I tweaked my back at boxing yesterday: I knew when it happened, but I didn't stop like I probably should have. We were between rounds on the heavy bags, doing some sort of squat-thrust-burpee-frog-leap thing. Right between my shoulders--a heaviness that spread throughout the middle of my back, almost seeping into my ribs. I started thinking about when I first started not stopping. I was young: maybe ten years old. Maybe it's because I have a twin brother, and I always wanted to be as good as him. Maybe it's because I just learned that keeping on is sometimes easier than stopping. In college I ran most of a cross country season on a broken foot, including the state championship, in a singlet and shorts on a 25-degree, windy day. That day sucked. My dad was there, and my aunt, who both drove hours to see me. I ran poorly: like, really bad. But I did it. After 20+ years of running and racing and achieving not-so-impressive challenges, I'm finally to the point of resolving to only push myself for myself. I'm resolving to do the thing I've been doing all along, but in a different way. Not for a medal or a status, or a thing to brag about. New York City is obsessed with being seen: they'll pay hundreds and hundreds to essentially have a t-shirt that proves they paid hundreds and hundreds. So maybe I'll run my fastest x-distance this year: hopefully I'll break all my own records; but only so I come home and unlace my shoes and say, "I did it."