About one hundred yards down the road, they catch up to you. They grab you by the collar, they take a death grip on your calves and poke your hamstrings with the sharpest sticks they can find. They run around your insides and play racquetball with your last meal, doing cannon balls off your dry asophogus and having so much fun trying to make you give up.

God knows what they are but they never fail to notice when you strap the Nikes on and in all the years I've been running, they've never missed an appointment. But after a while, they begin telling you stories. Stories about yourself.

I'm no marathon runner. I'm no skinny old guy that's been running since Converse were the proper track attire. I'm just some guy who runs. I started in high school. The first day of my freshman year, I showed up to cross country practice thinking I'd be decent. The next day, squatting to reach my freshman locker made my legs scream bloody murder. Four years later I crossed the finish line at the state XC meet as the number one runner for my team, something that had never happened.

I still run, and I don't know how many calories it burns. I don't run to lose weight. I don't run to be faster. I don't run to be fit, to brag, to win races, to kill time, to get places.

I run, to find out who I am.

All the rest are just perks.