I am running up a hill, my labored breathing a sign that I'm struggling.  I remember this hill.  Less than two hours ago, I was running down it.  I shared a brief chat with the heavy-footed woman running next to me.  

"I bet this is easier on the way down," I say.

"Yeah.  This one will really get you on the way back."

She is a pleasant woman.  My guess is that she's a decade or so my senior.  She says that she has run this half-marathon several times.  

"I learn something every time," she comments.

Eventually, I pull away from her.  I suspect that I will see her again.  I know that my pace is too fast.  I know that I will pay for it later.  I decide to ignore strategy.  I decide, instead, to enjoy the feel of running and feeling strong.  I don't particularly care that I am knowingly making a rookie mistake.

At the last water station, the woman passes me.  I recognize her thundering stride a moment before she goes by.  She says something encouraging.  We have about three miles to go.  I mumble something to myself about "run, Forrest, run," and I keep her in my sights.

I want to drop into a walk.  I would drop into a walk, but the nice heavy-footed lady is just in front of me and somehow that motivates me to keep running.

My world has narrowed to her shoulders and my breath.  She is ten yards in front of me, then five.  My heavy breathing is punctuated by expletives.  I never get any closer, but I keep running anyway until I reach the finish.  You learn something in every race.

Expiration.  Inspiration.