Will I write about this every day?
I don't know. I've made an agreement with myself that I am going to write every day. If it's post-worthy, I'll post it, and if it's not, I'll at least have written.
And since I'm up anyway, waiting for the sweat to cool, I figure I might as well write now. And since today's running experience is not quite a repeat of yesterday, I figured I might as well write about it.
Ten minutes earlier, to account for writing time, the alarm goes off. I can't believe how early it feels, I could've sworn that I just closed my eyes.
Get out of bed AND GO RUN!
I get out of bed, and the pain's waiting. Every muscle used for locomotion screams, not in a you-murdered-my-son kind of way, but more in a why'd-you-punch-me-in-the-face kind of way. Startled, hurt, and angry.
Sorry, muscles, blame it on our stomach.
I drag my workout clothes from the top of the dresser as I lurch to the bathroom, drop them on the sink, take care of business, and dress while I make my way out to the kitchen. Water.
I drink as I sit down on the couch, in between sock, sock, shoe, shoe. Lace 'em up, one final drink, and then it's out the door.
Past the bus stop, lots of people waiting today. I'm early, that's why, the bus hasn't come yet.
Couple younger guys, one old man, dressed in a white shirt that's tucked into his blue striped wind pants. They're pulled up mid-torso, totally old man style. He's stretching, it looks like, and I find myself hoping that he doesn't run past me later in the morning.
You'd be amazed how many old dudes can run around this city.
Two drunk guys on the other bench, one of them stretched out, practically asleep, just waking up. The other guy already holding a brown paper bag, explaining in slurred language where he spent the night.
"I don't know how I got there. I woke up there this morning. So I walked over here."
I wish I could stop and listen. Instead, I continue my walk, wanting to get far enough so that the people at the bus stop will be gone by the time I run back this way.
Several minutes later, a bus roars by. It's the express, and I'm not sure if it stops at the spot I just passed, but I think it might.
I walk to my checkpoint of the day, a place I swore was too far away when my princess mentioned it last night.
I turn around and take a deep breath.
And then I'm running.
It's another good day for it. Warm without being hot, the right amount of moisture in the air.
My muscles cry out again, but I tell them to shut up, we need to focus.
Run run run, and here comes that bus stop. Is everyone still there? Can't tell. I think the old guy in the wind pants is gone.
Doesn't matter. I'm wearing my glasses, so I can barely see anything, unless I stare. They're fogged up and dripping sweat.
Doesn't matter--I know where the ground is.
"Hey, nice ass, asshole!"
Why thank you, drunk hobo. Compliments like that are what keep me going. I don't have enough air to respond, so I give him a thumbs-up. I fight the urge to laugh, because that'd be the end of me right now.
I realize as I take the corner that it's true--stuff like the drunk hobo and his malicious compliments are what keep me going. Because now I have to write about it when I get home, and I don't want to conclude the story by saying, "And it proved to be too much, so I stopped running."
I run home, and it isn't quite as bad as yesterday, but it's still not easy, and I wonder if it ever will be.