The Finish Line

Two hours, ten minutes.

13.1 miles.

I finished a half marathon on Sunday as I hoped, without stopping.  The run went, more or less, as I expected it would.  As they always went.  I ran alone with thoughts and sounds and sights and memories washing ashore in my head, and I did my best to have a conversation with each as I moved.  Pain arrived, and I moved along with it, felt it, moved with it.  Severe pain blossomed in new places, and I heard people in my heart telling me it was going to be okay and that I didn't need to stop just yet.

The clapping and smiling from the faces at the finish line weren't there, for I was somewhere else completely.  I finished, and was happy with myself.  Somewhere in this necessarily isolated, and somewhat selfish exercise, down no specific road, I'd convinced myself that I could do this.  That no matter what, I could accomplish this one thing, this finishing, and the emotion that burned in my chest when I stepped over the line was the best surprise of all.

I learned some very important things about myself, and what I am capable of during the past five months.

And, until my body yields, I will continue to run.  I will run to find those new places inside and answer those questions that have yet to be asked.