There's a number that's been rattling around inside my head --- 502. That's the number of people who started last year's New York City marathon and never made it across the finish line.
All those weeks and months of blood, sweat and tears --- and for one reason or another --- their dreams were dashed.
It rained on Sunday. It was a pretty miserable day. Dark, gloomy skies and a cold, steady rain - probably not the best running weather - but I ran anyway. Central Park was virtually empty --- just a few other hearty souls and me --- plodding along with my iPod, wiping the rain from my glasses. I ran alongside the Metropolitan Museum of Art, up around the reservoir, and bolted up through the North Woods. I hit a spread of loose gravel and that's when it happened. I felt that pain again. Stupid knee.
I really appreciated his honest assessment of my predicament. He said he believed in me - and you know something --- deep down I believe in myself. I'm going to have sore knees and I'll be aching in parts of my body that I didn't even know I had. But that's what happens when you push your body and your mind to the limit.