I’m wedged into the rush
of other runners surging forward,
falling back.  Hundreds of shoes slap
the pavement in a stampede of sound.
The air is organic with odors of sweat,
perfume, the street.  Concentrated
breathing broadcasts in stereo.  All ears
are tuned in for times called out 
at one mile, two.  My mind is tight,
focused on the goal:
I just want to finish.

Volunteers offer paper cups of water
scooped up by the other racers, 
but not by me.  No distractions, no loss
of momentum.  I crunch across discarded
cups, ignoring my spitless mouth.
Lungs burn, skin stings, legs plead to stop.
One more block, one more block,
my inner-space pep talk.  I round

the corner to the final stretch.  
You can do it!  spectators cheer.  Above
bobbing heads, I can see FINISH bannered
over the street.  Another quarter mile,
and I lunge across that line.
My legs are rubber bands.  My mouth
is a sand dune.  I’m coughing, gasping. 
Even my hands are sweating. 
But if you plugged me in,
I could charge your cell phone.