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2:35. That’s the number in my head. Not long ago, it was 2:40. It used to be 2:50 and 3-flat, and 3:10, and even 4-flat at one point. But right now, it’s 2:35. I find myself square in the middle of that strange runner no man’s land. Somewhere in between the attainable Boston Qualifier and the unattainable (sadly) Olympic Marathon Trials Qualifier. What I have is the relentless pursuit of racing against two things: the unforgiving clock and myself. Racking up miles and wearing down shoes – and at times nerves – to shave off seconds per mile, while being trapped in a never-ending, mostly as