The neurotransmitters of our brains can be modified pharmaceutically. It’s a blind guessing game. Throwing wrenches into somewhat broken machinery and hoping that the grears that grind to a halt or are clanked back into smoother operation are the correct ones. Hoping that the jammed machine is a better functioning one. The drugs send one into a dizzying climb, a jittery scour for satisfaction, into euphoric post-run satisfaction, into weak-limbed exhaustion that doesn’t jive with personal bests and human speed that may also be experienced. Like this, I will drive to Winthorp, WA to run a 50 k this weekend. I’m eager to push myself, afraid I’ll wobble off the trail or hit an impassible wall. My heart palpitates. My palms are sweaty and I don’t know exactly what is calling the shots. I just know it’s all in my head.