On my drive into work, I pass Wilson Morgan Park, which has a 1.5-mile cinder path around its periphery. This time of year, when the weather is most cooperative, quite a few people tend to be out walking the path in the mornings before the day warms up.
Over the past several days, I've been noticing that, almost without exception, they all look very intently miserable. They are walking with a purpose, arms churning mechanically, eyes fixed either on some distant horizon or at their own feet (rarely anywhere in between), scowls firmly affixed on their faces. Truth be told, I can't help but be jealous; I would infinitely rather be out running in the cool sixty-something degree temps than on my way to the office.
However, after thinking on this recurring observation, I can't help but wonder if, when we're out running, do we look like this? Do I look like this? If someone saw us out running, would they assume that we hated what we were doing?