My first ever full marathon race is just a few hours away—the moment of truth is almost upon me, and with some weird sequence of events, I am relaxed and calm—much like a calm before the storm. This calm is both a blessing and a curse—I get to rest my weary body and prepare for the imminent battle, and a curse that I do not have any distractions from thinking what may happen. I feel that this would be the first time I’d truly run a race. I wouldn’t just push the boundaries my body has set, nor battle the tricks that my mind may play on me during the ordeal—I’d also be having a skirmish against time, that is if I am to reach the apex of this marathon’s aspiration: to be eligible for the finals. I do not know what lies ahead. I do not know if I can reach my target. I do not even know if I am physically able enough to accomplish my goals. All I know is that in a few hours I’ll be off to face the race that I fear most and give everything I got—be it glorious or ignominious only God knows. And may He give me that day.