Look at that woman running.
She's wearing a weathered man's t-shirt, plain black shorts and fancy running shoes.
She needs a haircut, but it's not too noticeable under her faded baseball cap.
She runs along the beach from the end of the parking lot towards the pier.
Other runners pass her.
Neighbors don't wave hello; they don't recognize her without her children.
This makes her smile.
Halfway to the pier she turns and runs home.
She keeps an even pace, mostly to the music from her phone.
Sometimes she shakes out her arms or pretends to play an air drum.
Mostly she shuffles along.
But she doesn't stop.
Not until the stopwatch reads 20 minutes.
She runs for 20 minutes.
I ran for 20 minutes.
I am a runner.
More importantly, I am discovering that at 34 I really don't know my limits.
