Three weeks ago I set a goal. I wanted to run. I’ve spent years wondering what the hell everyone was running from. But now, now I wanted to be one of them. For no other reason but to do it. In my mind, running is as far away from where I once was as I can possibly get.
I’m still a big guy. I’ve got a long road ahead. I know that. Just starting to run like a madman down the street is not a smart idea right now.
So I thought about how I could start without destroying every last joint in my body. Increments. I’ll walk — typically around Quidi Vidi now — and I’ll pick a spot and run to it.
Last night. I ran. Three times.
And later on in the night it hit me like a hammer. Not the physical stress. But the emotional release of how far I’ve come in five months.
From depressed fast food addict, hiding wrappers from nobody in particular, to a man who decided to run.
It may not have been the Boston Marathon — but to me, in ways I cannot appropriately capture in words, it was.