Three runs a week, for a year

Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. Five kilometers each. For a year.

There is no story here, and that's the story. The runs aren't fast. They aren't long. They aren't pretty. They are just there, on a calendar, every week, finished before I have time to talk myself out of them.

I didn't track pace. I didn't optimize gear. I didn't read a single book on running form. I tied my shoes and I went outside. The bar was so low that "didn't feel like it" wasn't a reason to skip — it was just Tuesday.

The first month, my legs hurt. The second month, my legs still hurt, but quieter. By the third, the hurt had moved from my body into the part of my brain that argues with the alarm clock. I learned to negotiate with that part the way I negotiate with a stuck deploy: small steps, no drama, no big speeches about discipline.

What I learned is small: the hardest part of any habit is the first ten minutes after the alarm. Everything after that is a footnote.

I'm a year in now. The runs are still slow. They're still short. They're still not pretty. And I'm still here.