Running

For the fifteenth or twentieth time in my life, I started running again. I ran three and a half miles the other night and aim to repeat tonight after work. And every time I run, the same thought runs with me:

Why do I run?

I hate it, running. I don't mind if there is a purpose to the running; soccer and football give me a reason. But running for runnings sake seems like torture to me. Friends of mine say they run "to clear their minds," or "to sort things out." Perhaps I am not a deep think or am extremely organized, for I can only focus one thing: how much I hate running. There must be something which motivates me to run x amount of miles.

And there is.

As most of you know, my father past away at the tender age of 49 from a sudden and massive heart attack. Reason: he didn't take care of himself like he should have. That reason scares me to run. I wish there were a more superficial or selfless factor behind running: enjoyment, personal goals, marathons, etc. But those goals aren't the reason. I run for fear, scared that if I don't, I will rob children and grandchildren of their dad or Grampa. Selfish, I know, but that's the gist of the post.

Disclaimer: I do apologize for the inconsistency in thought process. Writing down personal thoughts is not easy, nor should the task be easy. That, or I am looking for an excuse for my sloppy writing. (I would choose the former excuse, but I know the latter to be correct.)