After all, what do I have to lose?

Not a single fucking thing.

When I arrive in Arizona a couple of hours later, I go shopping for all the stuff that I’ll need, like a hydration pack, lightweight layers of clothes, trail food and energy packs, sunblock and lip balm, a hat, a headlamp, et cetera, and then I make the long drive to Grand Canyon Village, check into my hotel room, and head to bed early.

My alarm gets me up at two A.M., and I’m at the trailhead by three A.M. It’s still dark out, I know I’m being foolish, I know I should have prepared more, but I don’t hesitate before venturing onward.

I only want to run.

And I’m determined to set a new record.

THE VIEW THAT EMERGES AS THE SKY BRIGHTENS IS DAZZLING. Majestic cliffs plummet sharply to the earth in shades of sunrise, greater than time, greater than man. I feel minuscule in the best of ways. My problems seem insignificant; my pain, trivial.

Elevation drops steadily while I descend through billions of years of rock into the depths of the canyon, and I make it to the halfway point in a little less than three hours feeling good and strong and invigorated. I’ve never breathed air this fresh or felt this connected to nature. My knee hardly aches. This is exactly what I needed.

But as I begin the trek back, things change. The air gets hotter, heavier. My knee protests. There aren’t any more water-refill stations, so I cut back and conserve. It’s okay at first, but as the sun beats down on me mile after mile, thirst gets to me. My energy ebbs. I start to feel light-headed. If I’m going to continue, I have to drink my water.

It’s warm after being carried on my back all day and the nozzle from my water pack tastes like sweat, but it’s exactly what my body needs. I try to drink it slowly, but no matter how much I take in, it’s not enough. I empty my water pack right as the trail steepens.

I’ve made really good time so far, though. If I can keep up the pace for this last stretch, the hardest stretch, there’s still a chance I can set a record. I need to set that record. I need to show everyone what I’m made of. That dude with the diamond cuff links, Anna, that asshole Julian who thinks he’s marrying her, her family, my family. Most of all, me. I need to show myself I can do this. I need to win.

All I’ve got at this point is me. I have to be enough.

So I push myself to go faster.

The trail steepens even further. According to the research I did before coming out here, I’m now fighting an elevation of five thousand feet. It sounds intimidating, but I’ve done interval training. I know I can do this.

When it’s not a thousand degrees out and I’m fully hydrated and I haven’t already run thirty miles.

The sky darkens as a storm gathers, but the heat doesn’t lessen. Instead, the air gets thicker, just like in a sauna, and I feel like I’m carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders as I run up an endless staircase, a staircase headed straight for the clouds. Still, I plow on, one step at a time, ignoring dizziness, exhaustion, and the deepening ache in my knee. If I have to reach the sky itself, that’s what I’ll do.

A dramatic landscape surrounds me, but I’m too sick to appreciate it. I’m alone, so I definitely can’t share it. I’m aware, vaguely, in the back of my mind, that I’m wasting this experience. But I’m blinded by the need to win, to set the record, to earn the cold, comforting knowledge that I’m not only enough, but better, the best.

I’m essential, damn it. I’m worth standing up for. My body isn’t what it was, but look what it’s going to do.

My quad muscle cramps, and I almost trip and careen off the edge of the trail and into the canyon. I manage to catch myself, and digging my fist into my cramping thigh, I try to keep going, even though it hurts like a motherfucker. The muscle cramps tighter, and I collapse against the side of the cliff. Groaning through my teeth, painfully aware of every passing second, I stretch my thigh until the muscle loosens. When I try to walk on it, it immediately threatens to lock up again, so I let myself rest. I don’t have a choice.

I’m out of water, but maybe food will help. I get an energy bar from my pack, chew it into gooey peanut-buttery globs with my dry mouth, and choke it down. It doesn’t sit well in my stomach, and after a couple of minutes, it all comes back up. As I’m vomiting behind a bush, the sky cracks open, and rain pours down on me in a heavy deluge. Within moments, it’s freezing cold, and I shiver nonstop as I pull on a parka.

This is the real challenge of running the Grand Canyon. You don’t just fight against your mind and body and the trail. You fight against nature itself, the heat, the cold, the punishing rain.

Determination rises inside me. It’s getting close, but I can still set the record. So what if it’s dangerous and stupid to run in the rain? No risk, no reward.

I push away from the cliff, and I make myself hobble onward. Everything hurts, my knotted-up quad, my knee, my lungs. I can barely see through the rain, but I keep going.

Until I slip. This time, I do fall. Right over the edge. But I’m ridiculously lucky. I don’t go far. I fall into a soft bed of wet grass. I’m scratched up but not really bleeding. Nothing is broken—just my pride. And my heart.

Anna would be so upset if she saw me like this. She’d be even more upset if she knew why I was doing this to myself.

Thinking about her makes my eyes burn, and I’m too tired to fight the tears. I let them mix with the raindrops falling on my face.

Even as much as I hurt, I don’t regret loving her the way I did—the way I do. With our relationship, I was all in until it was clear it wasn’t the same for her. With MLA, I was all in, too. The company could tank or go on to be successful without me, and I’d still be proud. I did my part to the very best of my ability. Nothing can take that from me.

It’s not winning the race that’s important.

It’s this moment right here, when I’m lying in the mud staring up at the dark sky with rain falling in my eyes.

It’s facing the pain, facing failure, facing myself, and finding a way to make it to the end.

I rest my knee and thigh, giving my overworked muscles time to recover, and when I notice the pool of water forming on a section of my parka, I lift the waterproof fabric and drink it all.

The rain lightens into a drizzle, then a fine mist, before stopping altogether, and I get up and make my way back to the trail. I don’t need to check the time to know there’s no longer any chance of setting a record. I can’t run anymore today anyway, not responsibly. If I pass out and get eaten by wildlife or airlifted to a hospital, that doesn’t count as finishing.

I find a long stick, and I use it to take the weight off my bad leg as I hobble up this never-ending staircase to the clouds. When the sun sets, the canyon glows red like it’s on fire, and I forget to breathe as I take in the view. I wish someone was here to see it with me. Next time, I’ll do this right. I’ll train better for the elevation changes, I’ll bring more water, I’ll ask someone to come with me.

The trailhead comes into view, and even though I didn’t set a new record, I feel an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. It wasn’t pretty. I threw up, I fell, I cried like a little kid, but I made it. I finished.

I did my part. I’ll keep doing my part.