Rain mixes with sweat as I labor through my sixth mile. The salty solution runs down my face into my mouth, sickening and yet invigorating me at the same time.
I started my run that day too quickly, but how could I blame myself? The 60-degree weather on a mid-February day beckoned my legs to chase the waning late afternoon sunlight. Even the wind couldn’t slow me down as my body, free from its prison of hoodies and jeans, flew past suburban houses with manicured lawns. Puddles left by the rain scattered beneath my feet as if they were fleeing from an unstoppable force.
But now nearing the end of my run, I was paying for my earlier overindulgence. My legs felt like cinder blocks as I charged up one of the final hills. The gently falling rain that had kept me refreshed now spotted my glasses, blurring my vision.
Still, I was only one mile away from finishing. And not even the most brutal of rainstorms or the most violent of winds could stop me.
Now only half a mile remains. The wind screams at me to stop, throwing itself into my face. Inside, I’m laughing. It’s an often-used trick by an old enemy and friend, one I’m all too familiar with. Digging down, I force my legs to move faster, my arms to pump harder.
The wind relents. It understands I won’t be beat.
Only the soft rain is present to greet me at my finish line. It sprinkles down onto my face, wiping the sweat away.
7 miles.
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