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十二月一日，我跑出了自己的白气
十二月一日，晴，零下三度。
闹钟五点五十响，我伸手从被窝里把它按掉，手背又被冷气顶了回来。我在黑暗里躺了整整十分钟，心里盘算着离出门上学还有多少时间，然后一掀被子坐了起来。穿上棉衣站到楼下时，我看见了自己的呼吸——一团一团的白气，从鼻子前面升起来，在额前散开。
第一段路是河边的下坡。风从河面上过来，顺着围巾和衣领之间的缝往里钻。跑出两百米，喉咙开始发干，每吸一口气，冷空气都像粗砂纸在胸口里面磨。脚步很乱，鞋底敲在冻硬的路面上，咔、咔、咔。到第三盏路灯那里，我的手从冰凉变成发烫，后背的汗把打底衫洇湿了一小块。
最难的是菜场那个坡。腿沉得像不是自己的，每一步只能抬起来半格。我想停下来，连借口都想好了——都十二月一号了，现在开始跑步本来就晚。但环卫桶前面有个扫地的老人，背对着我，把落叶往路边归拢，扫帚划过地面，沙沙响。他看上去有六十多岁，扫得很稳。我咬着牙把那个坡跑了上去。坡顶的风反而小了些，背上的汗被冷风一激，凉一阵，热一阵。我放慢半步调呼吸，两只手撑在膝盖上喘了几口，又抬脚继续跑。耳朵里是自己的心跳，混着远处第一班公交车进站的声音。
往回跑的时候，天刚有点亮。小区门口的早餐店拉开了半截卷帘门，一锅豆腐脑的热气升到二楼窗户那么高。我把手插在口袋里走，小腿有点胀，脚步却轻。我在心里算：今天跑了二点八公里，中间一步都没有走过。
到家，我妈刚起床，问我累不累。我说不累，这是假话，我浑身都是汗黏着的感觉。但吃早饭前我翻开英语书，早上第一遍读进去的内容，比往常哪一次都清楚。
明天五点五十，我还起来。
On December 1st I Ran Until I Could See My Own Breath
December 1st. Clear sky. Minus three degrees.
The alarm went off at 5:50. I reached out from under the quilt and silenced it, and the cold pushed my hand back. I lay in the dark for a full ten minutes, counting the time left before I had to leave for school, then threw back the quilt and sat up. When I stepped downstairs in my padded coat, I could see my own breath, cloud after cloud of white vapor rising from my nose and fading in front of my forehead.
The first stretch ran downhill toward the river. The wind came across the water and slipped through the gap between my scarf and my collar. After two hundred meters my throat went dry, and every breath felt like rough sandpaper rubbing inside my chest. My steps were messy, my soles striking the frozen road in a dry clatter. By the third streetlight my hands had turned from icy to burning, and a patch of sweat had spread across my base layer.
The hardest part was the slope by the vegetable market. My legs felt heavy, as if they belonged to someone else, each step lifting only half as high as it should. I wanted to stop, and my excuse was ready: it was already December 1st, too late to start running. But near the waste bin an old man was sweeping, his back to me, gathering fallen leaves toward the curb, his broom whispering on the ground. He must have been over sixty, and he swept with a steady rhythm. I gritted my teeth and ran up the slope. At the top the wind actually softened; the sweat on my back was whipped by the cold air, alternating between chill and heat. I slowed half a step to catch my breath, hands on my knees, then set off again. In my ears was my own heartbeat, mixed with the sound of the first bus of the day pulling into the stop.
On the way back the sky had just begun to lighten. The breakfast shop at the gate had rolled up half its shutter, and the steam from a pot of tofu pudding rose as high as the second floor window. I walked with my hands in my pockets, calves swollen but steps light. I did the math in my head: 2.8 kilometers today, and not a single step of walking.
At home my mother had just gotten up and asked if I was tired. I said no, which was a lie, my whole body sticky with sweat. But before breakfast I opened my English textbook, and what I read on the first pass stayed clearer than on any other morning.
Tomorrow at 5:50, I will get up again.
十二月十九日，我和心里那个喊停的声音
十二月十九日，多云，零下七度，晨跑第十八天。
今天比月初更冷。栏杆上结了一层薄霜，手指碰上去，手套都挡不住那股凉。才跑出小区，睫毛上就挂了细小的冰粒，一眨眼，眼皮上凉一下。
跑到河堤中段，老问题又来了：呼吸跟不上脚步。喉咙深处发紧，喘气像拉一个生锈的风箱，呼出去的热气在围巾上结了一层薄冰，硬邦邦地贴着下巴。心里那个声音准时响起来：今天已经够了，走回去也没人知道。它说得又轻又顺，像替我着想。
我在路灯底下站了两秒，霜化的鞋印在脚下清清楚楚。前天的日记里我写过：那个声音最响的时候，往往就是快跑顺的时候。我把冻僵的手握进袖口，重新迈开步子，从它说话说到一半的地方开始数：一、二、三、四，脚落在拍子上。
数到第一百下的时候，那个声音小了一点；数到第三百下，胸口那团堵着的东西忽然松了，呼吸重新顺过来，腿也不那么沉了。原来所谓突破，就是跟一个声音多对峙了三百步。
往回跑到小卖部门口，那里的灯是这条街上最亮的。老板把成箱的牛奶搬到台阶上，看见我一身白气，抬了抬下巴算是打招呼。我冲他点了下头，从他身边跑了过去。跑过那一秒，我心里特别痛快，像赢了一场只有我知道比分的比赛。
回家路上我改成走。腿是酸的，但酸得很均匀，身体好像已经认得这条路，知道哪里是坡、哪里该换脚。路过单元门，我抬头看了一眼自家窗户，玻璃上结着冰花，屋里是暖的，可我知道那层冰花里面站着一个刚跑完两点八公里的人。
日记写到这里，手还是热的。第十八天，没有一天是轻松的，但每一天我都到了。
On December 19th I Argued With the Voice Inside Me
December 19th. Cloudy. Minus seven degrees. Day eighteen of my morning runs.
Colder than at the start of the month. A thin film of frost coated the railing, and even through my gloves the cold bit into my fingers. I had barely left the residential compound when tiny ice grains formed on my eyelashes, and each blink left a cool sting on my lids.
Halfway along the river embankment, the old problem returned: my breathing could not keep up with my feet. The back of my throat tightened, and every breath sounded like a rusty bellows. The warm air I exhaled froze into a stiff shell on my scarf, pressed against my chin. Right on time, that voice inside me spoke up: you have done enough today, nobody would know if you walked home. It spoke softly and smoothly, as if it were looking out for me.
I stood under a streetlight for two seconds, my footprint in the melting frost sharp beneath me. In the entry from the day before yesterday I had written: the moment that voice is loudest is usually the moment right before my stride falls into rhythm. I tucked my numb hands into my sleeves, started moving again, and began counting from the middle of the sentence it had been saying: one, two, three, four, each footfall landing on the beat.
By the hundredth count the voice had quieted; by the three-hundredth, the tightness in my chest suddenly loosened, my breathing fell back into rhythm, and my legs stopped feeling so heavy. So this is what a breakthrough is: standing your ground against one voice for three hundred more steps.
Near home, by the little corner shop, its light the brightest on the street. The owner was carrying crates of milk up the steps; seeing the clouds of vapor around me, he tipped his chin in greeting. I nodded back and ran past him. In that one second I felt a pure rush, as if I had won a game whose score only I knew.
On the way home I switched to walking. My legs ached, but the ache was even, as if my body already knew this road, knew where the slope was and when to change feet. Passing my building entrance, I looked up at our window. Ice flowers covered the glass, and the flat behind them was warm, but I knew that inside that frost stood someone who had just finished 2.8 kilometers.
My hand is still warm as I write this. Day eighteen. Not one of them was easy, but on every one of them, I showed up.
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