Why Did I Start?

Why did I start? I don’t know,
but I don’t want to stop. I
wasn’t very good; in fact, I
was a really bad long distance
runner in high school. I was
a sprinter — hundred yards,
two-twenty at most. We had
to run cross-country if we
wanted to try out for the
basketball team. Then, at
twenty-five, I just started.
I think I loved the look of
the shoes, running shoes.
If I put them on, I could
fly. I loved the feeling of
the shoes on my feet. Were
they like the red ballet
slippers? She danced to
death. I didn’t want to die;
I just wanted to fly, at
least it seemed like flying
in my mind for about 40,000
miles with feet on the
ground in forty-six years,
now just slow trail jogging
several times a week. Counting
distance is now finished for a
timeless thirty minutes — but
still flying through the sky in
a new pair of running shoes.

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