It’s been an active few days in New York, despite the blustery temperatures and scattered raindrops. Ran 7 miles Saturday and 4 more Sunday and started the week off with boot camp (non sequitur: the class used to be called something fluffy and we had a handful of girls. Then randomly it changed its name and became 15 minutes longer and now we have 35-year-old men and fit married couples.)

Part of this is because I’m prepping for the Brooklyn half-marathon (!) and have to break in my legs. Most of it is because I enjoy weekends so much more when I’ve run outside and taken advantage of being young and healthy.

Running is much more of an obligation for me than a joy (eating vegetables, on the other hand, is a joy). Perhaps I need better music, or a better goal than just “get home.” True, the high point of my day is walking through the apartment door knowing I’ve just pushed myself for 40 minutes and a trip to the shower and the couch awaits. But what gets me out that door is really just the fact that at 23 years old I can run, and run well and run far, so I should. I focus on my hips rotating and my knees bending and how amazing they are for being able to do that so smoothly.

And like Nike says: Just do it.