The alarm clock jangles my eyes open, but the room is as black as though they’re still closed. I leap from my bed, throw on my robe, and brew strong coffee. It is 5 a.m.
There is no reason to start this early to run up a mountain, but there is something about sunrise from the summit that I find irresistible.
I am superwoman, right? Rising at dawn to conquer towering peaks.
I am a 40-year-old English teacher who, until four years ago, didn’t exercise at all.
I started jogging because of vanity. I’d spent my 36th summer hoping that the baggy Bermudas would hide my once-taut thighs, and men’s T-shirts would conceal my ever-expanding midriff. By September, I was thoroughly disgusted with my oversized wardrobe and, huffing and puffing, I chugged once around the block. I lost 20 pounds in January and was trotting all over the neighborhood. I didn’t really like running, mind you, but the rewards were worth it.