These legs don't know you

It's easy to be afraid around here. You could get lost if you wanted to. You could lose your way until it becomes night and the space between the trees loses light faster than the sky. You would look for the whites and you wouldn't find them.

You could be all of these things.

I set out to run the farthest distance I've ever done. Eight miles, my version of the ultra-marathon. Rain quickened on the windshield and all of the school kids darted into cars on their way out of practice, looking like people I've known. I thought about bailing. Nah. I'll do it.

Around three miles I wasn't feeling so hot, and again at six, and then six-and-a-half onwards I became very hungry. I zoned in and out of the running and the stories I tell myself. Stories that have happened and stories that I want to happen, maybe.

At sixty minutes, the watch ran out of time. It reset to zeros and ran back up again.

When I finished, I thought I'd feel exhausted, or exhilarated. Instead I felt dazed. I walked on the bends around the trees, not sure where to go but still moving. My legs were all light. Two things that fizzled away under my hips. If I stood still long enough, the wind might pass through them.