Coastal Drift

Cold air, quiet streets, and that pale winter light stretching your shadow out ahead like a compass needle. The frost on the path says early and honest—no rush, just steady forward motion. You’re moving through a neighbourhood that hasn’t quite woken up yet, hills holding the horizon, trees standing watch. It feels like a run where endurance mattered more than speed, where you let the rhythm settle and finished stronger than you started—exactly what the numbers back up. A calm, workmanlike coastal miles kind of morning: subdued, gritty, and quietly satisfying.