results:

Here is something I've written in the last couple of days. Some of you may find some familiar refrains (a run is a series of decisions, etc...)

Losing

A run is a series of decisions, questions
that must be answered on the run. Every
second spent in doubt is lost forever,
and that is why there is a constant threat:
that of having a lover and knowing
you could lose her—because one can
not exist without the other. Those lost
seconds bear you on like sideline jeers,
a company that is worse than loneliness.
The moments when you think you’ve lost
her: the sting of the click, the moan
of the dial tone, like one of her friends
giving you a look dirtier than your best
racing socks—they hurt most. The last third
of the race, when the leaders have slipped
away, out of sight over the last hill, left
you to thrash up it, wishing for that
aloneness, is the hardest question. The struggle
to open that coffee shop door, order a tea
you won’t drink because you know
what’s coming—your name too far down
on the results sheet to satisfy your heart—that
is the toughest time to get through. But when
you do, and you see the other runners are all
smiles, because they know you’ve all done something
no one else can do, you can at least be a little bit happy.
When she says she can’t take the risk,
it’s a credit to you because you can, and you do,
every time. It’s good practice, losing.