180 BPM

One, two, three; inhale. One, two, three; strike and exhale.

One, two, three; inhale. One, two, three; strike and exhale.

The breathing mechanics mantra I repeated while running. Each imprint my steps left on the asphalt silenced, one by one, those loud noises constantly churning in the background of my mind. This rhythmic breath discipline wasn't merely a technique — it was a switch that cut off the complex flow of data flooding my brain. As the distance grew, I could feel myself approaching that famous Runner's High threshold. This chemical intoxication coursing through my veins was a peak so clear and wholesome that no artificial stimulant could ever replicate it.

After a while, that relentless buzzing in my head finally gave way to a deep silence. My brain now processed only the purest information needed for survival: the flawless synchrony of my muscles, the distribution of oxygen filling my lungs as fuel, and the rhythm of the road. The dark uncertainty about the future, the heavy existential burden of feeling unfulfilled, the pressure of mundane yet numerous worries like upcoming rent and bills — all of it fell away, one by one, left behind in the dust of my footsteps.

One, two, three; inhale. One, two, three; strike and exhale.

One, two, three; inhale. One, two, three; strike and exhale.

There was nothing else…

When I silenced the buzzing in my brain, the veil drawn over my eyes by stress and anxiety lifted, and nature was reinterpreted in its most naked form. The sun was no longer just a light source — it was a warm reward touching my skin. The scent of the sea didn't reach my nose; it poured directly into my soul. The rhythm of the waves tore away the layered, hardened shells that stress and anxiety had built around my spirit. The wind's contact against my skin wasn't ordinary — it was a gift. I was filled with gratitude toward nature. Everything was so beautiful, and rediscovering that beauty each time was so priceless. That is why, for me, every run was not just exercise but a sacred ritual that allowed me to see the world clearly again.

But this time I would make an exception and push myself a little harder. Because my runs could transform from a ritual into an adventure whenever I chose. For that, I needed to reach 180 BPM. Below 180 BPM, my body was still under strain, but the fat, carbohydrate, and glycogen balance was sufficient — meaning my body could produce as much energy as it was expending. But beyond 180 beats, that was no longer the case, because my body could not produce enough energy to match what was being consumed — and that was where the adventure began.

I accelerated and reached 180 BPM within a short time.

My body had reacted quickly to the anomaly — an energy crisis had erupted once again. With energy demand skyrocketing and suppliers unable to meet it, an emergency meeting was convened among the forces. Despite sufficient fat reserves in storage, the processing time required to convert fat into energy couldn't keep pace with the demands of my run. If I needed 100 watts per minute, my body's fat processing factory could only produce 50 watts per minute. There was plenty of fat, yes, but in the present circumstances it was useless — converting fat into usable energy was an enormously laborious process, and there was no way to speed it up. The managers in charge of fat reserves were furious at the incoming pressure, desperately trying to silence the objections and explain there was nothing they could do. The glycogen stores had already been depleted in the first twenty minutes. And since I followed a low-carbohydrate diet, there were no emergency backup energy sources inside. Deadlock ruled the session, and although everyone struggled to maintain diplomatic composure, the tension was palpable. The HSL manager in charge of fat depots had stopped answering calls entirely. He had dispatched all his stock, but the cargo ships were stuck in traffic. The bouncer Carnitine stood helplessly before the furnace, arms full of fatty acids, because the oxygen inside was insufficient to ignite this heavy fuel. Since the muscles had begun siphoning even the energy needed to run the power plant, the furnaces had started to cool.

But pointless arguing served no purpose — every second the energy deficit was growing to catastrophic proportions. The head of intelligence, Hypothalamus, rose from his chair and slammed his fist on the table, silencing everyone.

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

The noise cut out instantly and everyone turned to face Hypothalamus. Panic had suppressed the tension, and Hypothalamus had little trouble commanding silence. He swept his gaze around those present and continued.

"Our energy deficit is growing. Our fat processing plants can only meet a third of current demand. Our carbohydrate stores are empty — there's a shortage. We cannot waste any more time here. We need to generate an emergency solution and take action."

"And what is your proposal?" shot back Lipase, the logistics director — who had borne the brunt of the blame since the start of the session.

"Our only option is to break down the proteins in muscle tissue and convert them into glucose in the liver," Hypothalamus continued.

"This is madness!" burst out Vagus, who until that moment had been waiting in quiet composure — and who was, moreover, Hypothalamus's right-hand man. "It's like burning down the walls of the house to heat it!" he went on.

"Do you think I don't know that?" Hypothalamus raised his voice. "I'm fully aware of it. But we have no other choice. Besides, if we break down the muscles, there's a chance energy demand may decrease. Yes, we'll suffer tremendous damage — but we'll survive."

A brief murmur rose, but no fierce opposition like Vagus's came forward. Hypothalamus cleared his throat and continued.

"I trust you all understand I'm doing this for everyone's sake. Now, let's not waste another moment. Every attosecond we lose works against us."

Everyone nodded in approval, then Hypothalamus turned to General Cortisol seated beside him and whispered something in his ear. Moments later, General Cortisol picked up his hat from the table, placed it on his head, gave a military salute, and departed. He would now put Hypothalamus's orders into effect.

The crisis unfolding inside my body was of no concern to me. I ignored the stop commands from my central nervous system, turned a blind eye to the screams of lactic acid that General Cortisol's soldiers were wringing from my muscles, and rained down terror across the universe within my body like a merciless god.

A metallic taste appeared in my mouth — as if I were sucking on a rusty nail. This was the taste of the sacrifices being offered on the altars, the final warning my body's administrators were sending me. It meant: we are burning cells, we are entering irreversible damage. While my liver was racing to deliver the protein wreckage from the muscles to the sugar factory, the cloud of ammonia accumulating in my blood was beginning to numb my mind. My kidneys were too exhausted to filter the heavy molecules of this destruction. "The filters are clogging," the administrators were shouting. My body had begun producing toxins — not by choice. In every breath I exhaled, there was now a trace of ammonia.

The edges of my vision began to darken; the world collapsed into tunnel vision. My brain was now focused on only the one thing that mattered: the next step. Even the mantra had dissolved, lost among the others in the void. Everything else — the sounds around me, the trees lining the road, the warmth of the air, even myself — blurred into hazy background imagery. I was no longer a breathing organism; I was a cold, mechanical machine consuming its own muscles as fuel. If I stopped, the system would collapse, and I would be crushed under the weight of the lies called reality. So I didn't slow down. I descended deeper, into that metallic-tasting darkness, that productive hell.

Inside my body's crisis center, there was no longer cooperation — only chaos. Hypothalamus's thesis had not played out; despite the violent breakdown of muscles, energy demand showed no sign of decreasing. Alliances were dissolving one by one; everyone was hurling obscenities at everyone else. Plates were shattering, tables overturning, glasses flying through the air. The women on duty fled screaming in every direction.

Normally, when things reached this point, someone would step forward at that critical moment and silence everyone. It was usually a weak and frail idea that had been lost among the noise of other thoughts until then — an idea that believed in its own potential but had gone unnoticed. That idea would climb onto the table, fire its gun into the air, and finally become audible to me as well, lighting a bulb in my head and creating an "aha" moment. But this didn't happen every time — and this time too, there was no hero in sight. Whether the chaos inside my body would prove fatal or glorious was also a matter of time and coordination. That's why I thought I should slow down, and with a dissatisfied exhale I released the breath I had been holding. At that very moment, the chaos inside my body fell into a sharp silence. The furious managers had frozen mid-motion; the curses hung suspended in the air. But that shock was brief. Everyone erupted in cries of joy and embraced one another before returning to their posts. Hypothalamus had been deeply worn down, and as he received the congratulations, he had come close to tears. The chaos within had now ended; everyone was busy issuing orders to subordinates over the phone. The staff were cleaning up what had just been destroyed, and faces were smiling.

As I slowed, I raised my head — and a few meters ahead, I made eye contact with a woman walking in front of me. I didn't know her at all. Or had I simply failed to recognize her? Had she been lost in the noise I had just silenced? And what was that powerful wave of nostalgia that came along with this sense of familiarity? We had never met, we didn't know each other's names — but there was no need for that either. It was as if we were two people who had lost each other across different universes. This was not a meeting of two strangers but a greeting between two lost pieces of a shattered whole, at these random coordinates of the universe. We looked at each other and smiled. There was no flirtation in it, no pity, no expectation of an introduction. I couldn't know what she was thinking, but I knew what she was feeling; she knew what I was feeling. This was the pinnacle of sincerity between two people. If we spoke, it would break. If we stopped and held each other's gaze longer, thoughts would intrude and the purity of that sincerity would be lost. For the span of three steps, we looked at each other and smiled, savoring that sincerity in its most pristine form.

Inside, in the crisis center, the lights had dimmed. Hypothalamus leaned back in his chair, watching the outside world like a commander who had won the battle but aged in the process. General Cortisol had sheathed his sword and was walking silently through the wreckage of the muscle fibers he had destroyed. Yes, we had burned our walls to heat our house — but thanks to this crisis, my body had recognized its sluggish institutions and, entering a process of reconstruction, would be reborn from its own ashes stronger than before. After the crisis table dispersed, a new shift began at the Pituitary Command. The arrogant managers who wouldn't suffer a fly to land on them, and General Cortisol's heavy boots, gave way to the silent footsteps of white-coated engineers.

As that metallic taste slowly faded from my mouth, it gave way to the purity of a cool evening air. The terrible ache in my muscles was no longer a pain — it was more like a certificate of existence. It was as if my body had sacrificed itself to free my mind from all those heavy burdens.

When I stopped, I planted my hands on my knees and drew a deep breath, straightening the knee sleeve that had slipped down. The air filling my lungs was no longer merely oxygen — it was as if I were drawing the very universe itself into my chest. I stood upright and did not look back. The woman I had recognized from other universes, that nostalgia, that 180-BPM hell — all of it was now behind me. But I had left my old self back in that inferno, and I had emerged from the ashes lighter, clearer, and more real.

One, two, three; inhale. One, two, three; strike and exhale.

It was no longer a mantra. I was simply living.