When most of the world is curled up in bed, thanking the heavens it's Sunday, I get up to run with my friend, Thu. Let me tell you, most days, I HATE IT! I hate that I sneak out, before the sun's up, so my kids won't be screaming “Mommy! I wanna go Mommy!” I hate that I can't lumber and stumble around like a zombie the way everyone should on a weekend. But I hate it more when I miss a run.
Once I get over my initial grunting, I leash my dogs and head out to our usual trail. My dogs never complain, by the way. In fact, I often wish I possess an ounce of their excitement. From a distance, I see my running buddy, who feels just as miserable about getting up early. Regardless, we start running. The consistent pounding of our feet feeds us the energy we need to complete the task. We discuss anything and everything as we maneuver through mud, dirt and potholes. Occasionally dodging fallen trees or hanging leaves. Before we know it, we're taking the final hill. In our silent ascend, you can almost hear the slope taunting us, questioning our ability to reach the top. Some days, we give in. Some days, we run our hardest.
Breathing heavily, we cool down, wrap up our conversation and go our separate ways. I walk the final quarter mile home, feeling accomplished. Feeling like I could do a bang-up job at whatever the week throws my way. Eventually, Saturday comes around and I get a message that says “run tomorrow?”.
I sigh, possibly whine, but I respond and get up anyway.