My strategy to get through two hours of running is strikingly similar to how I distract myself from the boredom of… well, being stuck anywhere for any stretch of time. I tell myself:

This is where I am right now. And this is where I’m going to be for the foreseeable future. So let’s just accept that, and read a book. The only difference is that I can’t read books while trail running. And audio books are definitely not my thing.

So as I ease into the first mile of my run, I take a deep breath. I pick an album to listen to; today’s selection is Coldplay’s latest album, which I think far surpasses their past work. I think how glad I am that the Georgia weather is being nice today and that it’s only 75 degrees. And strangely, I realize I’m feeling pumped for what I’m about to do.

For the past four weeks of marathon training, I haven’t had a lot of amazing runs. But today, I am determined to enjoy my recovery run. I take a deep breath.

For now, I’m running.

And I will be running for the foreseeable future.

If I wanted to make my run feel like it would never, ever end, I would simply set my running watch to display my distance so I could constantly glance down and realize how far I still had to go. But today, I just embrace the fact that my run isn’t going to be over anytime soon and I set the display to show me my heart rate instead.

Most training schedules will remind you that your long, slow runs should be performed at a “conversational pace.” But telling me to run at a pace at which I could comfortably talk to a running partner is like telling a Vulcan that his exercise should evoke a certain type of emotion: As a general rule, I don’t run with other people. So as a consequence of never running with a partner and never attempting comfortable conversation mid-run, I have a terrible habit of running my slow runs far too fast. I like to fly. I like to crest a hill and just let my feet go and let momentum carry me down, down.

But today, I need to let my body take it slow. Which, for me, means that I need to focus on maintaining a low heart rate throughout the recovery run.

It’ll be an adventure, I tell myself as I glance down at my watch. A challenge.

As I settle into my rhythm, I decide the best way to keep my heart rate hovering around 140 beats per minute is to focus on my breath. Just like in yoga. Just like in meditation.

I can keep my mouth closed at this pace, breathing slowly in and out through my nose. I experiment with some different cadences, checking my heart rate frequently until I find a pace and rhythm that just… works.

I’ve found my groove. It feels good.

The challenge is maintaining the constant pace while other runners and bikers whiz by me, causing my competitive self to want to pick up my pace. Another challenge is any change in elevation. I’m on the Alpharetta Greenway, which is a long, mostly flat trail consistently interrupted by little hills that rise up to tall metal bridges that span the various creeks. I climb to a bridge, trying to constantly bring my focus to my breath. Still, at the bottom of the hill my heart rate has risen to 152 beats per minute. Breathe in, breathe out. In. Out.

I take more steps and teach myself consistency. I breathe and try to ignore the longing to run at my usual pace, try to savor the feeling of where I am.

The first time I look at my distance is after my first fuel break, which consists of popping a couple of energy chews in my mouth to get more carbohydrates in my system and attempting to sip from a water fountain while jogging in place. I don’t want to lose my momentum, my groove. Feeling a rush of adrenaline, I hit the trail again with seven miles to go. My breath guides me back to my pace, which has become comfortable and effortless after the first few miles. I feel loose. Ready.

My Coldplay album ends, and for a few miles, I don’t turn on anything else – just let the rhythm of the singing cicadas and the chirping of the birds overlap with the sound of my rhythmic breathing. Zone out. It’s nice, really. It’s times like these, when I let myself just glide alone with the silence, not needing to distract myself, that running feels the most right. When the miles I’ve clocked over the last four weeks – even the ones that felt worthless – finally, finally feel worthwhile.

This is why I run. For the moments when the hours of training finally come together. When the focus and positive energy all get channeled into something that ultimately feels so good.

When I get through with the song and dance of my third fuel-and-water break, I clock in around nine miles and the dull aching of fatigue is setting in. I am reaching the brink of my training. I only need a little more to push me through to the end. A few more breaths. A few more steps.

For now, I’m running.

And what is running but rhythm?

There’s an open stretch of path before me, clear and straight, and for a moment I close my eyes and allow the rhythm of my footsteps to carry me.

For now, I am here.

And what’s funny is that I feel like I could be happy doing this for the foreseeable future.