It’s driving through the dark to watch the sunrise over water.
Standing on the jetty watching as your child gives 100%.
And another 100 more.
It’s cheering until your throat is hoarse –
Even if he cannot hear you.
It’s waiting for hours for a few minutes of glory and pain.
8 minutes. 8 minutes.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
It’s every hope, dream, blister, early morning, late night, aching muscle.
It’s the seamless, beautiful synchronicity of movement.
It’s seconds, milliseconds between
the zenith of ecstasy
And the nadir of despair.
And despite it all – All the hours. All the pain,
Every stroke Is worth it.
Even when it isn’t.
Because after this race.
There is another And another.
To capture a single moment.
Over and over again.
we stand sentinel on the bank.
We wake before dawn.
We bandage those hands, bleeding and raw.
We hold them up when they can’t move another step.
We weep quietly where they cannot see.
For we hear the sound of their hearts breaking
And tomorrow we’ll do it again.