IMA. GINA A LONE FIGURE EMERGING FROM A SEA OF competitors, head tilted back slightly, limbs driving them forward like the pistons of a level, legs churning the earth below with long, rhythmic strides. Some runners bounce, some plod, and some lean, shoulders first, as if forcing themselves through a wall. This runner glides.
Now imagine their hands covered in blood. It curls up their forearms and leaves a trail of droplets on the pavement as they hammer one 5:40 mile after another. If they move fast enough, they might escape the metallic smell.
In reality, there is no blood. There is only the blur of screaming spectators, the backs of competitors yet to be caught and passed, the clock perched above yet another finish line, signaling to the runner…
