How much is still left

This is the end of the world, she thinks. This is the worst thing that could happen to me. I should never have started. I should instead have taken a beginner’s course embroidery and knitting. Then I would have sat quietly on a chair in front of the fireplace. I would have listened to relaxing music; I would have drunk a glass of wine. I would have been content. Maybe even happy at times.

She lies on the wet road surface. When she moves her ankle, it feels like someone is stabbing her foot with a knitting needle. The athletes are walking to her left and right. Behind the barriers are rows of spectators. They are staring fixedly at the sportspersons. No one seems to pay attention to her situation. As if she is a discarded water bottle, a forgotten sweatband. She does not care. The thing that occupies her mind is the knowledge that it is over.

The start went excellent. Exactly as she had hoped. She immediately got into a good rhythm. She found a group of men and women with whom she completed the first ten kilometres with playful ease. Then she decided it was time to accelerate. She left the group behind her. In hindsight, had she been too overconfident? Had she been too cocksure, too smug on her own ambitions?

But she felt incredibly strong. She kept a constant eye on the GPS tracker. Nothing indicated that anything was going wrong. Her pace was on schedule, as were her heart rate and breathing. She had enough food with her. Sports drink, bananas, energy gels.

Halfway through the classic distance, she was ahead of the planned finish time. She had decided to run under five hours. The terrain was quite hilly. And she knew that the last few kilometres would also be uphill. She believed that this day would be exceptional. Everything in her wanted this. Everything also seemed to indicate that she would break her own record. During this race of all times! She flew over the smooth asphalt. Unapproachable and invincible. Was this why she had once decided to run marathons?

How different she had felt when she was still in high school. Back then, she did everything but flying. During gym classes, her footsteps echoed through the large sweaty room. She was not plump, she was not fat. She was roly-poly. She was shapeless. Like a stubborn hippopotamus, like a headstrong elephant.

During her teenage years, she did not care about any of it. She said. While her sisters and friends did everything they could to look beautiful, attractive, graceful, she bought stylish clothes, avoided make-up and ate everything she liked. And that was a lot.

Of course, there was much more to it. Her indifference, her nonchalance was her way of not being hurt. Of not being rejected. She was terrified of this. She was disgusted by the idea that people would not like her. That she would be ridiculed. So, it was better to be ahead of everyone. She would give everyone a reason to laugh at her, to ridicule her. Then she would know where she stood.

Her plumpness, her shapelessness, her colourlessness, gave her clarity. She knew who she was. She had certainty about what was in store for her. In this way, she never had to worry about whether anyone liked her. Or found her attractive. She did not have to get involved in the battle of who was the class favourite. Because the result of this contest was known beforehand. She finished last.

But at night in bed, she dreamed about it. To be the queen, the princess. To be chosen. To meet her prince on a white horse. And instead of plump, shapeless, she was slim, beautiful, funny, and graceful. When she walked by, people looked at her with admiration. And people whispered softly in amazement. What a beauty, what a dazzling splendour, what an enchanter.

When she woke up, the fairy tale was over. She did not dare to look at herself in the mirror. Thoughtlessly, moody, and disgruntled, she got dressed to go to school every morning. And there they accepted her. Like you accept an internet outage. Or leaking roof. And in the meantime, life passed her by. Where others laughed, had fun, fell in love, she was hidden in her clumsy, ungainly body.

Everything changed when she went to college and moved to the city where the university was located. She discovered how much fun it was to learn new things. She made friends. And she decided to start exercising. She could be found in the gym every week. Trap bar deadlift. Abdominal air bike. Jumping Jack. Dumbbell lunge.

She also joined a running group. She started off cautiously. Five kilometres every month. But running gave her a taste for more. Before she knew it, she was training for the marathon.

No matter what she tries, no matter how well she starts to look, the dark period in high school continues to live in her body like a sarcastic dictator. It seems like – regardless how she has changed, how she has reorganized her life – that she can never get away from her origins, her background. With every compliment, with every race won, she hears the voice of her despot. ‘Despite everything, you are and will remain a clumsy, shapeless creature. Ha-ha!’

Until three months ago, when she learned that a marathon would be held in her hometown. She immediately understood the opportunities this offered. She would finally be able to take her revenge. Finally, she was given the opportunity to show the new version of herself, to manifest her present-day persona.

Needless to say, she trained even more. The idea of ​​the marathon in the place where she was born and raised brought out a strong enthusiasm and excitement in her. She doubled her training times. She went to the gym twice a week. She bought new running shoes.

At night, she began to dream of the ultimate test of strength. She saw her classmates watching her walk past in amazement. Wondering about her gracefulness, stylishness, agility. And where her former friends had changed into unattractive, anonymous, and mindless residents of the neighbourhood, she shone like a brand-new, original, and cheerful athlete. While her former fellow citizens wasted away in their dull, musty houses, she personified someone who still had a very inspiring life ahead of her. An existence full of adventures. Something others might be jealous of.

A sprained ankle. That is her own quick diagnosis of the annoying injury. It is clear. She cannot go on. The only thing left at this moment is for the ground to sink beneath her and for her to disappear into a silent, merciful black hole. But she gets up, stumbles to the barriers. To remember that she parked her car at the finish. How does she get to that spot – without walking?

There is nothing else to do but to stumble, to trudge, to waddle the last ten kilometres to the final destination. Where in her mind she would be racing over the course like a young doe, the opposite is now the case. Like a lame deer she slogs towards her hometown. Step by step, bit by bit. At this pace it is very doubtful whether she will be in the place of destination before midnight.

What will people think when she must complete the last kilometres? When the public is standing in rows along the route? What will her old friends think? They will see confirmation. They will be strengthened in their idea of ​​her. How clumsy she was. How shapeless, how fat. But also how failed, how exhausted, how dilapidated. And how pointless it is to start a new life. Another existence detached from her roots, her birthplace. How arrogant it is to think that you can become someone else. In the end you discover that you are who you were. And that you cannot escape that fate. No matter how much you practice, train, study.

The shame, the anger, the disappointment hangs around her like a worn-out coat. Strangely enough, she forgets the sharp pain of her sprained ankle. She sees the finish line hanging. The sun has already disappeared behind the apartment buildings, the offices, the shops.

Only then does she hear the spectators. How they cheer, clap, scream, encourage her. Some even walk with her. Through her tears she sees the looks in the eyes of the bystanders. People recognize her. People understand the struggle, the pain. And her perseverance. She is one of them. Clumsy, weak. But also. Relentless as the morning rain, fearless as the evening sun.