I found myself looking forward to the aid stations so I could walk. At mile 22 I was ready for the race to end. I was not going to quit, but I thought having the finish line at mile 22 would have been a nice idea. Thighs burn, feet dead. Feet beat, pound ground.
Soles slap steady sound.
Well, I was not done, was not having fun, and I was not humored by that poem. At the last aid station at mile 24, someone said to hang in there - only a mile to go. I informed them that I had over two miles to go and that they should not lie to someone in my condition. Jim said I was doing great. I was glad he thought so.