60 Minutes in Heaven

As my marathon season sits waiting, just on the other side of August 1, I've transitioned, ever so slowly, into a 60 minute warmup (read: "shortest") run for the week.  This is my subtle smile of a greeting to Monday morning; it is my homecoming after a long weekend and the center I'll revolve around when my feet no longer find the ground - amidst the chaos of the day, patience tried and courage torn, this run, with its pressure free of miles and steady breathing, will bring me back down and remind me peace still exists, courage rebuilds and patience is sometimes fuzzy at its edges. 

The humidity, lately, only adds to the transient nature of this run.  It is mental and beautifully so.  You almost have to get above the weather and the hills on tired Mondays when your legs are heavy, lungs aching and wrists automatically sweaty.  In this meditation, entire minutes disappear and you only notice what's immediately in front of you - whether an empty street lined by worn buildings and empty parking lots or a path curving with a river - whether sand or green or covered up by trees - this run is common to all of us.  It is what sets runners apart of those who run.  It is our reason and our homecoming; the 60 minutes when the world disappears and I am anyone, running anywhere to nowhere in particular with everything in front of her.  

This is how I'll run until I can't anymore - in between the hills and tempo runs and time trials and watches with satellites; in between the marathons and sprints with signs and crowds; in between the tears and injuries with frustration and rebuilding - this is how I will run, until I can't anymore.