Sun veiled by dormant storm clouds, wet, pungent canines splashing in and out of the surf, couples with hands intertwined, their shoes squishing in the wet sand… I run past it all, heart pumping in my chest and breath coming in short heaves. The wind’s rushing through my thin fleece, but I’m sweating so much that even in the bitter January air it’s a blessing. Maine, land of freezing weather all year round and Arctic weather in the winter. Somehow, though, the salty taste in the air, the spray that comes up as the rolling waves hit the sand… it makes it all worth it. I power on, legs searing.

Suddenly I notice the boardwalk back up to my house on my right. Should I take it? I could end the pain that I’m feeling, hobble back up to the warm indoors for a cup of tea and a good book? Or… or I could keep running. The far end of the beach seems excruciatingly out of reach, but then again, the cliffs that rise above it have a great view at the top. After a moment of teeth-gritting indecision, I opt for the latter.

Two minutes of brutal crawling/passing out/occasional running later (okay, slight exaggeration) I’m at the top. Dilapidated lobster shacks lean precariously over the edge of the granite overhang. Big rollers rumble in from the horizon line, water tumbling over itself as it crashes into rock. Collapsed on a bench that overlooks the almost apocalyptic beauty of the scene, I smile (in between heaving breaths).

This, right here, is why I run.