There’s a fire burning inside me. It stretches from the bottom of my chest and rises out through my mouth in ugly breathless pants. Sweat drips from my forehead onto my front, turning the light blue of my t-shirt a deep shade of navy. My legs are squealing in protest but still I push them on. You can do this, a forceful voice yells from inside my head. Don’t give up, it encourages. It offers a counter message to every other part of my body that is telling me to stop.
With every step I take I am closer to my goal. My legs move on automatic pilot as if they know there’s a job to be done and are intent only on finishing it. My surroundings pass by in a blur of greens and browns because I am focused only on going forwards. Nearly there, that voice calls out again. Who is this motivator that has climbed inside my head because it certainly doesn’t feel like me?
The air is thick and clammy. Was it really this warm earlier in the day? It is as though I am fighting my way through the stuffiness, arms flailing, legs stomping. It is just another hurdle in this self-inflicted race. Come on, the voice inside roars, as my end point comes into view.
It isn’t far. A few meters. You’re nearly there! The voice is like a thousand spectators at a sports match. The fire inside rages. My legs wail in defeat. Then, as I stumble over the finish line, it all comes to a startlingly abrupt end. I imagine a ribbon torn in half by the body that stumbles through it. The crowd cheers. The commentators yell. In reality, an oblivious dog walker is the only witness to my accomplishment. They walk on, swerving by the sweaty body on the pavement.
My body feels an immediate release as the pace slows and I grind to a halt. I wipe the sweat from my forehead and grab air in thick, greedy mouthfuls. I stop to crouch on the ground even though every coach I’ve met has said this the worst thing to do after a race. It is over, but have I done it? I look at my watch. It has stopped precisely on the 5-kilometer benchmark and flashes 25 minutes 38 seconds in big bold numbers. It’s a personal best.
It’s an ordinary Tuesday night when I pull of my greatest running feat but it has taken three years of Tuesday night runs to bring me to this point. What once started as a way to release pent-up energy from a 9-5 job turned into a passion, and then an obsession, as I found ways to push my body step by forceful step. Like a compulsory runner’s "to-do" list, I checked off the 10k, the half marathon and the coaching qualification. Now, though, all I crave is speed.
The first time I put on my trainers and dashed out the front door for a jog, I was oblivious to the commitment I was about to make. On that first journey, I made it to the end of a nearby street before coming to a breathless stop. The idea of PBs and races seemed foreign – for someone else to invest in but not at all for me. Yet, Tuesday after Tuesday I put in jog after jog and suddenly those goals didn’t seem so alien. Gradually, I even came to call myself a runner.
Now a huge grin settles on my face as the scale of my accomplishment settles in. Whoever phrased the term "runner’s high" was not wrong. My elation, I imagine, matches what any drug could offer. I almost laugh out loud with happiness, stopping only out of fear that I might get some concerned looks from passers-by. As I slowly win back my breath, the voice inside calls out again. You did it, it says, calmer now.
Slowly I ease myself up off of the ground and begin to stretch off my legs. I pull at my hamstrings and my calves, easing out the tension that has built up in the last 30 minutes. I move slowly and with care, appreciative of my body and all that it’s managed to do tonight. As I move, I watch another runner approach in the distance. The steady thud of their footsteps and the pained expression on their face becomes sharper as they gradually get closer. When they pass by, I offer an enthusiastic grin. Maybe it will help them through. Maybe, I think to myself, this little gesture of encouragement will see them through to a personal best.
Lazily, I begin the slow jog back to my house. I am a different runner now that the fire has been doused and the main goal complete. I plod by great Elm and Oak trees. I glance in the windows of quiet homes. Now that I finally have my breath back, I even pass a greeting to other people out enjoying this mild Tuesday night. Soon I am back at my front door and I swing it open announcing my presence with a new burst of energy.
'How was your run?' comes the call from inside and I grin.
'I got a PB!' I yell back excitedly.