Training

“Joy to you—we’ve won.”

—Pheidippides

I run on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, always 
Saturdays, when the press of the day ahead 
lessens. I run with my headphones

on low so I’ll know when a man 
approaches. I keep my pace steady, try
to keep my breath slow when the hushed car

rolls slowly alongside me. For miles, my eyes 
are horse, not human, turning side
and more side to catch first what is trying

to catch me. I wish to run alone, to hold
the forest fog against me like a friend, I wish 
to lose myself but not be lost. I am never

alone. I run with the men and their own 
rhythmic breath, their own desire
to feel and feel better, to fight

their own sense of oblivion. The men climb 
the trees, crowd paved streets, they lower 
their hat brims at each lamplit corner. Do

they see I run with ghosts? Do they see 
the fog of bodies tugging me like a draft? 
We are all ambitious interns, smiling

undergrads, fit investment bankers 
whose history of running may end up 
helping save us. We are all newly

engaged, disappointed with our difficult 
fathers, we all love the bright gloss
of the city at night. We keep training

for some future race, spectral
relay team, silenced cheering section. 
Do the men hear our collective panting

and mistake it? Let there be no further 
misunderstanding: We are heralds, 
hemerodromes, knowingly awaiting

the morning we will be asked
to run for days, naked, tasked only
with delivering the news we were given.

Read more from Issue 19.1.