Forget that I’m at the PT 30% of the year. Forget that my hamstrings seize up and holler after half an hour driving a car. Forget that I cannot twist my head around without pain rifling my spine. That I cannot look to see who is approaching from behind.

Forget that I am often so tired that I do not sleep. That the cortisol cruising my bloodstream doing its level best to keep up with these insane energy demands will not let me rest.

Forget that sometimes I lie. I downplay my mileage or pace to try to seem more regular, less like an addict. Forget that I know all of this on some level, yet I continue down this same destructive (is it really destructive?) path day after day, hour by hour, year after year.

Forget that this is supposed to be a healthy habit, indeed may be a healthy habit. Forget that I am strong. Forget fresh air and wind in your hair. Forget empty trails, empty because no one else today has ventured out this far.

Forget personal challenges and the fortitude they require. Forget the life lessons learned, friendships forged, miles logged, distance travelled.

Forget the childhood feeling of running free, unbound, hamstrings intact, hip flexors pliable, body young and ready to bounce back.

Forget all that because I still have no idea why. Why do I run? My stock answer: Why do you not? Maybe I am unkind. Maybe it’s all suffering masked up as joy. Maybe I feel the need to punish my unfulfilled self, all that talent gone to waste. Maybe it’s because, against all early indicators, I am not right now sitting in a corner office somewhere, as I guess I thought I someday might.

Let’s look up to that corner office, squint against the glare of the sun and lock eyes with the aging executive in her airy perch. Her hair is not grey; she is not wearing sweatpants. And her family is no doubt proud of her. She may be supremely unhappy up there, or mildly unhappy, but what does it matter if her family is proud of her?

Or maybe she is ecstatic with her life. Maybe she has maintained a moral and spiritual center despite everything. Maybe all of her goals have been achieved.

And maybe she also has run thousands of celebratory miles in the predawn dark. Maybe the two things are not related at all. Maybe success in the world, however you define it, is not at all tied to the running imperative. Maybe running is not a substitute for success. Maybe it is.

Forget the woman in the executive suite. She’s a mirage, a hologram, certainly a road not taken. A road that did not present itself, or perhaps I should say, a road I didn’t have eyes to see. So here I am, mid-week, mid-day, running in the sunshine, running like a kid. And I have no idea why.

Pam Dolan lives in Mystic.