Who's at the Finish Line?

Kilometer 17. My knees ached, my calves cramped, and I was sticky, smelling of sweat and caramel gel. The body was the easy part. One part of my brain was telling me to collapse. Another refused, for reasons I couldn’t name.

I’d been running for five years. I was underprepared for this one, unfit, and not in the best headspace.That morning I’d pulled on my socks, laced my shoes, eaten a banana, chugged coffee, and shown up. Everything was alright-ish, until the 17th kilometer, when the wall arrived.

I kept moving. Ate a protein bar. Chugged water. Covered a few hundred meters, then another kilometer. I looked around, other runners struggling, a few dancing. I kept going.

Then, somewhere between 18 and 19, the question I’d been hiding from surfaced. Who am I finishing this for? Who do I go to when I cross the line?

I started crying. Sobbing, actually — the wet, undignified kind. The funny thing about marathons is that crying while running is completely tolerable. No one looks. No one asks.

There I was: eating a banana, crying, sweating, Spotify in my ears, jogging. And I wasn’t going to stop. Not because I had an answer — I didn’t — but because finishing was the one decision I’d already made, and I was going to hold myself to it.

Then the tears dried. The sweat cooled. A breeze hit my salt-covered face. I stopped thinking.

Not running toward anything. Not running from anything. Just running.

And for a couple of seconds, I felt the high.

That’s the feeling I’d been chasing, I think. It doesn’t come easy.

I’ll do it all over again.