by 
I’ll never forget the very first day I ran 10 miles, without other reason than to see if I possibly could. Everything about that morning-the weather (just around the fringe of being too warm), the music playing in my earphones (old-school Michael Jackson), even the quantity of times I scolded myself for not bringing water (come on, Blades!)-stands in my mind. I wasn’t practicing a race; I did not have a coach giving me pointers on cadence or breathing. I had been on my own. I did not even have a mapped-out route. It was just a regular run on a Saturday morning. But when I decided to go for 10, the regular of it all began to fall away, and also the day turned into this very definite, sparkling moment when I recognized how strong I had been.
As I cleared mile five and then six, the notion of endurance was a genuine thing I could feel moving through my body system. And as mile seven slid into eight, I began not-so-quietly rooting personally: “I can perform this.” There wasn’t any considered to it, since it was happening, because the finish line was in sight and every fiber of my being knew I’d make it happen.
That 10-miler is among the major causes I still run today. It reminds me in an exceedingly literal way that I’m strong. I can handle the long haul-whether it’s on the road, putting in those miles, or perhaps in life, trying to stay the course on the seemingly endless road of writing a novel. All of it comes back to perseverance. I’m able to do it. I’m able to sustain it. And, most significant, I can make it to the conclusion line.
