With the marathon two weeks gone, my body is still reeling from the effects. Some of those effects are because of the grueling nature of the race itself, but I sense that the majority of them are due to the months of training that preceded.
The sharp pain in the nerve that sits under my third toe has yet to cease. The meat that splays across the outside of the same foot's sole has become sore in just the past few days, as if it has come out of hiding.
I have gained a bit of weight, but that has been my own doing. Beer and snacks after work have been the ultimate guilty pleasures, ballasts counteracting the effects of the training, medicine to get me beyond the pain of defeat.
My defeat is more than not achieving my goal time. My defeat is ongoing. It's coming to terms with my age, my ability, my mortality. Once I can get my head around these ephemeral concepts, I will be able to turn defeat upon its head, to claim victory.
If it takes until my hair is white and legs have lost all their spring, I am determined to claim this victory.
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