Racing to the Starting Line

I remember my first marathon.  Because I was a competitor, only against myself, I stood at the rear of hundreds of runners who were competing against time.  I had to strain to see the Starting Line, waiting for the gun to go off.  The first couple of minutes of the run were spent trying to get to the Starting Line so time and the marathon would begin. You could feel the heart beats and energy of hundreds of others racing faster than their legs could ever hope to carry them. Heart beats that would soon settle into the rhythm of solitude, their pounding feet and the ticking of the stop watch.


I was racing against myself, my own weaknesses and fear, my own will that said "I can" and the same will that said "I cannot."  I didn't need a starting gun booming through the air. The sound of the gun exploded when I made the decision one day, to run just a mile, trusting the Starting Line would be there.


Why the picture of an old barn standing out in the mesa's plateau and a worn dirt path? Even though I cannot see the Starting Line, and feel somehow I am now racing against myself and time, a reminder, a thread, a whisper that someone, another presence was here, no matter the solitude of the run or time.... it whispers, "I'm still here."  The Starting Line.