An exposition on why runners run long distance. | Word Count: 6,000
It’s cold.
Like really cold.
Too cold to do anything worthwhile other than what it takes to keep alive and yet I was trying to be outside willingly. Something as crazy as running in thirteen degrees- sometimes colder whenever the wind comes gusting.
And – oh boy – did it really like to antagonize me.
The moisture from my breath was condensing into a fog every time I exhaled as if I were a fire-breathing dragon. Every breath inwards resulted in a sharp sting. It overflowed my lungs, sucking out whatever internal warmth was there. It was uncomfortable, but not comparable to the pain in my fingers and toes, which were faring far worse despite being covered in thick socks and a pair of fuzzy gloves!
I was kept from going insane by bundling myself in layers of clothes. I had prepared before sunrise in the hotel, putting on skin-tight leggings, jogging shorts, a short sleeve shirt, and a long sleeve shirt. All of this overdressing was to keep the wind chill from reaching my bones, then slowly peeling away the clothes for when I got warmed up – if that did happen.
A wind gust teased me and caused me to shiver more violently.
It was definitely too early to shed anything.
The forecast stated there was no snow today, although the cloudy morning skies felt like they could hide surprises, which I hoped would not come to pass – snow sticks to clothes and makes runners colder. Not ideal conditions to finish a long race. The roads were already sprinkled with salt to prevent black ice from forming. Mostly on bridges and the main streets as a precaution.
I looked around at metal gates blocking off many streets as hundreds of people moved about. Entire city blocks and main roads were blocked off by police or traffic cones, redirecting traffic around the race course or stopping it entirely. There was going to be an untimely surprise for the poor people who did not watch the news the past couple of days concerning the upcoming traffic delays. I already heard honking horns echoed in the distance from early commuters as they got stuck behind orange cones.
This race came once a year and it was a big deal to many folks, not as much to the world as a whole, but it was monumental to the people involved. In my case it was a family tradition and one that was precious in memory.
I looked around.
Thick crowds of participants moved like water currents, snaking past light poles, parked cars, and buildings. Some people huddled around each other much like a group of strangers bunched up next to me. Everyone was wrapped up in warm outfits doing their best to insulate every inch of bare skin.
Well, almost everyone.
I saw brave people in this crowd, perhaps better characterized as past the edge of insanity. They wore nothing but shorts and a tank top or running bra, along with expensive running shoes. It opened them up to cold, yet they knew they could run fast enough not to be bothered by it.
This event was a marathon.
Everyone around us had a white bib pinned somewhere on their clothes, which displayed a printed number and their name. That bib indicated they paid to do something so outrageous that only about 1% of the people in the world had ever done it. Those people committed themselves to early morning torture, much like I was doing.
I was hit hard again by the wind, which managed to snake around and strike me around the edge of the building I was standing near.
The chill hit all the way to my bones.
I was huddled with my family who all wore the same toboggan and t-shirt, an easy indicator that we formed some sort of group. We waited around a group of people outside the entranceway of an event venue building. It was a convenient place to get away from the unruly wind and by far the most human compact area. It was akin to penguins on Antarctic ice sheets.
Inside the building it was a place to use the restroom at the last minute, apply vaseline to areas of skin that were bound to rubbed together, and stretch in a location of some residual warmth. It was a bastion of safety from the frigid air and it was packed to capacity. That was why we were standing outside waiting for my dad to come back from the hotel restaurant with coffee.
“I almost got lost! So many more people this year.” said my father as he came from around the corner.
He passed two small cups that leaked steam through the tops to my mom and sister. I decided against it, so I would not have to wait in an extra long bathroom line like last year.
My mom and sister thanked our dad for the coffee, which they drank slowly, savoring the warmth near their hands more than drinking it.
I took just a sip when asked if I wanted some, just to savor a second of warmness.
We watched as a line was formed not far from us in between a set of metal crowd control gates. Everyone was more or less dispersed in a wide area around the starting line, but more and more people started to accumulate near the stage area where it began.
The chatter of people covered up the music being played in the background. A multitude of different conversations sprouted from everyone around. Some could only talk about the race and associated conversations, while others blathered about their grandkids or about how dreadful and stressful their job was going, having no regrets taking the Monday off tomorrow.
My family finished their coffee fast and we checked the time and all decided to venture further out of the many door entrances of the race venue building. We wiggled around people who used the metal handrail bars meant for those in lines for stretching and past small kids who hid behind the columns and wanted nothing more than to go home to play video games.
Once fully out from under the building and onto the street, we found an overflowing trash can to throw our empty coffee cups. My dad managed to find some friends we used to run with and introduced them to the family. They smiled and shook our hands, although most encounters were brief as it was too cold to stay in one place. My dad’s friends waved goodbye leaving us to find their own group before the race started.
Many runners needed to get into the zone focusing on the upcoming battle. It was mediation for them to mentally prepare themselves. They did whatever was necessary to build their confidence, whether it was to listen to music or take inspiration from their family and friends who came with them to support them on this arduous journey.
That was the thing about marathons.
There were many ways to go about training, varying from person to person. Conquering 13.1 miles or 26.2 miles is an arduous goal, one that requires mental fortitude and physical resilience to complete. Finding a running group or a coach to help consult you is a good idea.
There are fundamentals in training schedules such as increasing, then decreasing miles over several months. Slowly building to greater distances, shorter times, and greater endurance all while keeping within the range over pushing oneself without hitting the wall. A good schedule required going up in mileage, then going down, then increasing again until a new milestone was reached, hopefully at least seven to ten miles for the half and seventeen to twenty miles for the full marathon.
That cyclical training is called tapering, which is a rule of thumb for any situation in life. Going gung ho, weapons blazing, was never a good idea, and often the brashness got rewarded with pain with very little gain. The opposite of the type of pain that leads to gains. Gradual endurance was the key to long distance running.
Ultimate focus on the goal.
Everything started with the simplest actions.
There was the proper running style of heels first, then rolling onto the feet, while naturally swinging arms back and forth. At the same time you use the torso to help propel the movement back and forth. The key concepts to locomotion were simple. There was nothing too complicated about it. There were no secrets to this skill; a kid could do it. And yet marathons were known for being impossible to many who had yet to accomplish one, the mental barriers to entry were impassable once hearing how many hours it took to finish.
What newcomers to long distance running did not know was it all came down to dedication, determination, and dreaming to finish within the race time limit or a self-set goal. Grit played a pivotal role in what made a good runner and this skill is only found in those that push forward with each step. Every human has the capacity to achieve a lot more potential than they realize.
Additionally, choosing the right type of shoe and breaking in the shoe well before the actual race is one good bit of advice that may cost a high price. Other than that, there was freedom in what you do to run a marathon.
There are endless ways to train.
Although, the most important thing was finding a support team.
I had mine.
“You all ready?” my dad asks, looking at my mom and sister.
My sister put in her earbuds and gave a thumbs up while my mom fiddled with multiple coat pockets full of snacks, medicine, extra gloves, and so much more. After a few seconds of rummaging, she got her stuff sorted by moving items to her small backpack. It was always a good idea to pack light, but having some sort of light bag was a useful option.
She gave a salute and smiled. We were ready to move toward the crowd at the race line.
I nodded at her.
I needed to get moving before I got too sleepy.
The urge to find a park bench and fall asleep was strong.
That was another small detail right before the race day: get good sleep the night before running a marathon, or else you will become a zombie limping across the finish line. Disconnecting the brain and falling asleep in time to get at least eight hours of rest is hard. Without the proper rest, you risk waking up tired from a shrill alarm only to disregard it and return to your dreams, missing the race entirely. Good rest gives you the strength and courage to get out from underneath the warm confines of a blanket.
Rest was essential to motivation.
“Folks! Are you excited today! Because – I – CAN’T – hear you! Are you ready to get THAT BLOOD PUMPING!”, shouted an overly cheerful voice from a loudspeaker by the starting line.
In response, the crowd gave a series of excited yells and chants.
They all wanted the race to start.
At the very least the sun had come out and my breath became invisible again.
“The day of your victory is almost near! Pace Runners get into your groups! The line is forming right now, folks! Find your area! We will begin shortly!” exclaimed a different announcer.
The two announcers talked back and forth to each other and laughed as they told jokes.
These were the hype guys and gals.
Their job was to lift our spirits and encourage us like magic bards to a raiding battle party in dark, dangerous dungeons deep.
The music suddenly started blasting louder!
Inspiration rock bands played to the cheers of the crowd went wild. Indeed the music got some people jumping while they stretched and chatted among themselves.
“Let’s take it easy this year! Oh! I see Frank and Jerry near the thirteen-minute pace group. Let’s go over there!” says my dad, excited to see his running friends.
We follow my dad as the leader.
My sister held onto his jacket, my mom held onto my sister’s hoodie, and I held onto my mom’s shoulders so that no one got lost. We make our way past everyone like we were in the middle of a jam-packed concert. I could feel the energy of the crowd. Being around so many people, I could start guessing why they came here today.
Runners run for many reasons.
Some to better their health, others out of pure challenge and competition. Others did it purely to raise money for charity. I could see many who had shirts with names and pictures printed on them in honor of their loved ones.
In the end, all marathon runners are crazy.
Today, everyone here rose early in the morning, not to go to work or do chores around the house, but to go running in the cold when they could be sleeping.
It was quite an odd choice to ponder about.
Marathon running is a body numbering experience testing the sheer endurance of a person. It takes a heavy toll on your muscles, bones, ligaments, tendons, lungs, and mind.
It is intentional torture for no reason, but an acceptance of insanity and a ton of pride.
Health-conscious advice would suggest an hour a day of mild to heavy exercise. Compare that to undergoing two to six hours of prolonged physical movement; that is just plain nutty.
Yet there was more than a health rationale behind this mile-after-mile epic journey. Of course, marathoning has its dangers, its risks. You should never get up and run a marathon out of nowhere! You are probably not as likely to die as in other extreme sports.
Regardless, don’t push it, Icarus.
The dangers of dehydration, over exhaustion, and stroke are all real and present. Marathoners partake in this risk to declare a joyful victory, hopefully, in better shape than the Greek messenger Pheidippides who according to legend started this all.
Much like an addiction, there exists a “high” to running, one that makes you want to do something as odd as running for as long as possible despite not having a wild animal chase you.
In the past, the evolution of the human species centered around hunter-gatherers who ran on savannahs for their food. The purpose of running was to hunt and catch prey over long distances while avoiding predators. They formed groups, gathered weapons, and had one goal to survive until the next day.
How utterly deranged was it to run, burn precious calories for pleasure rather than survival – it would make no sense to our ancestors to gather into a single race to run like I am doing today.
Marathons are odd like that.
In the end, these events created a culture of diverse people who all come together for one unanimous goal: that goal is to finish.
This was the ultimate hunt.
The moment we all ran together.
This collective decision was to live on, pushing limitations and winning against yourself, not just the other person running ahead of you.
Marathon running creates a behavioral lifestyle, a consistent routine that keeps you healthy throughout a lifetime. Along with the idea that if you can run this far, then there is nothing you can not commit yourself to do in life!
“Yeah. Mike is covering for me tomorrow – so I can sleep the next two days!”
“Sara said to bring her a hot cup of coffee when we ran by the office. Haha!
“Who’s watching your kids, Greg?”
I could hear snippets of conversations as we moved past the crowd. We slipped past wayward arms, bumped into elbows, and stepped upon heels. My sister apologized as we all came in between people and pushed to divert a path to the back of a newly forming line.
The section we were heading towards was encased in metal gates, where many started to squeeze inside. This separated the runners from the clapping encouragement of the onlookers, who were family and friends motivated to get up in the morning, but not nearly enough to run themselves.
There was a bottleneck in between an opening in the gates. This was the corral to gather all the contestants in the race. Everyone had to go a few people at a time.
A couple of people broke our family conga line causing us to move forward through the crowd by ourselves. I chased the familiar toboggan of my family for a short distance. Then I realized that there was one less. I looked back to check on my mom. I squeezed against the flow of people to help as her coat had gotten stuck on the metal gates. After freeing her, she hopped in front of me as the other two came back to check on us.
The line was more than a dozen in width and stretched backward for what seemed like a mile – a time-related difference that would be accounted for and subtracted by the passive RFID chip in the bib. The chip would beep as you went over the tracking wire, which collected your finish time. Prizes were grouped by age and gender categories. Qualifying for a category with the fewest people gave you the best chance to score a high ranking within that category, even if the overall time was less than ideal.
We passed many people holding up signs.
Those were the pace groups who trained for a specific time to finish. These groups gave indicators to help complete the race based on their previous training pace. In addition, their appearance provided feedback on how the runners were doing in the race. If you fell behind a particular group you would know to speed up. On the other hand, if you caught up to a quicker one, you would need to slow down.
I headed along with my family towards the back of the line. We did not need to start competitively. My dad had his glory days when he was determined to finish the whole marathon in under three hours.
And he did!
He made a goal, formulated a training schedule, and kept to it. He even trained me for many years as I grew up watching him run. First he started me off with the kids’ fun mile run that used to be agonizingly long as a kid who only wanted to watch cartoons early Saturday morning. Then he trained me with the moderate 5K’s as a teen, where I was finally interested in becoming a better runner. That felt easier as I got faster. Suddenly the scary sounding half-marathon seemed attainable, that was until I actually completed it. After several of those tough races were under my proverbial running belt, I trained for the full marathon with my dad. Sunday after Sunday morning, we ran for months on end, until we finished the training schedule with a running group.
We had our good times.
Our glory.
What a murderous ordeal that was to undertake.
And I am glad we did.
This year the goal was about finishing the half-marathon with the whole family, rather than splitting off like years before. Where me and my dad ran the whole and my sister and mom ran the half.
We will support and laugh alongside each other as we run.
We will ache and share the pain together.
This run was not to beat a record.
No.
It was solely to live a strong and worthwhile life together.
That is what marathoning really means to me. That is the passion that surrounds those who do these crazy things in life.
I look around at the headphone-wearing, phone-toting, energy-drinking people. All sorts of people run, from white collar to blue collar, service industry and retail, school teachers, and factory workers. All of them have an attitude to finish. That was what made them runners.
The professional runners were at the front of the starting line. They are the ones who run for a living. Who pour money and time into winning awards and prize money. They are on a totally different elite level. Those runners have trained and been pushed to the brink of what humans can accomplish. Yet we have the same goal.
We were all aligned to finish.
We all have grit, born from the absurd amount of determination that makes this possible. When you run a marathon, you create inspiration in others when you tell them how far of a distance you completed.
The victory is not only in the fastest winning time but the steps you strove to complete.
Some people complete these races in wheelchairs, some with prosthetics. There were twelve-year-olds about to run half-marathons, sixteen-year-olds about to run whole marathons, and really old people who you hoped would make it their next birthday as much as any finish line.
To finish the marathon, you could run, walk, jog, go back and forth, and even in some cases crawl towards victory, although the paramedics may have a word with you.
Marathoning was simply, at its core, about exerting your will to push forward.
I followed the same mantra and so did my family.
“Hey, have you met my wife yet!” my dad exclaims suddenly. He saw another friendly face and introduced us to his coworkers.
Every now and then a random bump leads to another interaction with someone in this limited standing area. Marathon runners turn out to be very social creatures, so it was never a bad thing to be this close to them. The introverts already have their earphones in and stand in the most out-of-way spots until the race begins. The others in the crowd get to know each other, more friendly as time ticks down to start. Every now and then, I saw the blossoming of new friendships and more lukewarm situational acquaintances agreed upon, probably as running buddies and nothing more.
The running community is a caring and supportive culture. People who live in society can be different as day and night, east and west, or politically opposite as the magnetic poles, yet they all share the same vision of doing their best during this event.
My mom smiles at me and pats my back.
We laugh and talk to gear ourselves up, knowing it will be a long trial ahead of us. We were comforted that we trained, not perfectly as the first place finishers have, but we scavenged enough time to exercise every day and completed longer distances throughout the year. If you could make it nine miles at a steady pace and in good condition, you could finish thirteen miles. If you could finish twenty miles and not break anything, you could finish twenty-six miles. Proper planning and enough time to rest between high mileage were all recommended.
In a peculiar outlier, my sister did not train at all, but it was probable that she has gotten enough walking in during the past year from serving food all day. Those who serve have to be physically resilient in their own right. Plus, she had done the proper training years ago.
The only thing we worried about was that pesky clock. There was a time limit of four hours for the half-marathon and six hours for the whole. If you did not complete it in time, they would be forced to disqualify you from finishing or be picked up by the ambulance if necessary. Normal daily traffic operations needed to be reinstated and flowing again.
I looked behind me to see a plentiful amount of people, although less tightly packed together.
“ARE YOU READY TO ROCK AND ROLL AND RUNNING!” shouted the guy with the microphone.
He wore a funny hat and rocked back and forth on an elevated stage front like he was dancing while trying to not fall.
“You ready?” my sister asked, putting in her headphones.
I already knew she had a kicking soundtrack as motivation.
“Of course!” I say merrily.
It was good to go as I was always determined to be.
The countdown started. Many in the crowd counted along as the excitement and jubilation around me rose to new heights.
“THREE! TWO! ONE! GOOOOO!”
And with that, the bang of the starter gun sounded.
The marathon had begun!
People around us yelled and waved their hands across the metal barriers. They were waving signs with encouraging words and pom poms alike. There was an awkward juxtaposition as the delay between the front of the line taking off and the immobile back of the line made for a funny sight. Slowly the line started to move at a snail’s pace. Person by person, step by step, more and more spaces opened up until gaps began to form into breakaway groups.
My family started walking, then broke into a steady jog. At the initial start of the race, I had to hold myself back from sprinting like I was doing a thirty-yard dash. I had learned not to overdo it; that is the true meaning of pace yourself.
Soon we came upon a street that led up a steady hill that then turned sharply to the left. Up that hill and far away, I could see the massive crowd running like ants in the distance. The scale of the event was easier to witness from this angle as thousands ran along the empty streets.
The runners had taken control of the city for the next few hours, all heading in one direction like an invading army attacking a stronghold. There are few scenarios in life when a person could see so many people running at once and not be afraid.
My dad and my sister made their way ahead of me at a quicker stride. They were naturally more competitive compared to me and my mom. We usually played it conservatively by walking, then running, and repeating that same cycle. We agreed that we would stick together despite all having different running styles. So we adjusted to a common pace.
My dad stuck to his pace rigorously, jogging most often, slowing down on hills, then running downwards with arms relaxed. If he went too far ahead, he would simply run backward. He liked to take pictures anyways.
My sister jogged most often but walked at her convenience. Sometimes her “fast walk”was as quick as my jog. We perhaps thought she was just levitating and being propelled by some invisible force.
My mom mainly walked and only jogged to catch up, strategically finding the lowest impact to minimize stress on her legs while stealing the momentum of the downhill gravity with a brisk run.
I jogged along with my mom and kept hawkish of obstacles to avoid anything that would trip me.
I was clumsy like that.
The more a person ran, the more they understood the small details of running. Understanding your body and mind to push your limits. Knowing how much water you need every mile and if it was easier to carry a bottle yourself or drink from the paper cups they handed out for free.
It is worth knowing beforehand if your stomach can digest the free gel energy packets given to you by volunteers. Or if you even like the taste of electrolytes, vitamins, and surgery slime. With enough training, you will find out what not to eat during the race. As well as understanding what you should have consumed the night before.
The answer is a lot of carbohydrates.
Slices of bread, pasta, rice, almost any whole grains, any of those complex carbohydrates that give a nice glycogen boost for sustained energy. Through personal experience, it would be efficient to know your bowl system even more than a gastrologist.
It may have been the first mile, but I passed several port-o-potties that already had a line.
That was expected.
Few like talking openly about it, but knowing how long it takes for a meal to go from the input to the output – usually thirty-six hours or more – is crucial to having a good marathon experience. Cutting back on eating during certain times will help prevent severe bathroom emergencies where waiting in line for a stinky plastic pooping box in the cold is less than ideal.
I breathed in and took off my gloves, pocketing them for later. As I ran along the asphalt, I saw discarded gloves, hats, and even a couple of jackets already forged. Once the blood starts circulating, it gets hot, even in the coldest times.
I took time to relax.
I made plans to take off the long sleeve shirt if I got too hot. Overdressing was common among beginners or those who forgot to check the weather.
My family had a good pace going, one that was sustainable. I knew it would not be long before we encountered the first water stations. Spaced every couple of miles were tables and smiling volunteers who handed out water, sports drinks, and snacks. Best of all, near the end of our adventure, where the half marathon course splits from the whole marathon, there would even be free donuts and coffee. On some lucky occasions, people would even hand out a small inconspicuous disposable cup with a swing of beer inside.
It is not recommended to drink alcohol while running, but a few sips of a cold beer right before your body feels like it is about to shutdown, down will save you from quitting. It will lift your spirit and make you forget the pain!
I suppose that is one type of secret in running marathons.
“Smile!” my dad shouts, running backward while taking a picture of the family.
We give our best game faces and hold up our hands.
It was going to be a long run alright. Nonetheless, it will be a fun run.
We knew the course.
We knew the routine.
First comes the first few miles; they are agonizing, to no one’s surprise.
You will think to yourself, “Wow! It has been hours since I started, hasn’t it?”, then you look at the mile markers, the time clock, and even check your watch or phone only to realize that it has not been that long. Time seems to drag on, yet the clock keeps ticking away, upping the anxiety of if you have enough energy to keep going.
The initial feeling is terrible if you think about it, which is why it is good to just not think about it. The alternative is to listen to music or have a talking partner.
For me, I simply keep my thoughts on all the sights. The new street art, the old strange forgotten, and overgrown alleyways, or views of the city buildings I get to stare at without having to fear being hit by a car.
“You good?” my dad asks, running beside me.
“I am. Perfect!” I say to him, right as we pass someone who had to stop from cramps.
The runner was laid on the ground, stretching their leg out with the help of a friend.
It happens. It always does.
As sad as it is to hear, some people will not finish this marathon. It may stain their pride and wreck their confidence, but there is no shame in not finishing the race.
Yes, the whole point is to finish.
And yes you may have lost that one goal by not completing it, but that is beside the point.
Marathon running is about striving through obstacles with a passion for life. If you dare to dream and then die while trying to achieve that dream, then you have gone further than some who never dared to dream in the first place. Marathon running is also about trying and doing your best. Each step is earned and it can not be taken from you.
I knew soon I would acclimate to the constant running, usually after an hour, then the physical toll would begin to be felt. My feet will ache, followed by my legs in a stressful dissent, asking why I have not sat down yet.
By that time, I will have to endure the pain and wait for that second wind. Around the halfway point, you feel a surge of energy. You become ecstatic from the bewilderment that you came this far and a swell of determination pushes from deep within, demanding yourself to keep going.
That is a runner’s high!
It keeps you going further, yet like all things, it will end. You will grow tired as you near the finish line. Your feet will become numb from the constant pounding against the pavement. Your knees will squeal in discomfort along with your back as you slump forward like you’re about to tip over. Your lungs grow tired of breathing so much and your muscles feel like they have been turned into jelly.
All these pains happen gradually and build up against the integrity of your resolve. The end of the race is where the mental toughness is most apparent. First-time runners will encounter their ultimate fight there.
They must toil on!
The crowds will cheer for them at the end. Your best bet is to focus on crossing the finish line. The last summoning of what power you have left in your body will help you finish this marathon.
The last runner’s high comes from the cheers of those around you. The participants who are already finished will be seen walking on the side of the streets wrapped in heat-insulated foil with shiny metals hanging from their necks. They will see you and they will cheer for you. They have undergone the same pain and finished the same course.
Strangers will shout for you as you arrive at the last .2 mile! They will be bunched up around the finish line. It doesn’t matter who they are, as they cheer you on, they believe in you anyways! They will shout your name. You will be confused, then remember that your name is on your racing bib! You will laugh and keep going as hundreds of voices carry your stumbling body through to the end. They send out invisible energy rays – encouragement rays – to you. Those people will provide your fragile willpower with the last bit of power to send you across that line!
I look around to see my dad, mom, and sister running alongside me.
I smile.
There will be times when we can not run together. Times when we won’t have time to visit each other. The years will pass ever onwards through time and space – that type of clock never stops. Circumstances will change how we live and where we live. Our bodies will grow old and the decade-old running tradition will be tailored to something shorter or be cut from our schedules year to year. We won’t run marathons together as we used to do in the past.
Life has to adapt.
But for this half-marathon, on this day we run as a family.
Our passion to run is like our compassion for each other. It motivates us and it strengthens us to live life to the fullest, for we run because we can.
Soon, we will all hold hands as we cross that finish line and earn our medal for a victory well won, just like we did the year before. They will announce our names in a series of excited yells. They will congratulate us and throw those heavy medals on relieved necks.
I run along with them feeling grateful for such a wonderful life.
We are inspired to do our best when we are near each other. No matter the flaws or difficulties between us and whether this was really our last marathon or not.
We will most certainly finish – together as a family.
A running family within a running community, who all run for various reasons, but who all in the end, run together.
Off Beat Off Kilter 