Page 59 of My First Time Fling

Finally, volunteers in bright yellow shirts herded us into our timed corrals, and then, after waiting for what felt like years and somehow also only seconds, the starting gun cracked, and the huge mass of runners oozed forward like the world’s laziest snake.

It was crowded at first, and almost impossible to find my footing. I spent the first mile just trying not to bump into anyone else. People were elbow to elbow, jostling for space, some murmuring polite apologies as they slipped past, others just pushing through.

How embarrassing would it be to trip and fall before I’d even completed a mile? I tried to be conscious of my pace and rein myself in a little. Mark had warned me about the tendency for people to go out too fast when the race started. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about him, but I decided to make an exception for good running advice.

I settled into my pace and started to feel more comfortable. My mind was occupied enough with nerves and excitement that I made it to the five-mile marker before I’d even realized I’d run three. Somehow, that brought home the fact that I was really doing this.

At six miles, I remembered something else Mark had said, about a trick some runners used. They mentally ran the last six miles first, then sealed them up, put them to the side, and pretended they were starting the race fresh, but now, they only had twenty miles to go.

It sounded silly, but somehow, it worked. When I passed the six-mile marker, I felt a wave of energy wash over me. I told myself it was a new day, a new race. I could do this. My legs felt fresh and new, not tired at all. With those six miles in the bank, I was actually smiling as I took the next step.

I stopped for water and energy drinks whenever I passed those tables on the course, struggling to remind myself that I wasn’t losing to the people streaming by me and that I wasn’t even losing time. Stopping to drink and let my legs walk for a moment now was an investment in those same legs for mile twenty-two. And besides, while the marathon wastechnicallya race, it wasn’t like I was in it to win it. I wasn’t competing against anybody but myself.

I tossed another cup of water into a recycle bin on the side of the course and turned my walk back into a run. Legs—that was what the marathon was really all about. In the first month of training, I’d needed to build up my aerobic capacity. That’s why I’d always felt like I was dying when Mark and I would do our weekend runs. But once my lungs got used to it, it was just a matter of what my legs could take. Building up the muscle, and then resting them enough before the race so they’d be fresh. After that, it was just one foot in front of the other.

It occurred to me, around mile thirteen, that that was really what life was, too. One damn foot in front of the other, even when it was hard and I wanted to stop. I just had to keep going. Yeah, there were going to be times when it didn’t feel good, but eventually, I’d get to a place where I felt better. And I was getting stronger with each step.

It came in waves. Some days or weeks were harder than others. Sometimes you’d go out for a training run and just ache the whole time. But you got through it, because you knew the next one would get better. Nothing lasted forever, not even pain.

Mental tricks notwithstanding, there was only so long I could go before I started to feel the effects of that continual pounding of my feet into the pavement for mile after mile. And since I’d only ever trained up to twenty miles—Mark had said that was all we needed to do—I felt like I was breaking into new, uncharted territory when I crossed that mile marker. I’d never run this long before.

By mile twenty-two, I was starting to feel really fucking tired. Was this the ‘wall’ that people talked about hitting? Fuck, I still had four miles to go. This was insane. Why the hell had I signed up for this again? Why had I let Mark convince me to train for it? And why in God’s name had I decided to go through with it once Tanner and Mark were both out of the picture?

I tried to tell myself not to think about that now. No more thinking until I was done with this stupid race. Thinking meant using my brain, which meant directing energy there instead of to my legs where I needed it. Just one foot after another. And another. And another.

I felt a sneaking thread of panic wind its way through my stomach. What if I couldn’t do it? If I’d never run this far before, maybe I’d just hit a point where my body gave out. What if I got to mile twenty-five and then had to quit? How horrible would that be, getting so far and notquitebeing able to finish? I’d never be able to tell people I’d run a marathon because I would have stopped just short.

That was hardly fair. If I ran, say, twenty-five miles and a hundred feet, why didn’t that get to count for something? It was still a fuckton of miles. And twenty-six point two was such an arbitrary number. Who got to say that twenty-six point two mattered, but twenty-six point one was nothing? That was dumb.

And then it hit me. That reallywasdumb. Because as far back as mile twenty, I’d hit uncharted territory. So every step from there on out was a new record, a personal victory. I won with each step, because with each step, I was doing something I’d never done before. It didn’t even matter if I didn’t get to the end. I would win no matter how far I got.

And maybe this was just a sign of how loopy my brain was at that point, but that suddenly seemed like the most profound realization I’d ever had in my life, because it was true for all of life, not just running.

Every morning was like passing mile marker twenty. Every day I got out of bed was adding new steps, setting a new record, getting further than I’d gone before. All I could do was just keep on going. And that’s all I needed to do. I’d already won.

I felt like I was one of those old-school televangelists, raising my hands to praise the gods of running and gay realizations up on a stage somewhere. Euphoria crashed over me, enveloped me, and pushed me forward. I didn’t feel tired anymore. I couldn’t even feel my legs, to be honest, and I wondered for a moment if I should be concerned about that, but I decided I wasn’t going to worry about it just then.

Maybe my epiphany wouldn’t hold up when I stopped running. Maybe it was the kind of logic that only made sense to a brain deprived of oxygen. But right then, I didn’t care. Right now, I was carried forward on a wave of endorphins and revelation and I felt like I was flying.

And that was how I crossed the finish line.

I even sped up a little at the end, I was so pumped up on my sense of victory, and it was hard to slow down and get my muscles back under control once I’d crossed the end of the course. My legs wanted to keep going, so I was a good twenty feet past the finish line before I could finally bring my speed down to a walk. Another race volunteer in a fluorescent shirt put a medal around my neck, and I smiled, blissful and exhausted.

For a second, I even thought I heard someone calling my name, though that had to just be the remains of my inner motivational speaker, pumping his fists in the air over my finish. It didn’t matter though. I’d run this race for myself. I didn’t need anyone else yelling for me.

But then I heard it again. “Jesse!” Those two unmistakable syllables cutting through the cheers and clapping of the crowd around the finish line. Was I hallucinating from my runner’s high, or was someone really calling out for me?

I looked at the crowd on either side of the course. Brooklyn was supposed to meet me somewhere around here, but I’d finished a little earlier than I’d expected, so I didn’t expect to see him yet. And I didn’t—not a single face in the crowd jumped out at me.

“Jesse!”

There it was again. Someone was calling for me, and it was louder this time. I spun in a circle, bewildered. Did I need to get my hearing checked? Had I fallen and passed out at mile seven? Was this all a strange dream I was having in the hospital?

There was a pack of runners headed towards me, a group who must have run together, still clumped as they headed for the finish line. I needed to get out of their way if I didn’t want to get run over.Thatwould knock me out for sure.

“Jesse!”

My name again. I frowned and started to move out of the way, but the clump of runners parted around me instead.

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