The finish line of the 800 meters is not a place where runners make decisions. They gulp for air. They writhe. They operate with the primal parts of the brain designed for survival.
When Athing Mu arrives there, it looks as if she has run a different race. She’s an elegant pillar among carnage. Other runners roll on the track like extras in a war movie. Mu stands there, hands on hips, with all the strain of an office drone on a cigarette break. She must make a decision. Read More