Writing, Running, Being.

The finish line is a shifty Thing and what is life, but reckoning?
Ani DiFranco

Monday, October 16, 2006


my face is starting to resemble some type of italian entree...regurgitated at that. my eyes are bloodshot and half-closed. i cut my hair last night to eliminate split ends. i always wonder when i cut my hair...how long have i had that hair? years? since college? since high school? did i go to the prom with the same hair that now litters my bathroom tile and clogs my sink? or am i constantly shedding? if that's true, how does it stay so long? i cut bangs so that i could look more like someone i don't even like. identifying with the agressor? no. she just has cute hair. bangs. more for me to hide behind.
lately i feel as though my workouts are semi trucks driving too fast down a tumultuous fire road and i am being drug behind by a rope, which i am clutching relentlessly in raw hands. i never feel in control anymore. i am not running the mile repeats. they are running me. i swam last night after work. even in the pool, you can tell it's nighttime. the lifeguards are yawning and checking their watches. they toss half-assed glances toward the pool as they finish up cleaning and closing duties, wishing i would just leave so they could go home and eat or go out with their friends or answer that booty call or whatever... but i still have 2 more sets of 6 x 25, 5 x 100 and a cool down left. fuck 'em. it's their fucking job and if i want to wait til the last possible minute of the day to do this workout it's nobody's business but mine, as long as i get out of here before 9 pm. and i did.
each morning i get a choice. i can get out of bed and venture into the cold dark morning and get it over with. or i can sleep in, wake up after the sun rises and allow that pregnant cloud of impending workout to hover over my head all day. dread, i call it.
i wanted this. i want this. i want the prestige, the pain, the proof, the chafing, the exhaustion, the blisters, the sunburn, the high, the bonk, the finisher's medal. i'm the one who signed up for this. i never thought it would be easy. i never even thought it would be much fun. i guess i just figured each day of training would hold the same excitement, the same triumph and glory as race day. not so. it's still the same me chugging along, however awkward or ably up another beastly hill on another boorish run. and when i reach the top, the road still ribbons on the way it always does with miles to go. and when i reach the end of that particular run, ironman is still a distant illusion. and although i come closer every day, the end is still an abiding horizon, keeping itself [this far] from me and my dream.

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