3.1 Miles and Change

My legs are currently not speaking to me. I've acknowledged the situation, offered them a reasonable amount of ibuprofen and a couch, and we're in negotiations.

This morning was the Riverside Park community 5K, one of those low-key Saturday morning races you see flyers for stapled to telephone poles and think, sure, maybe. I signed up in September mostly on impulse, the same week I registered for Creative Writing, apparently a month for decisions I couldn't fully explain. The training has been the evening runs I've been doing anyway: just me, the neighborhood, and whatever podcast I forgot to pause. No structured plan. No coach. Just showing up every other day and running until the number on my watch felt honest.

I didn't run fast. I didn't place anywhere interesting. I crossed the line, stopped, and stood there for a second with my hands on my knees thinking, huh. That's the whole thing right there. That's what all those evenings were for.

two seconds after the finish line. still processing.

I don't think I'll make a habit of writing about running here. It's mostly the one part of my week that's just mine, no grade, no reader, no draft to revise. But it felt wrong not to mention today, even once, even briefly. 3.1 miles. Done. The rest of October can do whatever it wants.

legs: retired. heart: full.