One minute after finishing Sunday's Philadelphia Marathon, I was kneeling on the pavement, eyes tightly shut, gasping for breath.
Three minutes after finishing, I was hobbling through the line for my paltry post marathon rations.
Five minutes after finishing, the thought occurred to me that I'd actually done it. I'd qualified for Boston after being denied three years ago under the old rules.
Ten minutes after finishing, I was crying and babbling incoherently, wrapped in my wife's arms.
Fifteen minutes after finishing, my mood swung violently as I became surrounded by friends and family and saw the signs and T-shirts they had made for me. Pictures were taken, hugs were given. And hell, why not? A triumphant handstand was performed on the side of Benjamin Franklin Parkway in downtown Philadelphia, not thirty minutes after completing a marathon.