4:45: Up to pee. Dang it that it's less than an hour until 5:30. Should I turn off the alarm? Uh-uh. Should I just go now? Definitely not.
5:30: Slam alarm.
5:35: No, no, no.
5:40: Really no. When else can I run today? After school drop-off? Lunch? Before school pick-up? Should I just skip it? I should just skip it. But I'm awake. Mostly. So if I skip it, I'll just lie here and dwell on the fact that I'm not running.
5:45: Fine. Take your own stupid advice: don't think, just go. Pee again, clothes on, shoes on, banana down the hatch, gloves and hat on.
5:47: O.k. this isn't so bad. Not as cold out as I thought it was.
5:52: Wait, it's only been five minutes?
5:54: See Freakshow Man wearing, among other odd things, snowpants on park path. We're both facing the same direction. Pretend like I don't see him.
5:56: Execute poor farmer's blow. Spot lines of snot all over my black tights and gloves.
5:57: Only ten minutes?
5:59: Is the mud on this path clinging to the soles of my shoes? Because my legs feel really heavy.
6:01: Opt for cement path. It wasn't the mud.
6:02: I will not look at my watch until I reach that turn. I will not look at my watch until I reach that turn.
6:03: Look at watch.
6:04:40: Reach turn.
6:07: Halfway! I'm halfway done! All downhill from here!
6:08: Not really. Holy hill. I will not walk. I will not walk. I'd be faster walking, but I will not walk.
6:08:45: Did you hear me? I will not walk.
6:09: Legs and lungs exhale as we all reach level ground.
6:09:10: Sweet, sweet downhill. Oh, how I love you downhill. Oh, how I love you running.
6:10: Sun starts to peak up over the trees. Sky is a blend of pink and orange and lovely. Oh, how I love you sun and sky.
6:12: Pass Freakshow Man face to face. He smiles kindly and says, "Haven't seen you in a while out here." Oh, how I love you Freakshow Man. And I'm sorry I called you that.
6:15: Must pass eight parked cars on gradual uphill before I can walk.
6:16: Pass seventh parked car.
6:16:01: Close enough. Walk.
6:20: Seven minutes left is nothing. It's just 7/40th's. And no, I can't reduce that fraction any more.
6:19: I will run until I get three mailboxes away from my own.
6:20: I will run until I get two mailboxes away from my own.
6:21: Three mailboxes.
6:23: Two mailboxes.
6:24: Is the pace I'm running now even a speed?
6:25: Five mailboxes.
6:27: Make it to two mailboxes. Victory.
6:28: Stretch calves on front step: one minute on each leg. Take deep breaths as my muscles lengthen and my euphoria grows. Forty minutes in the can for my legs, lungs and spirit. Forty minutes that I'll never regret.
6:30: Walk in the door. Answer "Great!"—and mean it—when Grant asks me how my run was.
Sound familiar? What timeline tidbit of your own comes from a recent run?