The warm summer night relieves the day of scorching heat. The night lamps that line the streets produce the only light, with a patch of darkness between each. But the dark outline of figures can be seen in the distance. As the figures close the distance it is easy to make them out as runners escaping the heat of the day.


These runners haul down the street at a comfortable pace that would make a normal man cry. The figures fade in and out of the darkness as they are escaping the light of the lamps. Running with a purpose they run to the city limits where they fade again into the dark, like spirits in the wilderness they can’t be seen only heard.


As their eyes adjust to the lack of light they begin to seek out trails and paths that are least traveled. The paths dotted with down trees, sharp edges and overgrown by large green leaves that cover the trail. Running in and out of the paths almost like wild animals hurdling and dodging the obstacles that lie before them, reverting to a more primitive instinct the men are becoming animals. Reaching the flowing waters of a wild creek the men rest and recover exhausted. The cool waters bring relief to their warm bodies and the now visible moon light illuminating the surrounding.


The stressed muscles are in a phase of dismay as they throb and release chemicals throughout the body to counteract the extreme discomfort. As they continue to rest, quiet talks erupt as they converse. Falling close to that time they stand and slowly immerse in the frigid cool waters of the creek finding instant relief for the body.



Finally recovered the men quickly bend over to achieve a quick stretch and without hesitations flow into a stride that seems to engulf land from beneath their feet. And once again back in the frame of mind the runners are up and over the ground avoiding all hazards. Like bats in caves they have the presence of mind to detect their surrounding and navigate appropriately.


But before long the men are back on the road the path most traveled, and can see the glow of a neon jungle a place of misunderstanding. Just like before they slip in and out of the darkness without raising the alarms of others. Before they head their own ways on paths back to life, for they shall rest and recover because the race will begin again tomorrow.


Following the path down Fourteenth Street to the columns of apartments, that dots this land for miles. The runner in pain slows to a walk in front of the stairs, before fighting the lactic acid in his hamstrings as he inches up four flights of stairs. Searching in the dark he looks for the hidden key above the doorway before, the big red door gives way to a small one bedroom complex. Exhausted and about ready to fall over he makes it to a small mattress that lies on the ground before collapsing. The warm mattress cushioned the heavy fall as he drops like a rock.


The new morning sun again soars high in the sky with its rays of cooking heat, as they shine through the thin window and rest on his exposed back. Before long he springs up alert in pain and disarray. Quickly dressing for work and the challenges of normal life he jolts out the door.


The runner must fight the instinct that he possesses the constant urge to break conformity and start to stride out instead of slowly moving in a crowd. Like an itch you can not scratch he constantly twitches working overtime to control the beast. As the day at the office begins he is flooded by the noise of gossiping peers and fax machines blowing paper out like a drunken man in the bathroom of a bar. The cool air flow of the building does bring relief but, at the cost of working in a monkey suit doing tricks for the superiors. And like in a circus he walks past the freaks and creeps that glare intensely at the strange man who nobody really knows. Making his way to seventh level of hell, the place were he is trained like a dog to jump through hoops instead of letting the cheetah that lives in him show its natural instinct.

Minutes later back in reality he sits in a small room of white and grey. The tall stacks of crisp white paper rise like a skyscraper on top of his desk. But, the tie around his neck is like a noose slowly killing him. As the day drags on, he try’s hard to concentrate working to push back the primitive instinct that once drove him through lush and pristine vegetation as the soothing texture of moist greens brush against his legs. But soon the clock with its slow ticking and tocking will strike five and he will be back on the streets ready to go. And before long the lights will be lighting the path to the path least traveled were all the runners go to escape the grips of the everyday.



Running is a way to escapes life, a way to break conformity, and a way to discover the path least taken.