I start out slow, every time. My feet tend to cross over. I have the uneven soles to prove it. After a stress fracture, I realized I was doing it, so now I force my feet what feels like miles apart but is really just normal as I strive to feel my feet hit straight on their balls. Thwap, thwap, thwap.

My neighborhood is hilly. The first hill always burns, but my thighs warm then on the downhill and the run starts to even out. I feel the blood rush to my legs. Hello ladies, who is here? Roll call.

When the sweat comes, it tickles first. It itches. I scratch my head under my hat until it starts to flow, soaking into the short hairs at the nape of my neck. The sweat trickles slowly at first until it runs strong and is just part of me.

When the humidity is close, I feel it try to strangle me. I breathe carefully, siphoning the air. It comes only with effort, and my legs scream for what it brings, oxygen. Relief.

The uphills now, they're like biking. After I met my husband, he taught me to conserve energy, to shift down with the same energy. Running is like that. The humidity is a hill, and I have to shift down just to keep moving.

The heat is an animal looking for my jugular.

I turn away.

Sometimes, when it's so hot, I realize I could go down. I'm forty, and it's over 90 degrees, and my husband is traveling on a job. There is nobody here but me to take care of her. You can't run through heat.

But I want to. I'm annoyed I didn't start this when I was young and stronger. But I'm her mother. I can't go down. I slow.

Last weekend I caught a break and caught a good eight miles around a lake in my hometown at 73 degrees. The aged farmers gathered for the tractor parade stared me down as I went lap after lap. They didn't understand why I would do this run. I didn't understand why they would do that parade.

Maybe we all just wanted to feel young and relevant.