There is something almost musical about running in a group. Maybe it’s the soft rhythm that a dozen pairs of shoes make as they propel themselves across the earth, or the beating of your own heart. Maybe it’s the breeze as it whips past your ears, or the sound of your own breathing when you become aware of every single inhale and exhale of air stirring in your lungs. Or maybe, just maybe it’s everything; everything, anything, and nothing at all, because when you're flying across the surface of the earth with your feet just barely touching the ground, that’s all there is and all there ever was. Your existence itself becomes impalpable, as if only the fingers of God himself could reach out and touch you.

I still recall my first day of cross country practice when I fell in love with running. I woke up with the sun and slipped into my fresh-from-the-factory Brooks running shoes. The air was crisp and warm, and the slightest breeze rustled the trees, blanketing the sky above me, and tickling my skin. Nerves were racking my whole body; leaving every hair standing on edge. I seated myself in the oval that decorated the lawn of my school and observed each and every car pull into the parking lot and place itself neatly between two solid yellow lines. Pretty soon I was surrounded by a couple dozen people, none of whom I recognized.

The athletes were dressed in neon T-shirts and baggy sweats, carrying everything from power bars to extra socks. I remember studying the rainbow designs that their Nalgenes and Camelbacks projected onto the concrete sidewalk. The patterns swirled around in an interpretive dance of their own making. While the rest of the team was arriving we did our warm ups, contorting our bodies this way and that until Coach was satisfied that we were all stretched out. After a quick swig of water, we set our watches and let our feet hit the pavement.

During the first mile the crisp air turned stale and acidic in my mouth, and my chest burned like fire. I felt as if the world had stopped spinning and my head had taken its place. “How are you doing?” the girl running on my right asked. She was the friendly looking sort and had this graceful way of carrying herself, that drew every eye to her.

“Can’t...breathe!” I gasped.

“You’ll get use to it, once you build your endurance up; my name is Morgan by the way.” I looked at her in disbelief, she wasn't even sweating let alone breathing hard.

“My...name’s...Madison, how much farther...till we can start...walking?”
“Walking? What’s walking? We don’t walk in cross country,” she laughed.

“So, what grade are you in?” I asked.

“I’m a junior, what about you?”

“Sophomore, I heard junior year is supposed to be the hardest.”

“Yeah well no one ever said life was easy.” Our conversation continued on until we had looped back around to the school. “What did you think of your first practice?” she asked as I plopped down on the ground with a thud.

“It was...sweaty.”

“Will you be coming back?” The question stumped me initially, the thought of not returning hadn't even occurred to me. It would be so easy to just go home and never have to do this again, but there was something about the burning sensation beneath my skin that I found intriguing.

“Yeah, I’ll be back.”

“Really? I thought this might have been too hard for you.”

“Well, no one ever said life was easy.”