There’s a special kind of delusion runners carry around, and it usually starts with the words: “I’m just going to hop on for a quick run.”
Tonight was one of those nights.
After a long day at work, my neighbor popped over with the most Kentucky offer imaginable: “Hey, I’ve got some chicken. Want me to bring it over and we’ll grill?” And listen — I’m not turning down grilled chicken and good company. So dinner happened. Conversation happened. And yes… a few sips of wine happened.
Meanwhile, in the back of my mind, my runner‑brain was pacing like I had overslept on race day. You gotta get up. You gotta lace up. You gotta run. Put the wine down and let’s go already. Y’all know exactly what I’m talking about — right?
But like a fool, I kept chatting, kept sipping, and kept pretending the treadmill wasn’t sitting in the next room like a silent, judgmental witness. Oh, the judgments. For shame.
Eventually, I peeled myself away, changed into my running gear, and stepped into the treadmill room — also known as the dreadmill dungeon. No AC. No TV. No distractions. Just heat, stale air, and the thump‑thump‑thump of my feet hitting the deck.
To make things worse, the audiobook I picked was a total drag. But did I stop my run to change it? Of course not. I just kept suffering through it because runners are stubborn and dramatic and we’d rather endure misery than break our rhythm.
I had planned for three miles. A simple, “quick” three. Let’s knock this out, fast and furious, I told myself. But nothing about this run felt quick. Not the heat. Not the wine sloshing around in my stomach. Not the boring narrator droning in my ears. Not the treadmill that felt like it was actively trying to melt me.
And yet — in true runner fashion — I pushed for a fourth mile anyway. Not because it felt good. Not because I suddenly found motivation. But because my brain needed to “settle the score” with the chaos swirling around in my head.
By the time I finished, sweat was pouring off me like I’d just run through a car wash. And honestly? That part felt amazing. There’s something deeply satisfying about pushing through even the most dreadful runs — sweating out the day’s misery, letting go of all the excuses, and grinding through what would feel fairly easy on most days.
It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t pretty. But it counted.
Every damn mile does.
If you’re out there juggling work, dinner plans, neighbors, wine, and still trying to squeeze in a few miles — I see you. Drop a comment and tell me how your own “quick run” went today.
Until next time, keep pushing through — every damn mile.
Every Damn Mile 