I am not Kenyan. I am Scottish. My feet do not kiss the ground as I gently glide along almost flying through the air. I rip my feet from the earth like pulling a plow from sodden soil. Where my feet land the earth shudders. I am not graceful like a gazelle. I am an ox on a solitary stampede. I am not a noble hunter, zipping about the plains in search of prey. I am the ignoble gatherer, pounding potatoes into the field with my fists, and scraping coal from belly of the earth with callused fingers. I am not lean nor will I become so. My body hoards fat for warmth on winter nights and for fuel to survive times of famine. I was not born to run. But I choose to. I run because it is hard. I run because it is against my nature.