The rain was thick and syrupy early Monday morning when sweets and I awoke. Although it was a holiday, we had our alarm set early. We were planning on running a race that morning, and the start was at 8:30. Sweets was thinking of running the 5K distance with a friend but backed out that morning when he saw the rain. I had been training for months to run the 20K and wasn�t going to throw in the towel until I at least tried to run the distance. Rain or no rain, we bundled up and walked the mile to the starting point.

We weren�t entirely crazy, there were still lots of people milling about trying to keep warm before the starting gun fired. He was in his big blue raincoat and I was in my shorts, long pants, polar fleece sweater and running top. I hadn�t planned on running in the rain so I didn�t have appropriate rain running gear. No matter, really because when I started warming up I didn�t need any more layers.

The gun sounded and I jumped a little. I always forget that loud blast that celebrates the optimism of a new event. Then the masses started bobbing up and down in a faux run as we all crept past the starting line. The computerized chip tied to my shoelaces signaled a beep when I crossed the line and I was now officially running.

I started slow, reminding myself that the only person I needed to race was myself. There was no competition there; just me, my body, and my mind all pushing for a common goal. As a result everyone in the pack pushed past me and I was the hero of the slow people.

We ran. The rain was light for the first few miles and I knew the terrain very well. We ran past the subsidized housing, where children in pajamas called to us from their screened off windows. We ran past a park bordered by trees and I delighted in seeing all the well-hydrated people dash off to pee, and then rejoin the masses. I had been careful to not drink too much water before the race, so I wasn�t thinking about bathrooms just then. We ran through enormous puddles, where people would go to great lengths to avoid submersion of their expensive running sneakers. This was hilarious to me because we were already soaking wet from the rain and a few puddles would only add to the squishyness slightly. Silly people.

At about mile four I realized I was really running with the slower people. That made me one of the slower people by default. My inner voice was busy singing �Papa was a rodeo, mama was a rock-n-roll band� which is part of the chorus to a Magnetic Fields song. �I could play guitar and rope a steer before I learned to stand.� I was pretty happy with myself for picking that particular song to listen to the night before, much better than chanting a commercial jingle for 12.4 miles.

Mile five marked the dense rainstorm that followed me for the rest of the race. The water blew into my eyes, making my contacts gritty. The wind pushed me around so I was dancing back and forth over the yellow stripe in the middle of the road. My water-logged polar fleece was tied around my waist rubbing against my belly. I started looking forward to specific markers, doing simple math in my brain: mile six means I�m halfway there . . . mile eight is two thirds . . . mile nine is three fourths . . . .

At mile six it sounded like there were lots of kids blowing on whistles. I ran a little faster, my curiousity egging me on. In truth it was the half-way marker, with more computer-chip reading mats squeeking their signal as runners crossed over. There were three men in raincoats sitting on the tailgate of a pickup truck bemusedly watching us struggle past in the downpour. That�s when I started feeling kind of stupid. What was I thinking, running 12.4 miles in the rain on a vacation day. This wasn�t labor day, this was simply labor. We would run past water stations where smiling children would try to hand us cups of water and there was my phantom.

My phantom was a teenage African American boy in a black hooded jacket. He would be standing there in the rain, holding something. I could see him laughing in his eyes. Always laughing at these stupid people running running running. I saw him first at the water station after mile six. He was holding a broom, waiting to sweep up the empty water cups we threw on the ground. Standing there, watching.

Mile seven was the windiest. It was a long stretch of road along the Long Island Sound. The wind blew the rain right through my body, as though I wasn�t even there. This is when I started to feel good.

I don�t know where the feeling came from. I was running along, worrying that I was just going to lose steam somewhere along the run and I wouldn�t be able to finish. Then I looked up and past the horizon as far as I could and I heard my inner voice switch off the radio on constant Magnetic Fields loop. Instead of music the inner voice started really speaking to me.

�You can do it� the voice told me, �you�re apache. We�ve been through worse than this. We have run twice this distance in half the time. This is what it means to be apache,� the voice went on. �We have desire. We have will. We have suffered so you can keep running.�

I ran faster, higher, stronger. Mile eight came and went. My phantom was in the middle of the road, holding a black garbage bag to catch my water cup. I thanked him. The voice kept going. �This is nothing. You can run this.� Mile nine passed me by and I was listening ever more intently to the voice. �Use the power you have to finish this goal.�

Mile nine marked the furthest I had ever run before in my life. I was running now, really running. I was passing the houses and streets I had run for two years in training. I felt the puddles of water splashing past my toes. I felt deep joy.

Mile ten and I was on the street where I live. I was almost there. My legs felt great. My lungs felt like I could run all day. My feet were wet but happy. My mind was turned completely on, enjoying every second. I forgot about the rain. I forgot about the struggles. I forgot about the racism and oppression and poverty I had seen and experienced this past summer. All I heard was my feet slapping the wet blacktop and all I felt was peace.

Mile eleven was just past my house. There was my phantom again laughing inside at my audacity. I laughed with him.

Mile twelve and I started to sprint. I�ve never sprinted for half a mile before but I couldn�t hold back. I was running so hard, I was soaking wet I was happy.

I heard my name and there was sweets, telling me I could do it. His voice mingled with the voice in my head. There was B with a sign reading �Run Lola Run.� There was the finish line.

There were my legs pushing away from the earth in rhythm.