It only cost me about 5 bucks. By the end, it was downright ugly and possibly a little stinky. But it meant more to me in some ways than nearly all my other worldly possessions combined. It was my trusty ol’ pink running hat, and I recently said a very fond farewell to it, but not to the memories of the runs I took while wearing it.

I bought it about 10 years ago, during a weekend at my family’s beachhouse at the Jersey shore. It was a fluorescent pink nylon baseball cap that read “Ocean City.” I’m not sure what possessed me to start wearing it when I ran- I had been running for 10 years without wearing a hat. But my hair was longer and I was tired of sweat getting in my eyes, so it seemed like a reasonable way to keep both hair and sweat at bay. Once I started running with it on I felt faster, tougher. I liked pulling the bill down over my eyes, giving me a mean little scowl I could use to help keep the wolf whistles and catcalls at bay.

That summer I was living and working in a new city between academic years, and one morning I got a call from my dad telling me that my beloved grandmother had suddenly passed away. It hit me like a rock. I wasn’t able to leave town for the funeral until the next day, so to try to burn up my frustrated anger I went for a run. I pulled my pink hat down over my eyes to shield my tears and bitterness, and I ran with a vengeance. I remember running past Amish farms and homes and envying their inhabitants’ confident and unquestioning faith. Every dead squirrel I ran past brought deeper questions than I’d ever wanted to think about while running. There I was, on a bright sunny day, a girl running in a pink hat, the picture of carefree vigor to those who saw me.

When I went back to school that fall, I took my running more seriously than I had in years. I started running longer road races, and always wore the pink hat as my new-found talisman. Eventually, I came to feel naked without it. For the next several years, I seldom ran or worked out without wearing the hat. I’m sure it drew a few looks at times, but I didn’t care. It just felt comfortable.

Naturally, the hat got pretty grungy and sweaty with wear. Each wash took more of its fluorescent pink coloring away. Not long ago, I took a look at it and just cringed. It was really time to say goodbye. Without another thought, I dropped it into the garbage can. A few hours later, my husband, throwing something away, glanced up from the can with a start. “You’re throwing your pink hat away?”, he asked. I confirmed that this was the case, and in that moment, I questioned my decision. But the moment passed and the next week my garbageman took the hat away for good.

I don’t really miss Pinky all that much. After all, unlike the pink dye, my memories will never fade.