Peace

If you ever decide to set your alarm clock for an hour or two before its shrill tones usually jolt you from your slumber, I recommend you grab a coffee, come to Lakeview, and just observe.

You'll see a man, almost ready for his 20-year reunion.  Underneath the sweat-wicking tee from a past marathon and nylon shorts so short your grandmother would blush, his sun-tanned arms and legs show every muscle, every vein as he pounds the pavement at what you assume must be a world record speed.

You'll see a girl, barely old enough to begin a career.  Wearing a colorful tank with a complicated back strap combination and stretchy black pants that show every curve of her former cheerleader legs, her yoga-toned arms propel her forward at a pace that you think looks comfortable for a 4- or 5-mile loop.

Another man, probably with great-grandkids in a nearby suburb.  His t-shirt hangs off a now-bony frame and his shorts look precariously close to slipping off, and even though you could comfortably walk at his running pace, you see him pass by at the same time every day of the week.

A woman runs by pushing a jogging stroller and trailing a preschooler on a bike with training wheels.  Whether both pregnancies took a noticeable toll on her body or she had a few extra pounds to begin with, she's huffing and puffing in her husband's massive tee and basketball shorts, hoping the surplus of fabric will hide the body she hates seeing in the mirror.

All of them run to find some kind of peace.  To erase the nagging feeling they just aren't fast/strong/man enough.  To mentally escape from a difficult home life.  To forget the pain of losing loved ones.  To stop hating yourself.

Personally, I run because I enjoy the peace.  The peace and quiet of a pre-dawn metropolis.  Waking up before my roommates, before most of the city.  Tying on my New Balances at an hour most people hope to never see.  And savoring the unspoken bond that hovers around the neighborhoods, unifying all of us through one simple thing:

Running.