Week two started well.
My spirits were high.
My midsection held proof that I was working towards a goal.
I was feeling good about things.
I’m on the road, I thought to myself.
I was my usual jovial self.
Cracking wise and making light of our sweaty, pain-enriched environment.
Feeling good.
A nice, warm contentness enveloped me.
The finish line is far, but I am making good progress.
I didn’t push my hardest.
I didn’t bleed passion.
But my effort was apparent.

Then someone went and stole my overcoat of complacency.
Turns out, it’s cold in that gym.

As I finished up, my attention shifted to my trainer.
My mentor.
He was quietly stretching out his chiseled frame.
It was an odd sight at nearly closing time.
I watched as he warmed up.
Throwing punches at the cold night air.
His face was void of expression.
A blank page.
His eyes, however, shown the fire of one thousand burning suns.

He had already done his training for the day hours before.
There was no fight in his future.
No goal to work towards.
Just the fire for this sport we love.
He just couldn’t leave without hitting the bag a bit longer.
Perfecting form for the sake of perfecting it.

That’s when it hit me.
There is no finish line.
I am not running towards a determined goal.
I am running in search of something.
There are no breaks for water or rest.
Only the run.
Only the hunt.

Run Forever.

-Drew