Tag: running partner

dec 9/RUN

2.4 miles
2 trails
39 degrees

A quick run with Scott. It felt colder than 39 because of the wind. Scott talked about an annoying problem with moving a client to a different server and I talked about my current poem and where to go with it. Then Scott mentioned a small monitor he wants to get and how, of the four options, 3 cost $`100 with $25 shipping and one cost $110 with $15 shipping. I wondered which option people respond to more, and this thinking about how people chose reminded me of the latest If Books Could Kill podcast about the book, What’s the Matter with Kansas?, and why people vote the way the do. Of course this led to a discussion about the current state of politics and how we’re both doing (surprisingly okay and trying to protect our mental health).

10 Things

  1. the river is more open today but still different versions of gray
  2. the wrought iron fence is bent in the middle and at the top — what happened? we noticed a thick tree branch on the other side of the fence
  3. a somewhat subdued din of laughing and yelling at the playground
  4. a man on a bike unwilling to move over and give us runners and walkers the chance to pass each other
  5. a steady line of cars at the 3-way stop suddenly eased up as we approached — clear sailing across!
  6. a dog with their human turning down the steep-ish dirt path on the far end of the 35th street parking lot
  7. at the end of the run, walking home: the sound of woodpecker high in a tree (heard, never seen, although we both tried to find the bird)
  8. knowing that the wind was at our backs when I saw leaves flying towards us
  9. running by the green water fountain in the parking lot and wondering if there was any way that it was still on — not because I wanted any water, but just because I was curious
  10. sometimes the sun was out, and sometimes it was behind the clouds — what did the clouds look like? Did I even check?

where to take my poem

Where it ends now:

Wind, sun, frigid air,
the effort it takes
to keep moving, a
slow wearing down of
cone cells, soften her
hard shell and cause cracks
that start small then spread
then split her open and
able to feel more
of everything and
everyone here, now
and before.

Talking to Scott while we ran, I wondered if I wanted to end here or write about a section of the trail just north of the trestle that was repaved a few years ago, but cracked open again in less than a year, and then was patched/resealed earlier this year but is now cracked again. I keep thinking about this section. Why? Maybe it’s something about the endless cycle of crack and reseal and the belief that eventually no seal will stop the slope from sliding down into the gorge. Here, at this spot, is evidence of eroding ground and the opportunity to witness time passing on a different scale. Or, maybe it’s a particularly interesting (at least to me) example of how a cracked surface looks and acts. Is there any connection to my small cracks that spread and split? I don’t know.

As I continued talking with Scott, I mentioned Wittgenstein and his need to get off of smooth ice, where it’s difficult to walk, and back on rough ground where friction helps us move. Then I talked about how I don’t like running over cracks and appreciate when they’re repaired, but I don’t often notice smooth pavement. I orient myself on the path by the cracks. The cracks are where the stories are.

And now I’m thinking about how you can’t leave a trace on smooth, sealed asphalt — as opposed to footprints in mud or tamped grass or rutted dirt. Also cracks are where the ground/earth/flowers can poke through. And, I’m reminded of daylighting and how some people/groups are advocating for freeing water from being buried under cement:

the exhumation of streams from underground and reintroduction of them to the surface. There is ample research-based evidence for what seems intuitively true: natural waterways—meaning, those that flow through the topography of a landscape and not through a sewer—support healthier ecosystems than those encased in concrete darkness. Daylighting brings benefits to water quality that include nutrient retention, prevention of algal blooms, and overall more supportive environments for a diversity of species. It also keeps clean water out of the sewer system, where, currently, huge volumes of it unnecessarily go through the sewage treatment process, a waste of resources that can also cause sewers to overflow.

Reaching the Light of Day/ Corinne Segal

Now I’m thinking about management and maintaining and conservation and how this cracked path and its perpetual repair is where many different elements are entangled: park workers trying to maintain safe paths, a shifting and eroding ground — due to the “natural” instability of the area and chemicals from local lawns in the groundwater and seeping into the soil, overuse or misuse by visitors, the impact of heavy traffic on the parkway from commuters.

Where to go with all of this? Unsure, I returned to the part of my poem that’s inspiring this wander and I was struck by this bit:

able to feel more
of everything and
everyone here, now
and before.

A reminder: the cracked path doesn’t have to be an exact metaphor for my cracking open. It doesn’t have to be a metaphor at all. It can be another layer to this idea of this land as a work of art, as crafted/made/shaped into something beautiful (which does not = pretty) that enable us to feel things deeply. I’d like to bring in 2 things I mentioned in my rambling: 1. smooth asphalt doesn’t leave a trace, doesn’t tell a story but cracked asphalt can/does and 2. the process of cracking and sealing and cracking again enables us to witness time passing on a different scale; it makes visible what was invisible — too slow and slight to notice.

Now, time to try and fit these ideas into a few 5 syllable lines!

nov 28/RUN

3.1 miles
locks and dam no. 1
23 degrees / snow flurries

A 5k run with Scott in the snow! Flurries collecting on the edge of path and in the cracks of the asphalt. Flurries in the air making my already pixelated view — due to dead cone cells — even more pixelated. Strange, dreamy, disconnected. It was cold, but not too cold. I was overdressed: double gloves, double tights, a buff, a hood, a cap. Before the end of the first mile I was losing layers: 1 pair of gloves, then a hood.

We talked about last year’s marathon, and doing it again next year, and how it wasn’t as cold as we thought it would be. I mentioned that one of my favorite views is blocked because of too many branches. Scott liked how I described it, thick with thin branches.

10 Things

  1. brown leaves on the edge of the path, mixing with the snow
  2. a white-gray sky
  3. the flurries with big and clumpy, one flew in Scott’s throat and he freaked out a little
  4. the ravine below the double bridge was open and brown and bare
  5. a steady stream of cars, distanced from each other, flowing south on the river road
  6. all the benches were empty
  7. as we ran on edmund, a car behind us gently revved to alert us to their presence
  8. bright green leaves on a tree near the savanna
  9. a biker biking by in bright yellow shoes
  10. after the run, FWA driving us, we counted 6 wild turkeys crossing the road

That was hard to come up with 10 things today!

1

In January of 2024, I devoted a month to windows. This morning, on poets.org, I found this beautiful window poem, Wooden Window Frames / Luci Tapahonso. Here are the opening lines:

The morning sun streams through the little kitchen’s  
wooden panes; its luminescence tempts me to forego coffee.  
But I don’t. The dark coffee scent melds with the birds’ 
chirping along the hidden acacia. Then, a small bird 
alights on the cross of the wooden clothesline.  
Its tiny head turns from side to side, then as if sensing me,  
it gazes at me through a window square.  
We ponder each other, then remember our manners,  
and it flies off into the clean, cold air. 

2

My Faith Unfolds Itself/ Alafia Nicole Sessions

after Faith Ringgold’s exhibit, “Black is beautiful,” at the Picasso Museum, Paris, 2023

like a ribbonless plait:            
the rain outside descends in strands:
percussive opera for the sheltered:            

petrichor of hominy and green:
grief everywhere, all at once : and then
            the sun : reminds me I’m not new:

they are my dowry : the gone ones
            and their light : refracted through
the body’s fluids : o rivers : how to

            marry threads of water with faith:
predates language : but the word was
            the beginning : have we come this far by fate:

roots fracture, forget, then return : curse
            the pattern of rupture then mend : not unlike
the making of a quilt, or muscle : broth born

            of fire and water : fists full of ephemerals:
blood-honey : water always finds her way:
            I plump and soften : like soaked grain.

nov 24/RUN

2 miles
river road, north/south
38 degrees

Another run with Scott. We were planning to go for coffee after a short run, but both places we tried were too crowded. Another gray morning with difficult light. Everything felt hazy, dreamy. Also, it was harder to breathe. For the past week, I have had a sore throat off and on and some congestion. I’ll take another covid test today, but it could be a reaction to flonase or allergies. Whatever it is, I wish it could go away. Because of my difficulty breathing, Scott did most of the talking. He talked about his upcoming gig and what would be on the set list. I remember looking down at the floodplain forest and pointing it out to Scott. The tree branches were bare enough that you could see the forest floor. Beautiful. Scott pointed out a roller skier to me.

I don’t remember looking at the river or hearing any geese or black-capped chickadees or rowers in the river. No regulars to greet. I didn’t count the stacked stones.

At the end of the run, I commented on how the sun looked like it wanted to pierce through the thick clouds. Behind the grayish-white was light. Now, writing this at my desk, the sun is trying even harder and everything — sky, grass, ground — is brighter.

nov 23/RUN

3.1 miles
trestle turn around
36 degrees

Another wonderful almost winter morning! Sunny, hardly any wind, clear paths. In January, a day like this would feel tropical and offer hope for a coming spring. Ran with Scott to the trestle and back. We talked about the Love Supreme arrangement he’s doing for the jazz combo he’s in and how he’s learning a lot about the form of its 4 movements. I talked about my “And” poem and wondered if there was a 3 syllable word that might convey sudden understanding. Scott answered, Eureka! Nice, but not quite the right feel for my poem. I could use clarity, but I don’t want to — clarity is more the mood of the moment that the reader feels without it being spelled out for them, I think.

A mile later, Scott described how you code and in css (where and means both this and that must exist to make a statement true) and how you code or (where or means either this or that can exist to make a statement true). I was fascinated by how and was restrictive and narrowing in the code while or was expansive. In my poem, I’m understanding and as generous and open and allowing for more possibilities not less. I told Scott that I might need to write an or poem now. And is accumulation, more layers while or is a stripping down.

And = all these things can be true, and more
Or = at any give time, any one of these things could be true

Am I getting too far into theory here, trying to be too clever?

Speaking of or in poetry, here’s a great or poem I just found:

Or / Thomas Sayer Ellis

Or Oreo, or
worse. Or ordinary.
Or your choice
of category

        or   
        Color

or any color
other than Colored
or Colored Only.
Or “Of Color”

        or   
        Other

or theory or discourse
or oral territory.
Oregon or Georgia
or Florida Zora

        or
        Opportunity

or born poor
or Corporate. Or Moor.
Or a Noir Orpheus
or Senghor

        or   
        Diaspora

or a horrendous
and tore-up journey.
Or performance. Or allegory’s armor
of ignorant comfort

        or
        Worship

or reform or a sore chorus.
Or Electoral Corruption
or important ports
of Yoruba or worry

        or
        Neighbor

or fear of . . .
of terror or border.
Or all organized
minorities.

And here’s what Robyn Creswell writes about the poem:

There is no doubt that Thomas Sayers Ellis’s “Or,” is a poem, but it is one of the few that feels to me like a rap—an especially good one. This is because of the way it establishes a pattern and then continually breaks away from it. The poem is based on the repetition of or, but as we read through it, what seemed like a formal constraint becomes a principle of transformation, a hinge that keeps flexing. The poem begins, as I read it, by riffing on the either/or logic of identity questionnaires (“You could get with this, or you could get with that,” as Black Sheep once put it, in a different context). But it quickly ramifies into geography, history, poetics.

Thomas Sayer Ellis’ “Or,”/ Robin Creswell

10 Things

  1. Hi Dave! How ya doing? / Well, I’m out here . . . is Dave sick too? (I’m congested but tested negative for covid twice)
  2. a runner in shorts with bare legs
  3. for a few blocks, at the start of the run, the only wind was the wind we made with our moving bodies
  4. June’s white bike hanging from the trestle
  5. bare branches mixed with bright green leaves
  6. a table with an orange water jug set up on top of it — is this for a group run (I didn’t see any group), or for anyone running by?
  7. the long, jagged crack on the new asphalt just past the trestle seems to be growing longer
  8. a trace of smoke smelled on the way to the gorge — from a fire pit or a chimney?
  9. our faint shadows briefly ahead of us
  10. stopping at the bench right above the steep slope — like I did the other day, Scott wondered how long before it fell into the gorge

nov 7/RUN

3.1 miles
trestle turn around
48 degrees

Ran with Scott around 3:30. Love that late afternoon fall light! Soft, with long shadows. Do I remember anything else?

10 Things

  1. lots of leaves on the path
  2. a woman bundled up with a winter cap and scarf
  3. a cute dog — small and brown
  4. the pungent smell of poop as I walked by a woman picking up after her dog
  5. feeling cold as the wind pushed up under my sleeves
  6. no stones stacked on the boulder
  7. the long, lean shadow of a tall tree cast on the road
  8. a quick glance down the wooden steps just past the trestle: bare branches
  9. pale yellow leaves on a tree near the lake street bridge
  10. a big crack and deep hole on the edge of the river road — that’ll pop a tire! (Scott)

And here’s part of a November poem I found in some notes for Haunts. It’s by A.R. Ammons, one my favorite poets:

Configuration/ A.R. Ammons

1

when November stripped
the shrub,
what stood
out
in revealed space was
a nest
hung
in essential limbs

2

how harmless truth is in cold weather to an empty nest

3

dry
leaves
in
the
bowl,
like wings

4

summer turned light into darkness and inside the shadeful shrub the secret worked itself to life

icicles and waterpanes:
recognitions:

at the bottom, knowledges and desertions

5

speech comes out,
a bleached form,
nest-like:

after the events of silence the flying away of silence into speech—

6

    the nest is held
    off-earth

by sticks;

so, intelligence stays out of the ground

erect on a
brittle walk of bones:

otherwise the sea, empty of separations

7

leaves
like wings
in the Nov
ember nest:

wonder where the birds are now that were here:
wonder if the hawks missed them:
wonder if
dry wings
lie abandoned,
bodiless
this
November:

leaves— out of so many
a nestful missed the ground

nov 5/RUN

2 miles
edmund south/river road, north
45 degrees / drizzle

Election day. Read an accurate description of how today feels: like we all are waiting for the results from a biopsy. I’m hopeful.

Did a quick 2 miles with Scott before the rain started. Throughout we felt drizzle but it wasn’t until we reached our alley that it began to rain. Everything gray and heavy. Most of the leaves on the trees have fallen — except for the one in front of our house — full and green. We talked about a color video that Scott had just watched. Texture and wine dark seas and having no names for blue but many for green were discussed.

My favorite view: bare trees means more open air and the other side visible! I admired the tree line on the east side of the river. It gave off the feeling of being a straight line stretching across. Of course, nothing is completely straight for me; it’s all approximation.

10 Things

  1. a cluster of headlights — stuck behind a slow-moving street sweeper
  2. a thick trunk pushing through the bottom of the fence above the ravine
  3. running past Dowling, hearing faint laughter from kids somewhere
  4. the water was a blueish-gray, the sky almost all white with gray smudges
  5. stopping at the overlook, noticing how uneven and slanted the paving blocks have become
  6. a house on the corner, all black or dark green or dark something, no contrasting trim, difficult for me to see anything but a hulking shape or a dark void, absent of color
  7. running past a water fountain and wondering if it was still turned on
  8. the welcoming oaks have lost all of their leaves
  9. passing above the savanna, seeing something white below — was it a hiker in a white shirt or the information sign?
  10. something remembered from yesterday: the sound of chainsaws in the savanna

Working on a section of my haunts poem tentatively titled, And. It’s inspired by a line from the first section: a gap grew/between girl and world. I realized that the and here is the gorge, and it’s more than a gap; it’s the place that be/holds girl ghost here there now then water stone. It’s also the absence around which I orbit. It’s not empty but filled with open air and possibility. Anyway, I was reminded of a Community clip from Troy and Abed:

Here I’m reading Troy’s and as making more space for the story Abed is telling. I love how Donald Glover delivers the ands.

I’m also thinking about this bit from a wonderful Maggie Smith poem:

If I list everything I love

about the world, and if the list
is long and heavy enough,

I can lift it over and over—
repetitions, they’re called, reps—

to keep my heart on, to keep
the dirt off. Let’s begin

with bees, and the hum,
and the honey singing

on my tongue, and the child
sleeping at last, and, and, and—

oct 24/RUN

3.1 miles
duluth lake front
55 degrees

Took a quick drip to Duluth with Scott and FWA. Lots of walking and talking and being by the lake. Great weather! Peak color. Wore shorts and a sweatshirt on our morning run. Ran north (I think?) by the lake, past Leif Erickson park. Lots of short, steep hills. Just before the turn around, I realized that we had had the wind at our backs. Uh-oh. The wind was in our face for the second half. which didn’t really matter because we were running mostly downhill. I said to Scott, can you imagine if the wind had been in our faces as we ran uphill?

The water was almost smooth with no waves. I could hear the rocks gently shivering when the water washed over them. Speaking of shivering, while we were shopping in a kitchen store, FWA and I both overheard an older woman exclaim, wow, it’s shivery in here. It was a little chilly, but shivery?

10 Things

  1. a tiny bird so small I thought it was a dragonfly — a hummingbird?
  2. cooing pigeons near the wall
  3. sparkling water — circles of light on the lake’s surface
  4. no clouds
  5. no big boats
  6. entire trees with orange leaves, a few bushes with slashes of red
  7. a machine across the way making a noise that reminded me of the sound the black monster in Lost made when it was hovering or hunting
  8. so many inviting benches on top of the hill, high above the water
  9. the constant buzz of the hospital helicopter, landing on the roof, then taking off again
  10. a little boy and his older sister on the path — come on, Whitley, it’s time to start our grand adventure!

oct 20/RUN

10.2 miles
downtown loop*
61 degrees / humidity: 70%

*river road trail, north — past the trestle, down franklin hill, in the flats, up the I-94 hill, past the Guthrie and Stone Arch, under Hennepin, over Plymouth, through Boom Island, up to the 3rd avenue Bridge, winding down to river road, heading south.

Warm this morning. Sun, sweat. Wore shorts and short-sleeved shirt. Ran with Scott; we’re running the Halloween Half next Saturday. My legs and lungs were fine, my gut not so much. Unfinished business at mile 6, then again at mile 9. Hopefully I can figure out a way to fix it soon. I remember that Scott talked a lot more than I did, but about what? Music — he subbed for a community jazz band and he’s hoping they ask him to join. I talked about shadows and afternoon moons and my admiration for fit runners and good form — so graceful and pleasing to watch!

We greeted Mr. Holiday — good morning! — and encountered a few roller skiers. We also encountered Vikings Fans between Stone Arch and Hennepin. Enjoying the nice weather before the game, I guess. I heard train bells and some biker calling out to the other bikers he was with: we’re going to whip down this hill. I sang to Scott, whip it good! The steps up from St. Anthony Main to the 3rd Avenue bridge were tough, but the view of downtown was amazing. I mentioned Spirit Island to Scott, which is the sacred Dakota Island that was quarried by white settler colonists, then removed by the Army Corps of Engineers, and we wondered where it had been exactly (south of the Locks and Dam).

Looking up where Spirit Island was in relation to Stone Arch and the 3rd avenue bridge, I found a brief article that mentioned how the island had bald eagles and spruce trees, In my poem, I say the trees are oaks — did I remember it wrong, or were there spruce and oaks? To be safe, I’ll change it in the poem:

Among eagled spruce,
rock by sacred rock
hauled off in horse-drawn
carts, few records of
where. Not gone, scattered,
displaced, their origin
as island erased.

11 Things

  1. the shadows of the railing on the Plymouth bridge — straight, sharp
  2. the bright, sparkling water at the edge of Boom Island
  3. the railing shadows at another spot on the bridge — the shadows they cast on the sidewalk made me think the sidewalk was broken
  4. the pattern of the shadows of a chain-link fence — sharp but soft, geometric
  5. 2 shirtless runners passing us, running past and fluidly, their feet bouncing up down up down, spending more time in the air than on the ground
  6. rowers, 1: the voice of a coxswain giving instructions
  7. rowers, 2: an 8-person shell on the river
  8. slashes of deep red leaves from the bushes beside the path
  9. the quick suggestion of an afternoon moon: a flash of white in the bright blue sky. Was it the moon or a cloud? I checked with Scott: the moon!
  10. a sour smell rising from below: sewer gas
  11. falling leaves! reds and yellows, fluttering in the wind — sharp, brittle, hitting my cap hard

Earlier this week, RJP and I took an overnight trip to Red Wing and stayed at the old/haunted hotel, the St. James. It was wonderful — the hotel more than the town. As part of it, we hiked up the bluff — He Mni Can-Barn Bluff. A great view of Red Wing and the river, and a good workout! 90 minutes of ascending and descending. We saw a Vikings cruise, 5 stories tall, docked at the river. RJP looked it up: an 18-day cruise from St. Paul to New Orleans, $12,000 per person. Wow. The next day, at a bakery getting doughnuts and coffee, we overheard a woman ask for a Trump cookie. Yes, they were selling cookies that spelled out Trump with icing. They also had Harris cookies. RJP said that there were more Harris cookies left. We were both disturbed by the idea that someone would want to buy a Trump cookie and that a bakery would be selling them.

oct 6/MARATHON

26.2 miles / 5:35:27
twin cities marathon
50 degrees

I did it! It was hard. I was slow, but I did it. And I smiled and sometimes felt strong and had a deep love for everyone else out there — racers and spectators. I never thought of quitting, even though I knew it was going to be a long day when, at mile 11, I had to use the port-a-potty and felt like I might pass out (a combination of constipation and failing to drink enough water in the first 10 miles, I think).

I never cried or neared my breaking point which, as I write this the next morning, is a little disappointing. It’s been a very difficult fall — one kid deferring their first semester of college, the other shutting down in their last year of college. I was hoping to have a big moment of release. It never came. What held me back? I never allowed myself to push closer to my physical limits. If it felt too hard, I walked.

Uh oh. Writing about my disappointment, then talking to Scott about it, I realized something: I want to do another marathon. I want to dig deeper and break down that wall I’ve built around myself — the one that keeps everyone and everything at a (slight) distance. I want another chance to figure out my fueling and my pooping and to not be afraid that my body will fail me.

I am proud of myself and this accomplishment. And I’m grateful to have made it to start and finish line. And, wow, what a beautiful marathon course!

26 Things: a-h*

*Instead of creating a very long entry with all 26 marathon things, I’ve decided to break it up over several entries.

asphalt. For the first half of the race, the road was cracked and cratered and rutted. A few of the biggest holes were marked with bright orange or green spray paint. The asphalt was the worst at Bde Maka Ska.

brrr. The weather was wonderful during the race, but chilly before it started. So much wind! Most people had on extra sweatshirts that they planned to donate at the start line — me too. A few brave runners were in tank tops. Even with extra layers, it was cold. A woman ahead of me in the port-a-potty line who was wearing running tights and a running jacket was violently shaking.

caboose. I was not at the very end of the race — I finished ahead of 450 people — but I was near the end. The winner finished in 2 hours and 10 minutes. I finished in 5 hours and 37 minutes. That’s a long time for people to be out on the course cheering. The spectators were still amazing, but I could tell the energy was not at its highest level. In the last few miles I noticed people leaving the course, their signs tucked under their arms. Walking through the finish area, volunteers were packing up and most of the food was already gone.

dogs. Some spectators brought dogs. The only dog I recall seeing was a GIANT ball of black fur asleep next to a guy sitting in a lawn chair on the edge of the road. I do remember hearing lots of runners calling out, dogs! or puppies! or your dog is so cute! or hi, puppy!

electrolytes. At the hydration stops, you could grab a cup of water or a cup of electrolytes. Almost always, I grabbed water, but once I foolishly grabbed electrolytes. Yuck! Not sure why, but I was expecting something that would taste like Gatorade. It did not. It tasted like salt water and made me feel sick.

finish line. Miles 22-25ish are on Summit, high above the capitol. For the last stretch, you run down a hill, the finish line in sight. You’re almost there!, people were calling out, you can see the finish line! Yes, I could see the finish line, but it didn’t feel like I was almost there. It looked so far away, and it was, until it wasn’t, and I was done and Scott was waiting there for me.

glimping. After the race, I mentioned to Scott that I would probably be limping the next day (yep, I am), and he thought I said “glimping” which led us both to try and imagine what glam limping (think, glamping but for limps) might look like.

hat. At the beginning of the race, we were following behind a guy in a pink hat. He looked relaxed and smooth and Scott said, look for the chill guy in the pink hat and run like him. We were near him until Bde Maka Ska, but lost track of him when he stopped to use the port-a-potty.

oct 5/RUN

1 mile
river road, north to loons coffee
56 degrees

A final shake-out run before tomorrow’s marathon with Scott. My left hip is still a little tight/sore, but I’m believing it will be okay, especially once I warm up and run more miles. It’s supposed to be windy — 15+mph. When Scott mentioned this I replied (and with no sarcasm), great! I can recite some of my favorite wind poems while we run! I am the wind and the wind is invisible. All the leaves tremble, but I am invisible.

Yesterday we picked up our bibs and shirts at the expo and the line to go through security was ridiculously long, stretching the entire length of the River Center then curving through 2 hallways. Scott panicked and briefly wanted to rage quit the line (and the marathon!), but I remained calm and a nice guy behind us started commiserating with us about how long the line was. Scott got over it and the line started moving. Even with the long line, it only took us 15 minutes to get in. Whew!

I am nervous and excited and ready to push at my limits. To be broken open and find out how I respond. To feel grief and delight and wonder and whatever else 26.2 miles will pull out of me.