One trail run + One story.

Tuesday, November 21, 2017 5:15 p.m.: eight trail miles in the bank.

And the run coughs are SO REAL right now. They are a sweet and painful reminder of how high I live and train, how fast the temperatures drop in the evenings, and how much more important it is to over-dress than under-dress especially when the sun goes down at FOUR FORTY FIVE IN THE AFTERNOON. It’s the complete opposite sort of methodology I used when heading out for runs in Tampa this time of year.

It felt good to be out there after an eight-day hiatus to recover from a nasty cold. And it was the first time in a long time I felt like an athlete. Like, a real one.

Was it my cool new jacket or butt-hugging stretchy pants I wore just for this run? Was it my brand new trail shoes? Or maybe my leftover work-hair curls I tied low and felt swish against my cool new jacket? Whatever it was, I felt light and alive out there. I paused Imagine Dragons for a few miles and listened to my shoes grip the gravel and kiss the pavement. I don’t think there is a better sound in the world.

I needed to feel that again because it’s easy to feel…not like an athlete out here.

I live amongst the pros out here. The ultra-athletic, the ones who make a living out of their athletic-ness. This town is crawling with the best runners, cyclists, swimmers, triathletes, and amateurs-on-their-way-to-pro. Tonight it was nice to have the trails to myself, just as a reminder that I don’t need to break records to be an athlete. But I think we are all on a level playing field with the run coughs. 

Ever feel this way? Let me know in the comments, k?

Now for a story. Just a short one. 

Hi. This is my drive into work. BLESS UP.

Yesterday at the clubhouse, a customer asked me how my day was going before placing his order.

So nice.

We don’t have to be best friends, but I love when there is some conversation, especially when that person stops in regularly.

Me: “It’s going great. It was slow at first, but then it picked up, which is nice. Makes the time go by quicker.”

Him: “Why would you want that?”

Me: “Uhh…”

Him: “Time is our most precious commodity.”


It’s like…when you are trying to enjoy a donut and someone is reading off the nutrition label.

Or when you’re outside enjoying a beautiful, sunshine-y run and someone reminds you your shoes are made by overworked and underpaid hands. Allegedly.

We know. But we’re not looking to be reminded when we want to savor each and every sweet sprinkle, or put in some long weekend miles.

He’s right, though.

I used to think about the time thing a lot when I lived in Tampa. Working way up high for a set of clients that didn’t care much about how we spent or wasted our time. I’d stare out at the sunshine and dream about riding my bike along the bay or booking a last-minute flight to anywhere.

All of us. We only have so long.

Me: “Yeah. You’re right. But some days are better than others, I guess.”

I made an excuse, then pulled his espresso shot. Maybe he knew he laid a whole lot out on the table and that I wasn’t ready for it. He thanked me and wished me a good night.

I don’t work in a big tall building anymore. I make a little above minimum wage. Not all days are perfect. But I look forward to most of the hours I spend doing what I’m doing now. And most of the time, I count down the minutes, not because I want something to end, but because I can’t wait for something to begin. 

That’s big. And that’s a difference I’ve noticed living out here.

I cried in my car a little later. Because I don’t ever want to waste another second. Spend your time wisely, my friends. 

Push on, PUSH ANIMALS >>>



2 Replies to “One trail run + One story.”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s