|A treadmill with a view|
Despite all the sensory input, the brain still found a little room to think. A small upper room, away from the static, the distractions, the attempt to not think about The Race. The Marathon. Boston.
I thought about all the people who supported me, unconditionally, friends and family and some strangers who only know me through the transmissions of electrons. In another corner of my mind I had begun quiet preparations for what might have been this year and would have to wait until next.
I walked on.
In a quiet epiphany it occurred to me that I was able to walk without pain, that I could walk and walk and walk. It would be slow but it would be time on my feet. Four miles walking could be three miles of easy running. And as my running came around I would have a base to build on, not ideal but something that could keep The Dream alive.
In my mind I was preparing myself to not be disappointed, because the disappointment would be too great should I not make the starting line. In truth it would be impossible to run well, in reality would it be possible to run at all?
No one except little me doubted this. My inner struggles are hidden; I know I will never give up, never ever quit, that I will run to my potential. But it cannot be this year.
But it can be.
Doing today's PT session, after some of the first routines, I walked over to get drink of water. As I approached the fountain, Will mentioned that I should bring my running prosthesis to therapy next week. This means he sees enough progress that we can think about running again.
My throat tightened and my eyes grew distant...and I was thankful I could lean over and drink some cool water. Well. Well. The rest of the workout is attacked. When the vines of hurt wrap around me, I look to a distant point, clear my mind, and think...I could make it after all.
To The Race.
And the pain falls away. I find myself.
Longing to fly.