, cue my optimism alarm vibrating on my bedside table. It’s my optimism alarm because I usually turn it off and sleep until seven. Today I stumble across the room, grab running gear, orthotics, polar fleece vest, long pants.
When I open the door to leave the house at , already the cold is shrinking me, my knuckles are stiff. After running through the main streets I find myself in darkness. Street lights hang useless above me; each step is an unexpected encounter with the ground.
I round a corner, suddenly my shadow leads. Over my shoulder, the moon gleams, crescent shaped. A car passes, I blink like a possum. Click. The lights lower. An hour after rising, a weak glow crackles through bare brambles, shapes materialise out of dark and shadows. I still haven’t broken a sweat.