After the week’s long run which frankly was not that long.
Sitting on the floor. On a pad. Sweating. Stretching. Rolling out a sore rectus femoris. Other Rogue runners all around sitting and sweating and stretching and rolling and talking.
They’re all talking. I’m not. I’m in this post-run euphoric zone, happy to just sit and sweat and stretch and roll.
Somewhere to my right two guys are chatting about their training. One is on the floor; the other is standing. They haven’t seen each other in a while, and they’re talking about what’s been going on.
“I had a great run today,” one of them says. “I haven’t run 20 for at least four months.”
I remember a time long ago when 20 was a great run. When seven seemed like a day off. When my body was a machine, albeit a middle-pack machine. I remember that, but that’s not me now. Back of the pack Joe, I am. And quite content to be there.
Because silently sitting on a pad, sweating and stretching and rolling out sore quads is entirely sufficient.