Thirteen Miles and Some Change

At first, running a mile feels like you may as well be running to Guam.

It certainly did for me in high school gym class. I dreaded it. I did my best to be “sick” when I knew it was coming.

Then, something flipped in adulthood.

Suddenly, I was doing this voluntarily? Ever so slowly, 30 minutes started to fly by. Three miles in, and somehow that was just the warmup.

You start to get in a rhythm, head bobbing along to a song that matches the beat of your soles on concrete, mouthing the words through nearly ragged breaths.

An early spring wind whips by, cooling the sweat on your forehead and rustling the budding leaves on the trees. The sun is shining — I realize I forgot sunscreen, again — but the temperature is perfect.

Eight miles in, I’m well down my local bike paths, thinking passively about how interesting it is to see what other people do on a Saturday morning: walking a dog, biking, moving through their own routines. Everyone going about their lives, mostly oblivious to what the day holds for everyone else.

For some people, it’s errands. A slow morning at home. A walk to get coffee.

For me, on the crisp morning of April 26, 2026, it was 13.1 miles.

I don’t claim to know what runner’s high feels like for most people, but for me, it was the feeling of a gorgeous spring morning in Eugene, surrounded by cheering spectators, completing a hard, monthslong goal with a few close friends.

Two years ago, I would’ve told you that you’d never catch me doing more than a 5K. Running was strictly a form of exercise — definitely not a hobby. An obligation to my health and fitness, at best.

But a year ago, I completed a couple of 10Ks. I started training more. I figured out how to breathe, how to manage my racing heartbeat — zone 4, all the time?! — and how to fuel my body for the high-impact abuse I willingly put it through.

Six months ago, I signed up for the Eugene Half Marathon. At the time, 13 miles felt daunting. I created a training plan and told myself I’d probably skip a few of the long runs. Ten miles sounded ludicrous. Time-consuming. A bit unhinged, honestly.

But I stuck it out.

Week after week, I did, in fact, do those long runs. I spent hours running. I listened to so many audiobooks. And podcasts. And albums. I racked up more than 150 training miles, alternating between two trusty pairs of running shoes.

Some days, I didn’t want to leave the house. But I forced myself out. And once I was a few miles in, the rest usually came easy.

And it’s not just the running. Any good runner knows you have to cross-train. It’s not just trainers on pavement, but a loaded weight rack at the gym, too. Rinse and repeat. Run again on legs still sore from machines that worked them every which way.

In the last year or two of running and fitness, I’ve learned so much. I’ve learned how to pace myself. How to fuel. How to listen to my body. How to push a little past what feels comfortable without pushing so far that I break.

I’ve learned I won’t back down from a challenge. I’ve learned I am dedicated to myself and my goals. I’ve learned that something you hated as a kid can turn into an adulthood obsession. I’ve learned that living in TrackTown USA might change a thing or two about you.

And then, after all those miles, all those sore legs, all those early doubts, there I was: entering Hayward Field.

It was amazing to see the turnout and support of the town. To feel the energy of a place that knows running in its bones. I crossed the finish line, 13-miles-and-some-change in, hand in hand with two wonderful friends, with others cheering us on.

And yes, unequivocally ready for some beer and brunch.

I didn’t think I’d ever make it to a half marathon, and some sick part of me already wants to sign up for a full.

Funny how far you can go once you stop telling yourself you’re not a runner.