Why I Run

I ran track. No, I run track. Though no longer competing, my soul is still a sprinter. Speed is not my drug; it is my food. It nourishes, it sustains, it gives life. Not just a craving, it is necessary to satiate the clawing, frothing monster scratching inside me to get to the track and run. Never mind the middle-aged women jogging or the marathon runners training. I need to be there, to run, for me. I need to make my own wind - hug the curve of the first leg of the 400-meter relay, see the ghost of a runner in the exchange zone, ready to pounce when I give her the baton. I need to come out of the blocks, feel the power in my driving legs, propel my arms with the violence of the gunshot. I need to accelerate, to push my body from sedentary to absolute speed, so focused on my intentions, so willed on my goal that I am oblivious to everything except one thing - I am sprinting.


*This is an excerpt from a personal essay I wrote about my track career.*