I continued to run, albeit slower and more gingerly. Life began taking on a terrible darkness. I knew I was destined to hurl again. I'm 41 years old and I should know better. When running a marathon, life's lessons take on incredible grandeur.
Small mistakes are writ large on the parchment of marathon morning.
I began to beat myself about the head figuratively, harping on each Peachie and each fallacy in my character. My times per mile began to slow. I was obsessing and not focusing. I was waiting for the next blow. I didn't have long to wait.