Racing is my ultimate climax. It doesn’t matter if I’ve trained for it, or if I’m hungover on race day morning: when I toe that line I know that I will twist and squeeze the living Jesus fuck out of my body so that by the time I cross the finish line, I will have nothing left. Each and every single sorted memory that carried even the tiniest bit of pain and angst will be pounded out onto the course. My body itself will turn to cell dust. Each and every race day, I become a human sacrifice for my own spiritual conversion.
I’m worried about my ability to break 3 hours in this son of a bitch. I’m not going to lie: I do not feel confident in my physicality. But my mind? If I could only separate my body and spirit, sit them across from each other in a deserted bar somewhere in the dehydrating heat of summer, give them both a Corona and lime and come up with a compromise, I would say that right now, my body can pull off a 3:03 marathon on Saturday’s course. But my mind? A 2:58.
I have a strong body. But I have a stronger will.
Which brings me to an even 3 hours.
My taper has been predictable: I feel flat, heavy, bloated, sick and slow= the recipe for a PR. Every single piece of shit memory is at the top of my mind right now, ready to be slapped around on Saturday.
I’m ready for this.