Even the worst of us eventually mature.

and she was scared to sleep in her own room, I would charge her to sleep

in my room. When I was with my friends, I would make her walk on the other side of the street. I don’t remember doing either of these things, but I don’t doubt them. I do remember throwing a jackknife at her foot when I was about 8 and she was 6. I don’t exactly remember why.

My sister was a tomboy and proud of it. She regularly relates stories about knocking the wind out of my friends when we played tackle football. Who would expect it of the soft-spoken, wispy blonde girl?

It’s hard to admit, but I think she was quicker and more agile than me for the majority of our childhood. We were competitors. As children, neither of us would label ourselves as runners; still, we spent hours competitively running as we played hide-and-seek, tag, and other sports.

We were not strangers to endurance sports. Our father was a long-distance bicyclist who constantly exposed us to the never-ending cycle of riding and refueling.

Officially, I don’t know who started running first. We were both in our late teens when we began to appreciate the value of mileage and endurance.

By this time we had traveled a long way from throwing knives and playing tackle football. Even though we had grown up and drawn closer, our time together wasn’t marked with chitchatting or deep conversations.

Still, she was the little sister and I was the big brother.

We both married and lived in different towns. We got together often, and we ran. Any family get-together or long weekend had the commonality of at least one run together. The competition in our runs together was nonexistent. In the place of competition were the exchange and the understanding that only two siblings can share—that of where we came from and who we are now.

I look forward to a run with a friend, because I know running prompts discussions of the highest quality. And this is why running with my sister is something I look forward to on every visit.

One of our most memorable runs was a 30-mile training run. She was visiting for the weekend, and we had both been training and running long. Even though

\ ccording to my sister, I was a jerk when I was a kid. When we were young

the run lasted hours, it wasn’t long enough. I wished it wouldn’t end. As the sun rose, our blood and oxygen traveled at great velocities, and our conversation followed suit.

My sister and I are not the personality types to open up and share our deepest feelings, but when we run, it’s the closest we get.

Once during a 50-mile ultra, my IT band went bad somewhere between miles 35 and 42. My sister was there crewing me. With the IT band problem, I could no longer run, but I could do a sort of run crossed with a hop. I had seven long miles in front of me. She paced me those last seven miles in her Chaco sandals. I don’t remember our conversation, but it’s what got me to the finish.

It has been six months since the last time we ran together. This is one of the longest spans between our running and conversing. It will be three months more until we can run together.

I’m in Nicaragua and she’s in the States. We e-mail and Skype, but the conversations are short and shallow.

When I visit my sister, 1 know we will run, I know we will talk, and I know we will run on the same side of the street until the end.

Me and Rylie, ready for a long training run after nearly a year of not running together. 2B