Today I was yelled at twice and honked at once.
A homeless guy told me to Jog on, man.
I did, though some part of me wanted to correct him that - ahem - Sir, six minute pace is not jogging.
But then I remembered a Running Times article about a 40 year old marathoner who does all of his 90 miles a week at 6 minute pace, and thought I should probably just jog on, man, saying nothing.
Silver sky, cool air, a taste of rain and fall and it tasted good.
6 miles hard, 6 easy.
Running, jogging, trotting, bipedaling, pedestrianing, making up words, moving, cruising. It all felt good and it is all feeling good, every day, every run, building and testifying to the best fitness I've ever known, for whatever that ends up being worth.
Is it September 14 yet?
I've wanted to have done quite a few races before. But I've never so giddily awaited the act of running one, the minutes and miles spent bleeding out the sum of your accrued fitness, because I've never had fitness like this before. There is a lot to give but - and here, as they say, is the rub - even more to take.
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