I think at this point we've all established that I'm a born runner. It's what I do, it's who I am, it's what keeps me functioning, yadda yadda yadda.
But if there's one thing I'm not, it's a morning person. Maybe it's my chronic sleep deprivation or the fact I think it's just down right cruel to be pulled out of bed before your eyes bud open gently and the sound of birds chirping in the breeze brushes over you (at least, that's how I think it should be). But I am especially not a morning shower person. There's nothing worse in this world than being pulled out of a warm, soft bed (ahem pillow top queen bed with extra fluffy pillows and the softest blanket on earth) as daylight is slowly creeping in (or not even there yet) and having to go stand in a cold, tiled cubby -naked of all things with water dumped on you. I absolutely detest it. I'd rather go slightly dirty and wear a headband to cover up the rats nest for hair than do that.
However, over the past few days whether it was in fear of being late to class when we're down to the wire or just the fact that it sets the mood for the day I have been peeling myself out of bed at six thirty in the morning, slipping into some yoga capri's and my grey'/lime asics and pounding the pavement. And it starts out the same way every time; the countless thoughts of regret, trying to work the snooze button on my android phone, thinking maybe today is just not my day or I'll just go around the block. There's yawning, skipping stretches because that's entirely just too much effort, and a bit of swearing (occasionally).
But it always ends the same way too; two laps around the lake, a sprint up a steep hill, a panting dog who collapses on the wood floor, and me, walking straight to the shower.