Dear calves… I know I ask too much. Every climb I promise it’ll get easier. Then every sunrise I ask for even more. You never complain. You just tighten up and come with me anyway. Dear quads… I’m sorry for every downhill. Every step has felt like slamming on the brakes with no brake pads left. Yet somehow, you still catch me before gravity wins. Hamstrings… You only ever speak up when something’s about to go wrong. But every morning you quietly let me start again. Glutes… Turns out all those miserable hill repeats weren’t for nothing. Lower back… You’ve carried more than a running vest. Shoulders… Thanks for wearing the weight of another day without asking why. And to my heart… You’ve been the loudest thing I’ve heard all month. Not because you’re breaking. Because you keep saying… Run. Hike. Survive. One more climb. One more hill. One more sunrise. One more day. Feet… You look like you’ve gone twelve rounds with a cheese grater. But every morning, you squeeze back into the shoes like we’ve forgotten yesterday. Lungs… Sorry for setting you on fire before breakfast. Stomach… Thanks for pretending another gel was a good idea. Knees… You’ve creaked. You’ve cracked. You’ve negotiated every descent. Ankles… I know I’ve rolled you more times than I can count. Yet here you are. Still balancing. Still believing. When this month is over, people will remember how many metres we climbed. I’ll remember something else. I’ll remember the body that never once asked if we could quit. It only ever asked… “Are we going?” And every morning… somehow… the answer was… Run. Hike. Survive
