I don’t know if I’ve ever had a “runner’s high.” Apparently, running is supposed to make your brain produce endorphins and you turn into a euphoric ball of energy. Maybe it’s overdramaticized, or maybe I’m missing out on a lot.

But what I do know is that I love running.

I love the liters and liters of blood pounding through my head, thumping theatrically, making my forehead swell.

I love how the dawn reflects pink and orange on the sleepy marshmallow clouds.

I love how the cool breeze gladly meets the dew forming on my hairline.

I love the thick humidity coursing in and out, coating my windpipe, invading my lungs.

I love the birds and the squirrels and the barking dogs and whatever it is that’s rustling the bushes as I pass.

I love the dew filling my shoes.

I love the dull ache in my lungs and the protest of my too-soon-arthritic knees, and I love my will to fight against the pain.

But my greatest love is after I’m finished. My greatest love is when I look back, and I’m amazed at how far I’ve come.