I don’t usually run with anyone.  I understand why people do, though – it helps to push you farther.  I once had an old guy wave me down while I was running.  He continued to chat me up, all the way around the lake, despite the fact that I was wearing headphones (which I thought was the universal signal for “don’t talk to me”, kind of like reading a magazine on an airplane).   Short of stopping, I didn’t know how to get away from him. And so I continued running with him, mainly because I did not want to be outpaced by an old guy.

Running with him wasn’t awful.  But for me, running is a solitary, mediative experience.  I far prefer my headphones to any idle chit chat.  I de-compress, I relax, and I figure out whatever problems are nagging at me.

The weather is hit and miss these days, so recently I had to run at the gym.  A few minutes in, a guy about my age got on the treadmill next to me.  I immediately noticed a tattoo on his forearm:  “without music, life would be a mistake”. (I have since learned that this is a Nietzsche quote.  I vaguely remember some Nietzsche from college, but I like him much more now that I know this quote.)

The dude was jamming out as he ran — he stopped short of playing an air guitar, but he drummed his hands on the treadmill, and punched the air a few times.   He was a kindred spirit, in his own private concert just like me.  (“The Sweatiest Music”).

I was dying to know what he was listening to.  Am I missing essential music on my workout playlist?  But, of course, treadmill etiquette dictates that you don’t really acknowledge the person on the treadmill next to you.  And asking to see someone’s iPod is akin to asking to read their journal.

So I didn’t.  But we ran on, side by side, each in our own world.    Kind of like running together, only better.