The morning alarm buzzed at 4:45 AM, and Sarah Chen didn't hit snooze. Not because she was one of those mythical morning people – she definitely wasn't – but because the manila envelope on her dresser wouldn't let her. The one with the rejection letter from last year's Chicago Marathon lottery, now serving as her makeshift vision board.
(Some people used Pinterest for inspiration. Sarah used spite.)
Her knees creaked as she rolled out of bed, prompting an involuntary groan. At forty-three, every morning reminded her that she wasn't getting any younger. The bathroom mirror revealed yesterday's ponytail had staged a rebellion overnight, and her weather app cheerfully announced it was a brisk 38 degrees outside. Perfect.
"You're ridiculous," her teenage son had declared when she'd started this journey six months ago. He wasn't entirely wrong. She hadn't run since high school track, unless you counted chasing toddlers around the park fifteen years ago. Back then, she'd been too busy building her physical therapy practice and raising Jack to think about personal goals.
Now, with Jack heading to college next fall and her practice running smoothly (ha!), the marathon lottery rejection had sparked something. Not quite a midlife crisis – she preferred to think of it as a midlife awakening.
The first day of training, she'd managed exactly six minutes of running before nearly coughing up a lung. Mrs. Martinez from next door had actually called out, "¿Estás bien, Sarah?" from her morning gardening patrol. Sarah had managed a thumbs up while secretly wondering if one could die from embarrassment.
But she'd gone out again the next day. And the next.
Her running app chirped to life as she stepped outside, the streetlights still glowing. "Starting run," the robotic voice announced, somehow managing to sound skeptical. Sarah adjusted her new running shoes – her third pair this year. The first two had witnessed more blisters than victories, but they'd gotten her this far.
"Morning!" called a familiar voice. Tom Watson, another regular in the pre-dawn running club of crazy people, waved from across the street. His golden retriever, Max, wagged along beside him. Tom had been running this route for years, though Sarah suspected he was more dedicated to the post-run coffee at Beacon Street Cafe than the actual running.
"Big day today," he said as they fell into step. "Twenty miles, right?"
Sarah's stomach churned. Her longest run yet. "If my knees don't stage a mutiny."
They ran in comfortable silence, broken only by Max's occasional happy pants and the rhythm of their feet. The sky slowly shifted from black to purple to the kind of orange that promised heat later. Sarah's mind wandered to the stack of patient files on her desk, the college application essays Jack was procrastinating on, the leak in the upstairs bathroom that—
Her watch buzzed. Mile fifteen.
Everything hurt.
Tom and Max had turned back at mile ten (lucky dog). The sun was fully up now, and Sarah's legs felt like they were made of lead and regret. A group of fresh-faced runners breezed past, chatting about their weekend plans as if running wasn't slowly killing them.
Sarah's phone pinged. A text from Jack: "Did u die yet?"
She managed a smile, typed back: "Not yet. Mile 15."
Three dots appeared, then: "proud of u mom. weird but proud."
Something warm that had nothing to do with exercise spread through her chest.
Mile eighteen brought an unexpected companion – doubt. It settled in like an unwanted houseguest, whispering about warm beds and Netflix marathons instead of actual marathons. Sarah's pace slowed to barely above a walk.
That's when she saw her.
An elderly woman, probably in her eighties, carefully tending to a riot of chrysanthemums in her front garden. Her hands shook with age, but each movement was precise, purposeful. She looked up as Sarah shuffled past, smiled, and called out, "Beautiful morning for believing in yourself, isn't it?"
Sarah blinked back sudden tears. Nodded. Kept moving.
The last mile was a blur of burning muscles and negotiations with various body parts. When her watch finally buzzed twenty, Sarah stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, hands on her knees, breathing hard.
She'd done it.
A notification popped up on her phone – an email from the Chicago Marathon.
Subject: Congratulations! Your 2024 Application Status
Sarah laughed, still catching her breath. It didn't matter what it said anymore. She'd already proven something to herself, one mile at a time.
(Though she opened it anyway. Sometimes determination wears running shoes, and sometimes it wears a smile of quiet victory.)
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