Turn 164 of 233

Congratulate Sina on a great run. Check in on Kino. He says won

Lena is standing in the parking lot and the standing is the thing she does at the end of thirty-four miles and the standing is what she does when Sina is still bent over breathing. The sun is full now and the full is the thing that turns Sina's brown skin gold and the gold is the sweat and the sweat is the thing that catches the light on a body that ran thirty-four miles barefoot and naked and the naked is the thing Sina chose today. Lena walks to her and the walking is slow and the slow is not because her legs are tired. The slow is the pace of a woman who just won and the winning is the thing she wants to hold for a moment before the moment passes.

"Good run," Lena says. The saying is the saying of a woman who means it and the meaning is the thing that comes from a year of chasing someone and the chasing is the thing that makes the catching mean something.

"That was the hardest thirty-four I've done. You pushed me."

Sina straightens and the straightening is slow and the slow is the thing that says the body is telling the truth about the distance. She is breathing hard and the hard is the thing Lena heard over the last three miles and the hearing was the thing that told her the gap was closing. Sina looks at Lena and the looking is the looking of a woman who has been the faster runner for a year and is not anymore and the not anymore is the thing she is standing in now.

"You're getting faster," Sina says. The saying is not accusation. The saying is the saying of a woman who is stating a fact and the fact is the thing that is true.

"Your stride at the end — I couldn't match it. The last mile you were pulling away and I was watching you pull away and the watching was the thing I've never had to do."

"You've been ahead for a year. You earned the right to be chased."

"And now you caught me."

"Now I caught you."

Sina laughs and the laugh is the laugh Lena knows — the full bark that comes from the place where Sina keeps the things that crack her open and the cracking is not breaking. The laugh is loud in the parking lot and the loud is the thing that echoes off the trailhead bathrooms and the echo is the thing that says two women ran thirty-four miles and one of them won and the winning is not the thing that changes anything between them. Sina is sweating and the sweating is the thing that runs down her chest and the chest is bare and the bare is the thing she chose and the choosing is the thing that is done.

"Next Saturday," Sina says. The saying is the saying of a woman who is already planning and the planning is the thing that says the losing is not the thing that stops her.

"Next Saturday."

Lena turns to the stroller and the turning is the thing she does at the end of every run and the doing is the checking. Kimo is in the stroller and the stroller is the thing that has been his seat for thirty-four miles and the thirty-four is the distance he has ridden while his mother ran. He is awake and the awake is the thing she sees first and the first is the eyes. The eyes are open and the open is the thing that says he has been watching and the watching is the thing he does. The humming has stopped. The stopping is the thing that comes before the word.

Kimo looks at Lena and the looking is the looking of a boy who has been in a stroller for thirty-four miles and has been listening to two women run and has been hearing the breathing and the feet and the finish and the finish is the thing he has been waiting for. The mouth opens.

"Won."

The word is one syllable and one syllable is the structure and the structure is the thing Kimo builds. The word is directed at Lena and the directed is the thing that says he knows and the knowing is the thing that a four-month-old should not have and the should not is the thing that is Kimo's alone. He said won. He said it at the end of a race his mother won and the winning is the thing he heard and the hearing is the thing he turned into a word and the word is right.

Lena is still for a moment and the still is the still of a mother who has just heard her four-month-old son say won and the saying is the thing that stops her. The stopping is not the stopping of a body that ran thirty-four miles. The stopping is the stopping of a mother who is hearing a word that is accurate and the accuracy is the thing that is Kimo's. She picks him up and the picking is 44 pounds and the 44 is nothing. She holds him against her chest and the chest is the chest that is tattooed and the tattoo is the tribal black and the black is the thing that covers her from ankle to neck and the covering is the skin Kimo knows.

"Yeah, buddy," Lena says. "Mama won."

Sina is beside her and Sina heard the word and the hearing is the thing that makes Sina look at the boy and the looking is the looking of a woman who has a son who is eight and didn't say his first word until eleven months and the eleven months is the distance between her son and Lena's son and the distance is the thing Sina measures. She doesn't say anything. The not saying is the not saying of a woman who is hearing something that doesn't fit on the scale she uses and the not fitting is the thing she is learning to hold.