Throughout my life, I’ve been asked a redonkulous number of times why I run.

“What’s the attraction?” friends, acquaintances and complete stranger ask, shaking their heads, a furrow upon their twisted, non-comprehending brows. “I HATE running.”

I run because I’m a runner. I’ve been a runner longer than I’ve had a career, been a mother . . . or even been a girlfriend. I don’t know any other way of life!

I love trail running, road running, track running, cross-country running: running up hills, down hills, on the beach, up a mountain, across a field, across the sand. I love racing from tree to tree; lamppost to lamppost; curve of the track to the straightaway, over steeplechase barriers, logs or curbs.

I love passing other runners at breakneck speed and running ’til I can’t breathe and my lungs hurt and my legs feel wobbly. I love surprising the grim-faced passersby with a smile or grin as I smoke past them, sweating rivulets on an icy day. I love succeeding in instilling the joy of running in others: especially in my kid who says he hates running but then as I’m running super slow and easy beside him, I glimpse a tiny smile as he winds his way through a mossy, lush trail on a spring day.

I just love running. I want to be able to run right to the end of my life. On that note, I’ve just laced up my runners: I’m off for my run!