A cozy warmth pervades the local café as I sip my morning brew. I gaze languidly out the shop window, a still sleepy smile breeching my muffled reflection.
After yesterday’s swirling snows and gusty conditions the city has settled into a relative calm. It’s actually a nice day for a run. But I’m not running today.
24 hours ago I wearily and warily poked my head out from behind the balcony curtains. I surveyed the arctic conditions, the hazardous street surfaces, and I made a promise to myself.
Get through hill training and you can have tomorrow off. Get up the hill through snow and ice. Run your butt off through bone-chilling winds. And do it all again and again and again. Do all this Rod and you’ve earned a day of rest before Thursday’s tempo run.
So I here I sit. Where Dave Matthews croons and the embers of a slow burning fireplace toast the air. The pyjama top I sport under my overcoat adding a private giddiness to this quietly defiant moment.
The moment when I honoured a promise made.
The promise to not run for just one day.