I found my way back home on its belt.

25 miles a week over ten years means 13,000 miles of treadmill runs logged.

While little girls slept she showed me I could soar.

Today she stopped working.

I would be lying if I didn’t tell you that I wondered if it was a sign.

As 43 lurks around the corner was someone whispering that this body was better suited for pilates and the occasional pavement run?

While standing in a pool of my silly tears I realized I was being reminded that I could find myself again in the run.

Tomorrow at 7am when the forecast calls for 34 degrees and partly cloudy skies, I will fly.

Here’s to 13,000 more on the open road.