Whether it's a hangover or a cold, a long day or huge loss, 18 degrees in January or 81 in June, I have been ever so convinced that there is nothing a hard run, quick feet and good sweat can't fix. The paths will change, the destinations will fail to matter and the pain, whatever the source, will fade just enough.
I've sweat out whiskey after finals, bring your own bottles of wine, coors lights on the beach and too many tailgates to guess; I've sweat out allergies, colds, fevers and the like, ran personal bests with less than a few hours of sleep and dirty tissues in my pockets all hopped up on Sudafed; I've sweat out deaths and lost opportunities, frustration and silence and everything that falls in that fold.
I've come to believe that every run begins with a purpose - whether its to sweat something out of you, hold onto something harder, check a box off a training grid, test your will or build it back up - and it's that moment, midway through, when you've forgotten the reason you started, feet falling heavily on the ground without a second thought to your beginning and end, when you begin to feel like a human again and thank whatever that you're healthy enough to run in the first place.
Or at least this is my little circle of sweat.
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