I can see it

Clear as Christmas.  There’s the line.  5:48:27 on the big timer clock.  A big blue banner that says “Chevron Houston Marathon”.

The crowd—diminished, but still there—cheering politely.  Some understand that those who finish in over 5 hours have scaled a higher mountain than those who finish in under 3 (not that any of runners’ accomplishment is any less significant) and those folks are loud.  You are a rock star.  You are elite.  Today, you’re a Kenyan.

And there it is.

5:48:27…  28…  29…   30… 31…   finish.

 

And then it comes.  The moment.  The solitary moment of finishing.  The summit.  That brief, fleeting moment of solitude when you place your feet where others have trod before, but only you presently stand.  Everything moves in slow motion.  You are Hakeem Olijuwon leaning on the scorer’s table soaking it all in.  You are Jeff Bagwell and Craig Biggio patting each other on the shoulder sharing a moment that only they really know.  You are Vince Young awash in confetti.  You are Lance Armstrong in Paris.  You are, for one brief, fleeting moment, victory.  Not victorious, but simply victory.  You embody it.  You own it.  Everything is quiet.  For that moment you are not exhausted.  You are not spent.  You feel no pain.

 

I’ll see you there.