Determination
WHITE snow, two feet deep, as far as the eye can see. Cutting right through the middle is a small, cleared path. It’s straight as an arrow into the horizon. Along the path are little orange flags every five hundred metres or so. You can only see a few of them as they are quite small.
Off in the distance, a black dot. A big exhale. The hot air billows out against the blue, icy winter sky. Steam follows a man like a vapour trail. The snow is crunching under the force of his electric yellow shoes, and the pace is like a metronome, always on point and never missing a beat.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Exhale.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Inhale.
The man is slender, but you can barely tell under what looks like three layers of clothes and a balaclava. All black except for the electric yellow gloves and armband, to match the shoes, of course. His facial hair is slightly overgrown. Not a beard but rather a long stubble. Adorning his chest is a giant eighty-eight on a square that looks pinned on.
Strangely, his eyes shut for two or three steps at a time, then open slowly. His feet are moving furiously, but he is completely relaxed, almost meditative. The black dot on the horizon is now more visible. It’s another runner, and the gap shrinks with every step.
With a flurry of energy, the pace quickens and his stride lengthens. The black dot is now right in front of him. A few quick jump steps and it is as if the other runner was frozen in place by the frigid winter air.
A glance back reveals someone fading and a vast white plain of snow. Nothing else. No other black dots. Alone again, just the way he likes it. His pace slows back to his metronome, and his mind fades away to another place.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Exhale.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Inhale.
