WHY I RUN

I run to know what I’m thinking and feeling, to be surprised, to inhabit the raw animal of my body, to push the limits of my spirit, to know what beauty and failure feel like. I run to feel the archaic power of the earth, to feel magic, solitude, pain, fellowship. I grew up in a part of Maine that, a century before, had been pastured farmland, but had become wild again, with bears and moose wandering through the yard, eagles and ravens and hawks flying overhead. Because the earth had been rewilded, I knew that I could be as well, and running has been one the best ways to embody that.

Running is an elegant and simple way to move through the landscape, a kind of apprenticeship to the living, breathing earth. It grounds me-literally- and connects me with my ancient ancestors and the animals around me. Running’s relentless clarity filters out the unnecessary, reveals what is important. I run for reasons I do and do not know, but I learn more with every run.