Friday, February 15 (recovery)

Cruised 60 minutes on the infield in prep for tomorrow. Sat at home later, perusing a textbook I don't really need to read.
I love these quiet race night hours, drawn out in long, dangling chain in front of me. I love the grip of anticipation that won't let me quite sit still, and the way it battles with the rational mind that won't let me obsess. Instead I turn my focus to the concrete world of text on a page. The book's immutability and permanence form a wonderful contrast to the looming uncertain future. In my imagination my fortunes the next day wax magnificent and wane again into ignominy. And that's the beauty of it - that no one can predict it, except for that fact that it all rests firmly in my conscious control. When the time comes for me to run, I am finally granted a rare opportunity to assert my selfness, will and ambition, in front of the world in a plain and quantifiable manner. There can be no disputing, after the fact, whether you went for it or crumbled. I'm nervous, but not uncontrollably so, and I want to go.