"Why Do You Run?"

I sit here, at my computer, attempting to polish my own image of myself.  I wish that I was never nervous, yet I find myself quivering with the anticipation of what is to come.  Track State is tomorrow.  And I do not know anything but fear.  Because I would prefer not to delve into the complex issue of why I fear failure, I am going to answer a question that has been asked so many times, that it has become engraved into my mind.  "Why (on earth) do you run?"  First I am tempted to say back, "why do you breath (and please stop)?"  But the more I think about this question the more I wish to answer it.  Yet there never seems to be enough time.  So I will answer it now.  

When I was a little girl, and leaves began to fall,  I would (to avoid raking with my mom) take a shiny plastic leaf bag and unwrap from its roll.  Then I would tare it off at the dotted lines and the noise it made was extremely satisfying.  We lived on a dead end back in those days, so no dangerous cars ventured into my world.  I would run up and down the street with the leaf bag held in my arms capturing the air as it streamed behind me.  I remember the cool teal of my matching sweat top and bottom.  I remember the smell of crinkly leaves.  And I remember the feeling of running as fast as I could, until my legs would not push any harder.  There are many feelings that I have felt in this world, many tastes and memories, many friends, jokes, and laughs.  But nothing is as easy to bring back as that feeling of utter bliss.  I felt happy not because of the actions of others, or the achievements of myself, or whether people liked me or not.  I was just happy because I was running.  That same happiness hits me when I am coming around the bend of my 400m or finishing up my 800m.  It is so easy for me to slip back into the intensity of being young.  People tell me that when I am having a good race my lips are bent into the shape of contentment.  I know why.  Its because for a short while, I can reach up and touch the face of God with my own imperfect fingertips.  That is why I run.