I just want to stay in it.

I want to stay in the sport. I don’t want anything else.

Not running. Resting. And not tying my shoes. The times when I feel most separate, and most alienated. This is when I become most scared.

I need to return a state of suffering. Something even my last 20 miler can’t emulate. It is when the finish line is another 9 miles away. And you’re licking your fingers for whatever GU or juice or sodium is left. It’s then that I become who I am.

Manchester isn’t a race. It’s a war.

It’s peeling myself off the pavement after crashing at 22mph on a 90 degree turn. Its never wanting to move for the next week. It’s trying to run through rain and mud on a dented hip and dysfunctional ligaments. For the sake of something I call Cross Country.

It’s beyond a goal. It’s a renewal.

People drown. They crash. They fall apart. The wheels come off.

But you have to find trust. If you can’t trust something, you shouldn’t be out there. You just shouldn’t expect things that aren’t built for.

It’s a funny feeling to walk off a race course, covered in salt and pebble and skin, and never feeling better.

To cross a finish line… after never wanting to get up from the tar. Never wanting to move out of the road. Never wanting to move. People need to be inspired. I need to be inspired. And I need to leave nothing on the tar but my shadows.

Something got me off that wet asphalt. It wasn’t the cop. It wasn’t the volunteers. And it certainly wasn’t the cyclists Zipp wheels screaming by my body as I crawled over to the corner. But I got up.

I’m going to continue to get up. And come November, I’m not going back down.

Don’t Stop Moving.