One foot in front of the other. Again and again. Fast. Running toward nothing, really, but the horizon in front of you, the vast stretch of blue, the trees reaching up and up, the white clouds, the silence.

Sometimes it's perfect, this running. Your muscles feel fantastic and your breathing is effortless and you have so much energy you can't believe it, and you are bounding toward that horizon, eyes fixed on it, and basking in it. Your mind is a perfect blank, a quiet space full of peace. That horizon is not so far away. You will get there.

And some days it isn't at all perfect, and nothing is working right. Your muscles are tired, your bones are tired and your feet are sore and you can't get your breath to work right and you are just distracted. Thinking of work and kids and the million things you should be doing right then, but here you are. Running. And on days like this you can't even look at the horizon, except maybe in stolen glances as you run. Mostly you train your eyes ahead of you, at some imaginary point in the sidewalk, and you go. You just keep moving. You can't even contemplate that horizon. But you will still get there.

Today was the latter. My feet hurt and my legs were tired and I was thinking about all the work I'd left undone before I stepped out for the run. But I kept running. This is for me, I told myself over and over. This is for me.