A bird tried to fly a bit today. Just a bit. At first, some of its feathers wouldn't cooperate, but some in flight preening was all the adjustment needed. Good job! Hope set in. A muscle here and there needed more coaxing, but a flex here and a stretch there did the trick. Excellent application of knowledge!
The bird suddenly heard the taunting whisper of a wing muscle and knew the flight could only be short. It flapped as best as it could, wondering why it left the nest. Other birds flew higher and soared, yet this one began planning for a gentle landing. It wondered if it was even designed to fly. Then it began to believe it was not a bird at all.
The bird's breath choked sorrowfully in its throat and the heights it had achieved in this short flight, beautiful as they were, became dim and forgotten as the ground slowly approached. The landing was executed perfectly, delicately, yet the bird only began to plan it's new life, safe on the ground.
Sitting in my car, maybe thirty minutes past the finish line. I should be happy with my success.
I feel like shit. My hip flexor hates me. I don't know anyone here, and I want to go home and bury my face in my pillow. These people are real runners. I'm a farce.
Why did I step aside to let people pass me? Why do I always quit so easily? Why don't I go out there with the other finishers enjoying their breakfast tacos? surely i can muster a big fake smile on my face and chat about things as if they matter. I can pretend to laugh.
I made my 1:20 goal. Why do I feel fat and unfit? I don't know.
I do know that I feel like I don't belong.
Key in the ignition and I want to drive away. I can't yet; I have an important promise to keep.