I judge the efficacy of my workouts by the patterns on the backs of my clothing when I peel them off in the locker room. If the back of my sports bra has darkened in color, that’s good and I smile. If the lower back of my shirt has a pattern that I call “wings,” that’s even better. The vertical dip along my spine does not make much contact with my shirt, so that part of the fabric usually stays dry. Small hand-sized feathers of sweat fan upward and outward on the lower right and lower left sides of my back from my movement.

Earlier at lunch, my goal was to hit a 4 mile jog. I hadn’t been religious with my jujitsu, running or weight-training in the past couple of weeks. PMS will do that to your spirit. I looked forward to this run, however, because I had finally picked up some AAA batteries for my MP3 player. I started the run at 5.8 mph, and ran effortlessly with the music for 3.25 miles. I wanted to push more throughout this duration, but I was afraid that the excess energy I felt in the beginning would be misleading as to how much energy I had in reserve for later. But with only 3/4 of a mile left to go, I increased the speed to 6 mph (a 10-minute mile). The music jumped to something absolutely inspirational, and I saw the body I had last year at this time in my head, and imagined myself to be running toward achieving that body shape again. At 6.2 mph, I finished 4.5 miles with energy to spare. Never did I pant, never did I feel overwhelmed or bored. Whenever I checked the clock, it was with regret at the speed of the passing time, and never in aggravation that I’d only run for a few minutes that felt like hours. I noted in mid run that I felt good, and the warmth rising from my body felt good, and the rivulets of sweat racing down my chest and back felt good.

In the locker room, I saw that the entire back of my sports bra was wet to the point of wring-able, not that I tried. The diagonal spaces in between the fingers and the vertical space in between the wings on the lower back of my gray shirt had completely filled, so that instead of looking at a small wingspan, I was looking at a heart. What little fabric there is of the back of my thong was soaked through and made almost transparent by my exertion, such that I could not bring myself to put it back on after my shower. I smiled at the V-shaped red lines that ran from either side my neck down to meet in between my breasts, evidence of my MP3 player that I wore around my neck and tucked through my sports bra.

I hope this ability to run harder, faster, and to want to do so stays with me.