She had slowed. I passed without satisfaction. Limited satisfaction. At mile ten, my headphones cut out. The exact problem from the half marathon. For one second, irritation rose. Then I laughed. Of course. I placed them in my vest. The city remained loud enough. Footsteps. Breathing. Music. People calling names written on bibs.
“Go, Amy!”
“Looking strong, Amy!”
“You’ve got this, Amy!”
Strangers believed in the visible portion of me. That was their job. The invisible portion belonged to me. I completed the next walk interval. No one asked whether I was all right this time. Progress in public understanding or a less concerned facial expression. Either was acceptable.
At mile twelve, the second packet waited. I opened it while walking. The gel was exactly the flavor I preferred. The note said:
Fuel before the spreadsheet requests supporting evidence.
I laughed aloud. A runner beside me looked over.
“Good note?”
“Yes.”
“From your partner?”
I answered too quickly and studied the folded paper.
“Yes,” I said.
Not girlfriend. Not ex. Partner remained true in a complicated way. The runner nodded.
“Mine wrote, ‘Don’t be dramatic.’”
“Useful?”
“Not yet.”
We continued together for half a mile. Her name was Keisha.
She had run two marathons and claimed both became “deeply personal arguments with pavement” after mile twenty.
This information was not reassuring. At the mile-twelve support point, Miguel waited with Tessa and Janine. Miguel checked my form from behind the barrier.
“Effort?”
“Six and a half.”
“Pain?”
“Zero knee. General feet two.”
“Fuel?”
“Current.”
“Good. Do not negotiate with the pace.”
“I am not.”
“Your last split was twenty seconds faster.”
My watch confirmed it.
