There it is, the next gear. Steve shifts into it, like a car pushing forward, and she meets his glance, before finding it, setting it. Steps coming faster now, as they keep moving onward, upward, bloodflow a flood, now, beating like a drum in her ears. Starting to feel rough in her chest.
Nothing ragged, not the coppery taste of pushing too hard for too long, but this is pushing it, for sure, especially considering she's been on a deck for the last few months, close to half a year and is mostly there, anyway. Living on the water, on flat surfaces, enclosed surfaces, cramped quarters. She's hardly had the chance to stretch, let alone climb an incline, and she's feeling it. Will feel it all over, tomorrow, no matter how muster-ready she keeps herself. There's just nothing like it, no matter what incline you punch into the treadmill. Some combination of gravity, and balance, and keeping her footing on the narrow path.
Up, up. Following Steve's new pace, and feeling good about it, even as her breath shortens further, and everything compacts into motion, action, reaction. Rhythm. It's all about rhythm. Just continually putting one foot in front of the other. Good for life, good for a run.
Until they come to the bridge of narrow wooden steps, and she glances to him for example, breathing heavy and hard, because Steve might love a challenge, but she's pretty sure he wouldn't love tripping and breaking something on this next part of the path.
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Nothing ragged, not the coppery taste of pushing too hard for too long, but this is pushing it, for sure, especially considering she's been on a deck for the last few months, close to half a year and is mostly there, anyway. Living on the water, on flat surfaces, enclosed surfaces, cramped quarters. She's hardly had the chance to stretch, let alone climb an incline, and she's feeling it. Will feel it all over, tomorrow, no matter how muster-ready she keeps herself. There's just nothing like it, no matter what incline you punch into the treadmill. Some combination of gravity, and balance, and keeping her footing on the narrow path.
Up, up. Following Steve's new pace, and feeling good about it, even as her breath shortens further, and everything compacts into motion, action, reaction. Rhythm. It's all about rhythm. Just continually putting one foot in front of the other. Good for life, good for a run.
Until they come to the bridge of narrow wooden steps, and she glances to him for example, breathing heavy and hard, because Steve might love a challenge, but she's pretty sure he wouldn't love tripping and breaking something on this next part of the path.