Maybe this time…

Nineteen minutes… It has become my four-minute mile, my El Dorado, my white whale. Every time I peek through my apartment’s solitary window, I see the trail up the “M” hill that presides over the town, unmoving and unmoved. Its serenity taunts me.

Someday soon, the stars will align. A light snow will cover all of the icy patches. A tailwind will hasten my every step. My footing will be sure and my gait strong. The trees will come and go just a little bit faster. The hill will feel just a little bit smaller. I’ll reach the last switchback where the wooden bench finally comes into view, and my watch will read 18:15…18:16…18:17. With renewed but restrained hope, I’ll charge ahead. Each second will remove another pound from my pack until I’m racing, weightless, against the clock, against myself. I’ll reach the bench at the top of the hill – the man-made reminder of failure after failure – and check my watch with the same innocent enthusiasm as each time before; only this time, I won’t be disappointed. “18:56,” it will read.

Lo, the City of Gold!

I’ll ditch my headphones, and Van Halen [Read More]