Press Tour

one

One week until Press Tour

My lungs burn to the point of collapse but I continue to push myself. Old North Road takes me three minutes to run from one end to the other, but I set my challenge of the day to get it down to two and a half minutes instead. My calves are screaming and the healed shin splints from last year's running obsession are itching under the surface but I don't stop. I can't.

Between the state of pushing my body to its absolute limit and actually meeting that limit is a comforting bliss of absolutely nothing. No energy or roaming thoughts enter my head. It's the only time I can fully breathe, even with my breaths coming out labored. On the brink of what feels like death, I find peace in the numbness of it all.

I can see the stop sign up ahead, its bright red eight sides a enticing finish line.

Just.

A.

Little.

More.

The second my sneakers cross the invisible line I've drawn for the past three hundred and sixty-five days, I give in to my body coming to a stop, breathing in mouthfuls of air. I'm dripping in sweat, the onslaught of the summer heat making my hair stick to my neck. I'm uncomfortable and starving but I've finished my goal for the day.

I used to hate running, absolutely hated it. I could never keep up with my friends during gym class in high school during the mile. I blamed it on my lack of exercise and my then larger pant size than all my friends, but it was never that. I just hated it, and when I hated things I'd make an entirely too big of a deal about it.

Now I'm twenty-five years old, running from my own mind and hating my own body all over again. The only thing is this time I've dropped a few pant sizes from highschool thanks to my consistent obsession with running, something I used to hate. A sinking feeling of dread pools in my gut, reminding me to schedule another appointment with my therapist.

I reach down to my toes, stretching out the aches and tightness. My skin is blotchy and sticky with sweat but it feels good to feel out of control. I've always loved that feeling.

"Excuse me." A young voice calls to me, I turn. A small girl with two braided pigtails with beads at the end looks up at me, expectantly. Her hand is in a larger one and I follow the arm up to the man next to her. He smiles shyly.

"Sorry to disturb you, but are you Violet M? My daughter here loves watching Chloe and Me on TV. We were wondering if we could get a quick picture." He looks at me expectantly.

I'll never shake the feeling of anxiety mixed with excitement whenever someone recognizes me. It still feels all a little too surreal and yet I've reminded myself that it's okay to enjoy it.

"Um, is it okay if I just sign something? I'm kind of a mess," I wave to my sweaty self. There was more to why I didn't want my picture taken right now, or anytime. I tried my best to stay out of the light this year, I tried my best to avoid paparazzi but the random few still found their way in.

"Yes, of course." The dad steps forward, dropping his daughter's hand. He reaches behind him, bringing out his wallet. I look down at the too-cute-for-this-world young girl, crouching to meet her eyes. "And what's your name?" I smile hoping to ease the nervous look on her face. She lights up at my question.

"Makayla." Her shy eyes follow the movement of my hand as I bring it up to her, palm up. "Can I shake your hand, Makayla?" I ask. She nods her head and places her much smaller one in my waiting palm. We shake hands and I say how nice it was to meet her. Standing up again her father hands me a crumpled-up receipt and a pen.