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It’s 9:29 a.m. Saturday morning and I am propelling myself down the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue. I am about to finish my first 5K in three years. Three years in which I helped get a guy elected president, got married, sold and bought a house, and had a baby.

I am finishing ahead of people wearing fancy running togs and iPod setups that appear capable of missile launching.

I am finishing in the shadow of the Washington Monument in the greatest city in the world.

I am finishing with Nina Simone’s “Sinner Man” making me finish faster.

I am finishing ahead of people in their early 20s. (Editor’s note: To be fair, some of them were GW students who I’m pretty sure were still drunk when they started the race.)

I am finishing uphill.

I am finishing up a really long hill.

I am finishi— seriously, how long is this effing hill?

I am finishing seven minutes faster than I’d expected.

I am finishing meeting my goal of not stopping to walk.

I am finishing this race 14 months after an abdominal surgery left me in so much pain I couldn’t stand up without wanting to cry.

I am finishing after slowing briefly to kiss the baby who arrived during that surgery 14 months ago.

I am finishing a little choked up.

I am not finished.

The Bird is back.