Running. More than an action, more than a sport. A complete lifestyle focusing on the combination of physical strength and mental capacity. A hobby requiring utmost emotional dedication and the willingness to look in the mirror at the weary, broken shaped up ghost of a human incapable of another step and say, "Let's do another 400." An activity that turns bedrooms into museums. Old and new running shoes equally worn scatter the closet, a pile of dirty shorts and Nike tank tops in the corner and Steve Prefontaine staring down at you from the poster with the Gospel-like saying, "To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift." A lifestyle that humbles you, beats you down. Tells you your times are too high. Tells you what you should've, could've, would've while you sometimes cry telling yourself you shouldn't, couldn't, wouldn't. Then afterwards calling yourself weak- minded for thinking so. It's cancelled plans, non-existent Friday nights, pictures never taken, memories of the inside of your eyelids. It's awful bus rides on bumpy highways to meets. It's the anticipation of hearing the order of events, the flips your stomach makes when you hear the word "varsity." Aches. Pains. Sprains. The tears forming in your eyes while you sit by the fence watching other girls run your races because your ankle is in a boot. It's puking. It's tears. It's heat. It's heart. It's the breeze God blows down the shade-less Prairie Path. It's the shot of the gun and the diaspora of the people desperate to enter the chute three miles away first, to taste the Gatorade first, to feel accomplishment first. It's considering running tights appropriate to wear out. It's bagel runs after hills. It's "so that's why you're so skinny." It's chocolate milk. It's crying at the finish line after breaking your seven minute mile. It's crying at the finish line after almost every meet, good or bad. It's the sport that you don't do for anyone else but the last kid to finish the mile in their gym class. The kid who lost every race in their sixth grade track season. It's for ripping up the mental pictures and letting the world see the real deal, how tough you really are. Hill after hill. Path after path. Stride after stride. Past highways, parks, tennis courts. Rain or shine. Day or night. Hot or cold. Young or old. Boy or girl. Win a legend or lose a hero.