The Months I Didn’t Run at All
There was a stretch of almost four months where the morning run just stopped happening, for no dramatic reason I can point to, and I still do not have a tidy explanation for how it ended either.
There was a stretch of almost four months where the morning run just stopped happening, for no dramatic reason I can point to, and I still do not have a tidy explanation for how it ended either.
One overslept morning with no time for a real breakfast unraveled far more than Owen expected, showing him how much his after run routine was quietly holding together.
For a long time I thought of myself as someone trying to run in the mornings, and I only noticed the word trying had quietly dropped out of that sentence after it had already happened.
The same eggs and toast that get eaten in a hurry on a weekday morning feel entirely different when there is nowhere to be, and Owen has noticed the gap grows every year.
I like to think I have outgrown using weather as a reason to stay in bed, and then a certain kind of rain proves me wrong every single time, which I have finally stopped pretending is a coincidence.
A coworker’s offhand comments about how Owen looks some mornings, freshly showered and alert, or occasionally wrecked, say more about the after run routine than Owen usually means to reveal.
A week away from home is enough to knock the whole morning routine loose, and I have gone about rebuilding it wrong often enough now to have a decent sense of what actually works.
For a short window right after finishing a run, Owen’s head goes unusually still. It never lasts, and he has finally stopped expecting it to.
I used to track my running streak like it meant something fragile, until one missed Tuesday taught me the guilt was doing more damage than the missed run ever could.
Between stepping through the front door and logging into a work laptop there is a short, oddly specific routine Owen relies on to turn into someone who looks like he has been awake for hours.