made a deal with myself that I am not proud of, which was: just get to that lamppost. Then just get to the next one. I don't know how many lampposts there were. I stopped counting.

The 5K this morning was the one I've been loosely training toward since the summer, which I know sounds like a long runway for a 3.1-mile race, but for me the point was never the race specifically, it was having a thing on the calendar that made the solo runs feel like they were going somewhere. When running doesn't have a destination it's very easy for me to just... not do it on the cold days. Now it's done and I crossed the finish line and a volunteer handed me a little foil heat blanket and I stood there holding it like I didn't know what it was for.

Hands on knees. That's the whole summary.

I did cry a little. Outside, in November, with strangers around. I'm going to say it was the cold and leave it at that.

The look back. I still can't believe I actually did it.

I got home and made tea and sat on the floor for a while because the couch felt too far. The sketchbook was on the coffee table and I didn't open it. I just sat there. Gerald looked fine, for the record. The collapsed bowl is still on the windowsill. Everything was exactly where I left it, which somehow felt exactly right, like the apartment had been holding things steady while I was out doing something unreasonable. I'll probably feel normal again by tomorrow. Today I'm just going to be tired and a little proud and not make it into more than it is.