I never liked to run. I realized long ago that there are two types of ­runners, and I don't identify with either.

The first runs toward something, their head held high, intently focused. They are going somewhere, doing something. They're never uncertain, they never trip, they never falter. If they do, they're up again so fast you don't even notice they fell.

The other type runs away. They are the ones with their eyes on their feet, who start out fast and hard. They have one goal: to move. They stop only when they stop seeing the monsters behind them. They don't need special clothes or their own soundtrack to run, they only need their feet.

I've got nothing to run away from, and I don't know what to run toward. If you see me, I'll be watching the runners, far behind, smelling the roses, waiting for a reason to run.