Warming Up to Myself

 oday marked my third day of running in a row—something that initially felt surprising until I checked the numbers and realized I’ve actually run 16 of the last 21 days. That’s roughly three out of every four days. Funny how the mind frames things: the streak feels accidental, almost fragile, yet the reality suggests a level of consistency I rarely give myself credit for. If I run tomorrow, the streak becomes “above average,” but even without that, the pattern is already there.

This morning’s run felt like a small gift. Forty-seven degrees in late November is warm enough to crack open the door to the outdoors again, so I took it. I didn’t expect much—certainly not speed—but I ended up running 3.13 miles at a 7:26 pace. It was definitely a push, though not outside any true limits. Mostly it just felt foreign because I haven’t asked my body to run fast in a long while. And somehow, outside of a couple of 5Ks and a few random one-mile tests, this was my fastest run since June of 2022.

What makes it interesting is that it wasn’t planned. I meant to pick up the pace a little, but I didn’t have any number in mind. My legs handled the progression on their own: 7:54 in mile one, 7:02 in mile three, with the middle mile bridging the gap. By the last mile I was working, sure, but the only real difference between the early slog and the late surge was being warmed up. I used to be able to step out the door and hit the gas immediately. Now I need a mile—sometimes more—to remember where the rhythm lives. Maybe that’s aging. Maybe it’s wisdom. Maybe it’s just the body refusing to skip necessary steps I’ve ignored for years.

I’m at 70.8 miles for the month and on pace for 101 in November. Less than 84 miles stand between me and 1,000 for the year. My average pace for 2025 sits at 8:39—my slowest to date, barely edging out last year’s 8:37. But since July, I’ve been stringing together sub-8:30 runs, gradually tugging the average downward. The numbers shift slowly, but they do shift.

There’s something grounding in that. The data shows a version of me I don’t always see in the moment: steady, persistent, willing to keep showing up even when I don’t feel sharp or fast or particularly inspired. Maybe the real warm-up isn’t the first mile—it’s the long stretch of days where I keep putting one foot in front of the other, waiting for the version of myself that remembers how to push, how to trust the legs, how to run freely again.

And every now and then—like today—that version shows up