I run.

"The question is," the pseudo-intellectual smirked,

when the topic turned to running
and runners,

"What are they running from?"

What am I running from?

I'm running from a size 16, 14, 12...
and a number on the scale,
from a lifetime of bad habits,
from hating my body
from a family history of depression and obesity
from diabetes
from a genetic predisposition to heart failure.

I run.

I run from the past,
from pain,
from ten years of smoking,
from asthma,
from fallen arches
from, "too old"
from, "too late"

I run.

I run from feeling trapped,
from feeling like a loser,
from past regrets,
from things I wished I'd done differently,

I run from the back of the pack,
from DNF,
from "you're too slow,"
from "you must be crazy,"
from, "isn't that hard on your knees?"

when I run,
I run to nowhere in particular.

I run alone,
without fanfare,
without audience,
just me and the pre-dawn darkness
and my footsteps.

I know I'm slow,
and I run like a girl.

Try and keep up.

...