Billed as a “Chicks Run,” they promised a 3-5 mile low-pressure run and time for socializing with wine afterwards. That night I ran four miles as I chatted with a new friend and chugged along the lakefront trail. I was hooked.
The group of women I met there grew to be my closest friends. We ran races on weekends, met up at the weekly group run, went to bars, became roommates. My sister moved to town and she joined us too, much to my delight. At that time in our lives we were gloriously self-indulgent. We ran, drank coffee for hours, and followed that up with brunch and cocktails.
It was magical. And the running united us.
Then life and fate took me away from my beloved Chicago to rural Michigan. I escaped to run along the remote roads whenever I could. As in most things when I was there, nobody understood what I was doing.
Once I was out for a run and a car pulled up beside me. The driver rolled down his window and called, “Do you need a ride?” “No,” I said, shaking my head, “I’m running.” “Suit yourself,” he said, shrugging, and drove away, leaving me to finish the last few miles of my run.
During that brief, unhappy time, the solitude of these runs served as my therapy sessions. I worked through choices I needed to make, running with only my thoughts to keep me company. The miles I logged on those country roads helped me realize what I needed to do.