60 hours

Just run. 

Because I was told.

Just run.

Because years later I ‘d told myself

Just run.

Because somehow it feels aaaawright to do so.

Was massaged today though my blue bruises from almost 2 weeks ago still remanied visible on my thighs. Masseur must had pressed some triggering point my regular masseur said. Could be I told him and tried to go back to my deep relaxation mode on his table. He was right it was the half marathon on hills which actually was 22,8 km long, and where I ran although I pretended to be invisible. However, just to allow some spoil to my invisibleness I took the goodie of the free massage with my free bib. Kinda like passing on time and not.to.think. I didn’t feel the pain the masseur got me, I was somewhere else all day long, ran my slowest and longest half marathon ever, actually 23 km. I must had ran some slalom in the course for the extra 200m-s.

Bruises remained. And bruises remain. 

And got some more, even more today on the table. First they are brownish kinda funny looking, later goes a bit rainbowish than transparent and even more later dissapear. Til the next session. Physical bruises are like that. 

I run and just run.

Because I feel like it. 

I guess.

I try to look for the form, the style when out, trying my shoulders to go lower and more open. I just run, but I just wanna run nicer and wiser and finer.

Calmed down, or possibly it’s the billion-multiplication-anydreamscancometrue full moon facing me right into my face, right into my pretty face, the face where the pores getting cleaner and cleaner by the days passing, it’s like reverse aging for a week now. I keep repeating face, the word, freedom of a writer. On purpose. Freedom of a run. Freedom of my anger and being hurt slowly dissapearing. As my face gets all the vitamin D and gets a fine tanline around my eyes from the glasses a’ Paris Colette for being a snob but finally it’s not only a nice looking one but also stays on my funny looking nose, and that’s just awesome for the runs. 

I did 7 session in 60 hours. No biggie I thought, it’s only one heavy massive hilly one with Cs and another tempo on the flat with the ever faster guys I try to keep up with – it’s nothing like 7 guys and me running together, it’s no partytime, don’t get jealous, they never look at me like a girl, I feel like a little boy trying to chase (really chase, not nightlife chase) the old guys. And the other five workouts should have been easy-peasy funruns. But what if not. What if after the trail, it’s just a quick 6k at 4:12, but feels great. Only 4 to go. About or less than 12 hrs later chilly morning gets into a intervall, though on a decent pace, still, 5:30 planned and 4:00 is competively faster on any given day. 3 to go. 2 hrs later it’s the ‘little boy vs big guys’ insanity for 12k, just after to sneak back into work, precisely to an empty office with the couch to pass out for about an hour. Thursdays never end it seems, last session it’s all my fault. But I make my team to go fast on 7x 300. They are fun runners so I keep it enjoyable while we sweat what seems a whole ocean out. Desperately in need of a bed, Friday starts early, and for that I need to be super creative, people come for the killer part of tgif and it’s all to blame on me. But Thursday night brings the best ever crewlove. This purple team I keep assisting evenings gave me the shirt with a coach logo in it, and all of a sudden I feel part of their enthuaism, and the seriousness of their fun-nes to run , stangers suddenly feel close humans and all I wanna do is hug each and all of’em but at least give them so much fast-ness to reach their goals. I cry myself to sleep, though I can’t sleep, it’s the prep of the full moon. Cry calms me down but doesn’t makes me sleep. And I have my glasses for the next morning on to hide some puffyness around the eyes as the remains of last night.

Friday mornings always starts as follows: we have our crew wake-up alert as chats with the 3 of us pacers-coaches. We arrive to the meeting point totally but seriously totally not willing to run. Than it just changes on the exact moment we start running. Another crew, another group of humans who respectively look up on us dealing and helping to achieve their dreams-goals-plans. I’m not sure we ever will accomplish but they and us staff definitely wake up by 7. We go superhard superearly. Fartlek 300/100 at 3:30/4:30 for 2 k and burpees and planks randomly just to top our unconcsious morning phrase. We all smile somehow when done, and give each other high fives, best of the mornings. 

And for that reason I call the masseur and fall onto his table. My legs are just as numb by friday noon as my head. He gives me some more bruises, and it is all ok.

Friday night it’s silent cheering and thinking and a wish to just hopefully bring a bried smile on the face; and trying to not acknowledge people looking at my bare legs in short skirts. They seem to all notice my rainbow colored bruises on random places of my leg.

It’s been two weeks. Between two massages, and no messages and past and upcoming races. Sunday we rock, with our bruises. Everywhere. 


I just run.

I just run on Sunday as well.


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