It’s early June, and raining. Not a downpour, but that Seattle rain; steady, insistent, yet somehow benign. It leaves a nourishing scent in the air.
I’m on a trail in northern Seattle, partially sheltered by a canopy of leaves that delay the drops as they fall on my shoulders. Rick Rizzs’ voice echoes in my ears and, as my feet beat out a rhythm on the gravel, I make promises.
If I push up this hill, Félix will make it through eight.
If I maintain this sprint they’ll finally score.
If I just keep running, they’ll win.