Flying

After the pain: the legs pushing harder, breath sharp and ragged, muscles that beg me to quit, after the pain that seems interminable ends, there is something else.

There is flight.

My legs rotate like pedals attached to a wheel racing down a steep hill; they circle faster and faster without effort. I pass over the ground like a helicopter, legs whirring like a blade as I finish that final lap.

My arms pump by my sides, backandforthbackandforthbackandforth, my hands open up, loose fists leftover from a slower pace releasing, fingers reaching toward the future, my whole body stretching forward into space.

I tuck my head down and my breath comes quickly now hoowhoohoowhoohoowhoo. I'm not cold anymore.

I am effortless.

There is pain. But then there is flight.