Running away From Myself

My high school yearbook quote reads: "I only run when chased." It was meant to be funny, but it was also absolutely true. For the first 32 years of my life, I was proudly, defiantly sedentary. The mere sight of joggers would trigger eye rolls and sarcastic comments about their "obvious mental illness." After all, who in their right mind would run if nothing was pursuing them?

If you had told that version of me that I would one day become a dedicated marathon runner, I would have laughed until I needed my inhaler – which I frequently did, because even climbing a flight of stairs left me winded.

The change began not with inspiration or ambition, but with spite. My younger brother, always the athletic one in the family, had taken up running and wouldn't shut up about it. During one particularly grating family dinner, he suggested that maybe I could try a "couch to 5K" program.

"Some people just aren't runners," I said dismissively, reaching for more pasta.

"No," he replied, "some people just don't try."

Something in his tone – that perfect mix of pity and condescension that only siblings can achieve – ignited a spark of pure, petty determination. The next morning, I downloaded a running app and dug out an ancient pair of tennis shoes from the back of my closet.

That first attempt at running was a disaster. I made it exactly one block before doubling over, gasping for air, my legs burning and my lungs feeling like they were filled with glass shards. An elderly woman walking her dog asked if I needed medical assistance.

"I'm fine," I wheezed, trying to look dignified while using a stop sign for support. "Just... exercising."

"Oh, good for you, dear," she said, in the same tone one might use to praise a toddler for using the potty.

I walked home, showered, and spent the rest of the day complaining to my cat about the absurdity of voluntary exercise. But the next morning, driven by that peculiar mix of stubbornness and spite that had gotten me through graduate school, I tried again.

The app started me with intervals – one minute of running followed by two minutes of walking. Even that seemed impossible at first. But gradually, almost imperceptibly, it got easier. One minute became two. Two became five. Walking intervals shortened.

The transformation wasn't just physical. Something happened to my brain during those early morning runs. The rhythmic sound of feet hitting pavement became meditative. I started looking forward to the quiet hours before dawn, when the world belonged to runners, dog walkers, and delivery drivers.

My brother, to his credit, never said "I told you so." Instead, he became my running guru, teaching me about proper form, breathing techniques, and the importance of good shoes. He introduced me to the concept of "runner's high" – which I had always assumed was a myth, like Bigfoot or work-life balance.

The first time I experienced it was during a particularly difficult run. I was about two miles in, questioning all my life choices, when suddenly everything clicked. My breathing steadied, my legs found their rhythm, and a wave of euphoria washed over me. I felt invincible. I ran twice as far as I'd planned that day, grinning like a lunatic the entire time.

Of course, not everyone in my life understood this new passion. My old friends – the ones who knew me as the guy who once faked a sprained ankle to get out of gym class – were particularly skeptical.

"Who are you and what have you done with David?" my best friend asked when I turned down a second slice of pizza because I had a long run planned for the next morning.

My mother was convinced I had joined a cult. "Running marathons? You? Are you being blackmailed?" She actually called my brother to express her concerns about my mental health.

The turning point in their perception came when I ran my first official 5K. My entire family showed up, clearly expecting entertainment value rather than athletic achievement. They positioned themselves near the finish line, probably anticipating having to call an ambulance.

Instead, they watched me cross the finish line with a respectable time, sweaty but triumphant. The look of shock on their faces was worth every early morning, every blister, every moment of doubt.

That was five years ago. Since then, I've completed six marathons, countless shorter races, and logged enough miles to run from New York to Los Angeles and back. My old yearbook quote now seems like it was written by a stranger – though I keep a photo of it on my phone as a reminder of how far I've come.

The physical changes have been dramatic. I lost seventy pounds. My asthma improved. I sleep better. But the mental transformation has been even more profound. Running taught me that most of my limitations were self-imposed. It showed me that discomfort isn't something to be avoided at all costs, but rather a necessary part of growth.

Recently, while cleaning out my parents' garage, I found a box of my old things. Inside was a essay I wrote in tenth grade English class about why mandatory physical education was a form of cruel and unusual punishment. Reading it, I could feel the angry defensiveness of my younger self radiating from the pages.

That same afternoon, I went for a twelve-mile training run. As I moved through the familiar streets of my neighborhood, I thought about all the versions of myself that had existed in this same space – the kid who hated sports, the teenager who mocked athletes, the young adult who believed exercise was for other people.

None of those versions of me would believe what I've become. Sometimes, I barely believe it myself. But every morning, when my alarm goes off at 5 AM and I lace up my running shoes (proper ones now, not ancient tennis shoes), I'm reminded that the most surprising changes often come from the most unlikely sources.

My brother still runs too. We do marathons together now, though he's usually waiting for me at the finish line. The spite that got me started has long since transformed into genuine passion, but I still occasionally send him selfies from my runs, just to remind him that his "non-runner" brother now regularly outpaces his high school track times.

Last month, I overheard someone at work complaining about runners – how annoying and self-righteous we are, always talking about our latest achievements and posting our routes on social media. I smiled, recognizing my old self in their words.

"Some people just aren't runners," they said.

I didn't argue. Instead, I remembered that elderly woman with the dog from my first attempt at running, and simply said, "Maybe they just haven't tried yet."

The next morning, I saw them at the park, wearing brand new running shoes and a determined expression. I waved as I passed, remembering how it felt to be at the beginning of this journey. They managed a grimace in return, probably wondering what they'd gotten themselves into.

I wanted to tell them that it gets easier, that the person they are now isn't necessarily the person they'll always be, that the most rewarding changes often start with a moment of spite or stubbornness or simple curiosity. Instead, I just kept running, grateful for every step that has taken me further from who I was and closer to who I've become.

My current running shoes have logged over 500 miles. The old me wouldn't believe that's even possible. But the old me didn't know what I know now – that the biggest obstacle to change isn't our bodies or our circumstances, but the stories we tell ourselves about who we are and what we're capable of.

Sometimes, when I'm running in the pre-dawn darkness, I think about that yearbook quote. "I only run when chased." In a way, I suppose I'm still running from something – that old version of myself, the one who let fear and self-doubt define his limitations. The difference is, now I'm also running toward something: the next mile, the next goal, the next version of myself I haven't met yet.