When I finished my first marathon, I felt like I had cracked the code to human existence. There was no shortage of runs that started with a problem that somehow got resolved over forty-five minutes of pounding the pavement. There were runs when I zoned out and thought of nothing, filling me with rare and unexpected moments of freedom. There were runs fueled by anger at past mistakes, my arms and legs charging forward so fast that I felt as though I were chasing myself, chasing my life.
