Running is just like life. In literature, we would call such a comparison iambic pentameter, because of the connection with feet. Or we may have called it that other thing—was it a Nagual? Although I was never offered an Echols Scholarship when I was at UVA, (please refer to my upcoming post about birth order,) I did manage to get a willy-nilly liberal arts education anyway. For instance, I could talk about Carlos Casteneda for hours if you and I were both on peyote. Or music—jazz or classical, but we would have to play the game where I hum something and you try to guess what it is (Mozart’s Piano Concerto 21 in C Major.) Also, I think I remember that my wrist is distal to my shoulder—if it isn’t, I have just fallen down some steps. Wasn’t I talking about running? Thank goodness, because I was getting out of my depth.

The thing is, how much do I really want to write about the ways in which running is like life? Because if you read Runner’s World or The Huffington Post or you yourself have ever been a runner or have sat next to a runner couple at El Diablo Burrito, you know running makes everyone philosophical. I get out there, and get high on endorphins, and I get a lot of big, stupid ideas. If I’m running with anyone else, I talk way too much. There is good photographic evidence of this starting around mile 16 of the New York Marathon, when Stevie puts on her headphones. Running is probably more like drinking. What would Caballo Blanco do?