Every once in a while, if someone were to ask me why I run, I'd have no answer. Instead, I'd scowl. Good question, I'd say. BECAUSE I HATE IT. Eventually, though, I talk myself off the ledge and realize it's not the sport, it's the environment. Winter. Why am I outside? Three layers on top, two layers on bottom, weather-resistant running shoes and a wind-proof ski mask on my head. I'm cold, I'm uncomfortable. My body feels restrained and I CAN'T BREATHE through this damn mask. 

I slipped on the ice twice this week. Not, whoops! Just a skid! An actual fall, on my ass. It hurt, too. I've got a sore arm from catching myself and a sore ass because that catching attempt failed. 

But I got up, moved to the less icy street, and kept going. I've got miles to log! Can't quit! Who cares if I'm running in traffic! And who cares if my sight is obscured by this ski mask on my head?

I keep going because my warped mind refuses to let me quit. 

I climb over snow banks, jump past ice patches, slow to a stop when I can't avoid the ice, lose footing in the snow, stomp through slush. It's not fun. It's too much work. I'm cursing most of the time. And I can't feel my cheeks. 

Why do I do this?

I have no idea.