In February of 2023, just four days after turning the chin-graying age of 37, I ran, so to speak, a 31-mile race up to the highest point in Alabama, USA. This is how I remember it. (Note, the language in this report is not suitable for children.) I could feel my quads shudder and buckle against the slightest decline. They were like my arms whenever I overdo it with the free weights and then try to lift a carton of milk. “They’re blown,” I whispered. Running on blown quads is sort of like driving on a flat tire: You’re carrying around a few dozen pounds of useless shock absorber that keeps going, “Thump – Thump – Thump – Thump,” and you’re left wondering how long it will take until you’ve damaged the rim, which, in this metaphor, might be the hips or knees. I stared at my watch. “3.26 miles,” it said, which meant that I still had 28 miles left. And I remembered something I had overheard on the bus to the beginning of the race: “The hardest part of the course was the last three mil...
Because "also ran" was already taken