I sit recovering from running 26.2 miles sick and on a slightly bum ankle and head injury that was on recovery. Gah. I ran it, though. I ran until my legs sweat battery acid and tried to dissolve my pores on the way out. There’s only 13 miles left. I ran with knots forming in my thighs and hamstrings hoping to god they wouldn’t travel to my other leg (they did). I’m 16 miles in; I can’t turn back now. With every step, I could feel the giant blister under my foot metastasizing over my sole - just a natural, mutated Dr. Scholl’s foot insert that felt all too squishy. Chinatown is just around the corner - 19 miles down, 7.2 left. Just push through. Just give me salt. Just give me energy. Push through all the pains, the failures, the sickness, and injury. There are no limits when the mind can push through. There’s the 22 mile marker. Everything’s coming to a head. Where’s that second wind? Hobble. Get through it. Every time I run, my muscles refuse to relax. I feel that tightness return. Screw you muscles. I will beat the shit out of you, sickness. All that matters is the finish line. Limits? What limits? The limits you make for yourself when you get sick and say, “no, not today?” My legs have mutated thorns that scrape on my nerves with every movement. I’m surrounded by everyone and no one. Their silent cries of motivation are drowned out by the war between mind and body. This is all that is happening. It rages on. Both are pushing. Both are screaming at each other. One in motivation; the other in agony. There’s never enough. Here’s to you, Doubt, who said I wouldn’t be able to do it. 

Just because we past the finish line doesn’t mean we’re done. Another marathon down. Learn more, grow more. When’s the next one? 

My first one ever, and I’ll be doing it in the midsts of Medical School. Bring it on.

I will do this. I know I can.