The Long Run

I don’t think it’s an accident I became a distance-runner.

Thirteen miles of a half-marathon equivalent to

Thirteen years from the time I said “yes”

Until you have a real job.

At the races

I live for the water stations

Predictably popping up every mile or so.

All I have to do is make it to the next cup of Gatorade.

Then I set my sights on the next goal,

The next mile, the next cup,

Thrust into my hand as I pass by.

Thirteen years is a long time,

To get through it needs to be broken down,

Into miles and water stations.

I’ve always had a goal to match the next mile marker:

Wedding.

St. Louis.

Master’s degree.

Bryce.

Teaching.

Annie.

Living through internship.

Isaac.

Texas.

The last three miles are always the hardest for me.

I curse myself, wish I had stayed in bed

And promise myself I’ll never run again.

But water and electrolytes push me along.

And now I’m looking for the tenth water station

And you’re moving it further down the road.

I need you, cheering me along,

Not making me wonder if I ever should have run.

-originally published 1/06