Billy Kennedy 12/9/2013 Multimedia Writing & Rhetoric Running in Circles What had I gotten myself into?

The date April 21st had been looming on my calendar since Christmas. There was less than a month to go, and I felt unprepared to a point of fear. I found the three-mile races of high school cross country hard enough, so what made me think I could run a marathon? That night I sat on my bed, drowning in a panic of my inability to complete what I had willingly signed up for. The ticking of the clock echoed in my room. Another day had gone by, too busy to find time for training. Among the swamp of paperwork on my nightstand, I shuffled through it all to find an envelope labeled sponsorship money filled with 350. Only a month to go, and I was less than a quarter of the way to collecting the insisted amount of sponsorship money needed to run. I needed money. I needed training. I needed time. I stood up. Sauntering through my room, I gazed out the window. No lights were on in any households. The sound of cars rolling across the outside driveway had diffused hours ago. I had to stay awake and do something to prepare. For not one more day could I say, tomorrow will see it through. I sat down, lifting the screen of my laptop to wake it from its own sleep. The snap of brightness blinded me in the dimly lit room. Asking friends and family for sponsorship money was difficult while they were underway with their routines of work, shopping, eating, sleeping, and checking email. I decided to make my move by finding a way into their routines

their email routines. Slowly, through the night, I crafted my own sponsorship website that I would send to my friends and family. I was to relay my message to 42 households. Every word was typed once, but spoken 42 times. The clicking of the keyboard accompanied me until the send button was hit with a hand doused in sleep.

An ostrich waited in front of me in line to use the bathroom before the race. People dressed in dinosaur suits, wedding gowns, and tandem horse costumes stood out in the crowd against all the runners in bright tops, shorts, and racing numbers safety-pinned to their fronts. The morning dew was still waking up and rising off the grass. In just a few steps from the wet grass to the pavement of the starting line, the roar of excitement jolted me awake instantly. There was a sea of people for as far forward as I could see. I took my place among the mob, squeezing between the crevices of the crowd. There was no reason to even feel my chest; my heart was thumping at an accelerating rate against my ribs. Despite all the tension and volume, an announcement cracked the conversations of the crowd into a silence. The woman standing next to me was having difficulty keeping her hands from shaking. She stared blankly at the floor, while her vibrating hands fragmented her composure. Maybe I was not alone in my fear. Just as quickly as the sound of the mass ceased, the starting gun brought it to life once again. Nerves erupted in me, and my breathing began to grow thick. There was no turning back now.

The soles of shoes slapped the ground like the consistent rain in a storm. The sound became ambience. Whatever nerves were left was channeled into cadence, and as the crowds thinned past the starting line, I began to jog, and then run. The first mile was like jumping into a swimming pool the dip of the toe gave the impression that it was cold and unwelcoming, but once you were in, the water felt fine. Spectators were lined parallel to the unified mass of flowing footsteps, their cheers already overcoming the volume of the voice that boomed through the intercom. With the original apprehension of the race dispersed, I felt relaxed. Maybe it was the occasional street side band that played marching tunes, or perhaps it was the energy of the surroundings and the crowd around me, which I felt I was absorbing. I had just begun the race, but somehow I had the confidence to say, I have the energy to do this. It was a confidence that I had not felt before in my training. Now out of the mayhem of the thick crowd, the third mile was where it began to steadily cruise. The roars of the crowds were now normal, and no longer shocking, as I settled into my new environment. Conserving my energy for the many miles to come, the pace was barely taxing my lungs. At every mile marker, I checked my watch. Eight minutes and four seconds eight minutes and one second seven minutes and fifty eight seconds eight minutes exactly. I was right on schedule. The passing mile markers eased into the thirteenth mile mark while I still maintained my eight-minute mile goal. As I ascended the slope of Londons Tower Bridge, and passing the halfway mark, my breath grew quick, not out of exhaustion, but rather out of fear. I could feel my legs becoming denser, and my

lungs becoming deflated with every stride. It hit me the race was no longer a test of patience, waiting for the scenery to pass with a cruising pace; it was now a test of endurance. As I realized I would have to run what I had just completed once again, but this time with an already worn body, my breathing only became heavier. Pushing to keep up with the pace of the surrounding crowd, I saw some people walking on the sides, while at mile sixteen, one man collapsed on his family, refusing to carry on. The pain was very real for everyone at this point. It was no longer a run, but a race. Each footstep on the asphalt road sent a shock through my shin, vibrating my chest, demanding that it keep breathing. Passing the twentieth mile, I thought to myself how I would do anything to just stop and breath. I was hungry for air as breathing was now a luxury. As the houses of parliament came into view, the crowds only became thicker and denser, with their roars echoing within the narrow streets that snaked to the finish line. Every step mocked my lead-filled legs and flaming lungs as the last mile came to a close. Crowds now cheered for the limp bodies crossing the finish line in front of Buckingham Palace. Running had always been putting one foot in front of the other, just running in circles, but never before had the repetition accumulated so much exhaustion with every step. My heart felt heavy, my senses fleeting, yet the surroundings remained animated. The crowds of people were screaming, forcing me awake from my temptation to just fall to the ground and rest. I spotted a television camera, perched above the crowds. I remembered watching the marathon on television last year, being able to see the runners as they ran down the last 100 meters to the finish line. I thought about myself as a few pixels on a screen just for that moment. My last ounce of energy was used to keep myself standing when a medal was dropped around my neck.

Upon collecting my belongings and checking my phone, I had received a swarm of messages congratulating me on my time. But how did they know that I just finished? One of my teachers, who had seen me running at the sixth mile, noted my race number. He had emailed it to all my friends and family who had helped me raise 1700. They tracked me at every mile throughout the race. They were with me the whole time. Standing among the exhausted bodies who were hugging loved ones, catching their breaths, and admiring the medals around their necks, all that could resonate in my mind was everyone who had tracked me throughout the race. I tried putting myself in their positions, seeing the timestamp on my name among the thousands that participated. Able to see my increasing mile times throughout race, I imagined everyone painting themselves a numerical image of my growing challenge to cross the finish line. The numbers on the small-lit screen did not show others the loss of my breath or the weight of my legs, yet they remained personal, and announced to everyone: I had finished.