I started out writing a race report, one filled with excellent fart jokes and jabs at Al Trautwig and his overwrought narration. I wanted to tell you about the blasted moonscape in the middle of Henderson’s gated communities, of the way broth tastes like God’s own lifegiving breath around hour seven of a nine-hour-day, of the gorgeous painted desert and the lake that heaved like the San Francisco Bay, about the chatty woman from Claremont who drafted off me, about the excellent volunteers, about running down that chute to the finish line like I was the reincarnation of Krishna, Bruce Jenner and Jesus Christ.
But none of that will do, because I want to hang onto this chunk of self-doubt and pain and wondering what it all means. Someone else can write the race report, someone else can make the cute shout-outs, someone else can reel off his story of the Silverman Half. This one’s mine. I’m sure I’ll tell you all about it one day, but not today. This story’s for me.