run this amazing day

A year ago.  It seems a logical place to start.

Every October since we transplanted to Colorado, I’ve celebrated my birthday with a ride (and every year, I describe this day; please don't mind as I gaze lovingly at my navel for a while).  I step away from work and responsibility and the ping of the phone to wander the mountains alone on my bike, returning home late in the day, blown with wind and grit and sunshine and sweat.  Filthy, exuberant.  Sated.  
All these years.  I'd boogie through the shower to scrub off most of the dirt, blow-dry my hair, pull on the cowboy boots that constitute dressed up in Boulder and head out for a fall evening that has somehow always turned up delightful & perfect, crisp, cool, a black sky thrown with stars.  The day ends with red wine, far too much ice cream and the warmth of love laced with friendship; at this point (in my advancing age) it all blurs together into one soft memory of bracing sunlight, miles traveled over the earth, deep huma…

He came home at seven weeks old.
We had picked out several possible names for him, a whole list crowd-sourced from coworkers and friends.  None seemed to fit.  As we drove up I-95 through light snow, I tried them out.  Winston?  Kalai?  And then a few minutes later, off-handedly to the poet, he smells like a tiny box of graham crackers.  He said, Graham? and I said, with only slight irritation to my boyfriend of about two months, Did you just name my dog?!
He was sugar-cookie-sweet right off the bat.  He learned how to sit at eight weeks old, peed on the Christmas tree rug at nine, charmed my dad into remarking, dogs are so much better than kids at ten. I would say that he was mine but the truth is, I was his.  Madly, deeply, immediately, I belonged to him.
He got sick when he was two, and everyone saved him.  It changed us.  It is hopefully not a lie to say that it made me a better person and it is all because of Graham.  We gave back everything that had been given to us and kept giving…

In life right now, everything is being measured in tiny increments.  I recently passed four months post-surgery.  I've been exercising again for eleven weeks.  My long run has gotten five to ten minutes longer each week, last Tuesday I graduated from the pink 2-pound dumbbell to the blue 3-pound dumbbell in PT-prescribed bicep curls.  My shoulder can tolerate fifteen more minutes on the trainer, I can unload the dishwasher, chop cucumbers (but not sweet potatoes), open windows, walk two dogs.  To be in this place actually feels quite sweet; I have a phenomenal amount of appreciation for the small wins.  I'm not thinking about when I can next race an ironman, I'm thinking about whether or not I can run ten miles next Sunday and how fucking happy I'll be to see that final mile flip over on the watch.
After almost every huge race I've done, I've taken some time off.  What that has meant in the past is a few days or maybe weeks spent noshing on the oh-so-trite cupca…