5430 half ironman

you run and hurt and resign yourself to the fact that you'll never be comfortable again. you will never be curled on your couch reading a book, you will never sit down to a wholesome dinner, you will never feel the cool, cleansing rush of water on your skin, you will never wrap yourself in fresh linen and lay your head on your soft down pillow to sink slowly out of reality. no. you accept that you will be running around this god-forsaken reservoir until the cruel gods of triathlon, cackling from above decide you have had enough and put you out of your misery. and who knows when that will be? it will never end. the stinging blisters on your feet (each step is excruciating) the tired muscles screaming from the incessant pounding on the dull earth, the brain, fatigued from the length of day and the inability to see the end is failing you. everything that was so important five hours ago is losing meaning. winning. who cares? losing. who cares? cutting time. who cares? adding time. who cares? bouncing checks. who cares? telling lies. who cares? goals. who cares? life. who cares? love. what? and you retreat to a place where you can agree to disagree with your own body. your own character. you are comfortable with a certain intensity of pain. you will never leave here. this trail. this reservoir. it is like hiding under your bed. a comforting misery. a miserable comfort. you win some. you lose some. you get blisters along the way. you hate this. you need this. you pass an old man who is worse off than you. you grunt understandingly to each other as you shuffle miserably, ridiculously, along. you will both sign up again next year.