This could be the title of a post about any of my weekday morning runs, but this morning I was feeling especially nostalgic and sentimental about this favorite hobby of mine. It started when another headlamp-clad runner did the thing I love most, gave me the silent wave of solidarity that can only be exchanged between crazy runners in the predawn hours. It’s not so much a wave as a hand raised in recognition, much like I imagine a cheetah would do upon seeing another cheetah in the Serengeti after only crossing paths with elephants for three weeks. (I mean, right?) I was a little tired this morning, but still glad to be out and moving, and I was also feeling a little more adventurous than I usually do when choosing my morning routes. I found myself going in new loops, connecting favorite spots with new side streets. I started to think about all the miles I had already covered, the parts of town I had already seen, before my day had even really begun, and, I don’t know. It was a great feeling.
You guys, I failed to write yesterday, which I suppose means technically speaking my 30 day writing challenge was a bust, but like anything else (especially running), I’m picking myself back up and keeping this thing rolling. This is day 12, but I missed day 11 (in case you’re keeping count too). Yesterday, well, I don’t even know. It was busy, I got home from work and was so relieved that this week was almost over and that I would be sleeping in this morning that I created my only little party. By that I mean, I excitedly curled up on the couch to stay up a little later to finish my book. I live on the edge. At any rate, taking a few minutes out of this wild night to blog completely slipped my mind.