Seventy-seven minutes. Over an hour of indoor work on a Tuesday night, no distance tracked, nothing to show for it except the fact that I did it.

March now. Three days after the last one. Same format — just time and a body and whatever I could make happen in the space I had. An hour and seventeen minutes is a long time to spend moving when nobody’s watching and there’s no finish line.

But that’s most of it, isn’t it? The sessions nobody sees. The ones that don’t photograph well. The ones where the only proof is a number on a screen and the way your shoulders feel the next morning.

Seventy-seven minutes. That’s not nothing.

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// RAPTOR GIRL