Over the last few days I've watched what happened in Japan during the earthquake, tsunami, and the nuclear aftermath that still unfolds. I don't want to minimize anything that happened there, and I have nothing but respect for the people who lived through that, died in that, or are at present trying to desperately deal with that. But, it reminded me of why I do what I do. I run.

Running is basic. It's affirmation of life, the only thing we can actually do to save ourselves in basic situations. Life isn't about martial arts and being able to mysteriously defeat forces beyond our ability to control. Life is about getting out of the way. That's a very humble thing, and something many people today disregard completely. When it comes down to basics, life isn't numbers stored in a bank account or the social credibility of what job you happen to perform. Life is just how fast you run.

I don't laugh at the Japanese people who didn't run fast enough. I've never cared more. I watch the videos of people lost and I cry. I see people on the brink of death and still trying and I cheer. This is a look at all of us, not just a glimpse of Japan in hard times. It could happen in some way, anywhere, to anyone. When I see those videos, I say, Run! Run! and even if I've seen those videos before I still mean it and I still care.

I saw many heartbreaking videos of what happened in Japan and sadly, I will see many more, since the crisis continues to unfold. What impressed me the most was a short clip of what happened when the tsunami hit a northern town.

People there had warning, but not all responded to the warning. Some people lived on higher areas of the valley and since the town was protected by seawalls they didn't think there was any need to leave their home and run up the hill. When the tsunami waves breached the seawall, that suddenly changed. The valley slopes funneled the waves higher, and even the upper areas of the town were inundated.

The people living there had seconds to respond. Some didn't, and some couldn't. I'm old enough that I know how age limits response to many things. I don't fault older people for sitting and waiting. The older you get, the more sense that makes. Some people found themselves on the edge of life and death, and I saw what a few of them did. They ran.

In this particular town, the people who lived on high ground had enough time to reconsider. When the waves came, and kept coming, they ran. I watched two women from one small neighborhood try to save themselves -- not saving family, not saving countries, but just trying to stay alive. One woman had a straight course across fields, to the high ground and safety; her neighbor had to cross a fence. One woman lived, and the other woman died.

I know what some of that feels like, because I run. If you just follow the "program," you get a little tired and a little sore and you hurt for awhile. If you really run, you know how it feels to be out of air. You burn. Legs don't work any more, your heart tries to burst out of your chest, and what you really want to do is stop and puke out your guts. People who push the limits know what that feels like. There's a point you simply can't cross, no matter what the incentive might be. It all stops, because you did reach your limits.

The people I watched who tried to outrun the tsunami pushed those limits. They were not Olympic runners, just normal people who did their best. In one video I saw, one woman lived and another woman died. Both of them tried their best and no one lost. They both deserve Olympic gold medals no matter what their time was.

That's what running is about, in the final balance. It's not about how much weight you lose or how low your resting heart rate might be. It's about life and death. By running we find our limits, and sometimes we find a way past them.