I hate running.

I hate running.  I do, I really do.  I wish I loved it.  I wish it saved my soul the way it does for others.  I'm proud of the things I've done, for instance I never thought I would run a marathon, much less Boston, but GOD I HATE IT.  I think this "runners high" people speak of is a myth perpetrated by the people who faked the moon landing.  I haven't felt it.  Ever.  Yet still, I run.

Today was one of those rare warm days in October.  This time last year there was a terrible nor'easter - there was snow.  Today it was 65 and sunny and beautiful.  What better reason to run.  The leaves are still beautiful, albeit waning.  The sun is warm, the air cool - it's perfect.  I run past a school and usually as I'm making my last turn, they all start walking by heading home. Today they were collecting leaves, waving and laughing, jumping off anything they could find.  This spirit is so sadly lacking from my day.  I laugh a lot in the morning.  I'm lucky, I have a great job where I'm paid to laugh.  But when I leave work, I just lose that spark.  Running helps a little.  Those sweet kids faces help more.  And the beauty of the universe today helped the most.  But I still fucking hate running.