How competative running is like writing

My heart hammers like it wants out of my body, this prison that has held it captive, tortured and teased, since the 1970s. My muscles are shredded, porous, sponges soaking up lactic acid, slowing my stride. Rising heat accelerates the fire in my belly. Flames lick at my esophagus. I need an antacid. I need water, Wait, no. I am going to throw up. I’m so goddamn thirsty. My feet. There they are down there, throbbing. Is that blood on my shoe? Yep — seeping, spreading like a crimson slow-motion firework. This hurts. What am I doing? Why am I doing it? I might die today. “One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.” George Orwell said that about writing a book. He could have been talking about distance running, one of a number of inexplicable compulsion for which my poor heart has suffered. I keep moving, into perdition, which welcomes me as a dominatrix welcomes her client, the one who pays well to leave bruised and beaten on a wave of agony and endorphins. <a href="https://chughesbabb-32154.medium.com/how-competative-running-is-like-writing-40a207fe6e10">Read More</a>