To preface this, I have never been a runner. Before this summer my only running experience was ridiculously slow 5Ks during cross country in my freshman year. I looked at runners with awe — and still do — thinking I could never run more than three miles. That all changed on July 3, 2025.
Conversations with my sister about running typically went like this: "We should go for a run!" "We should do literally anything else!" I always put off running and replaced it with biking, erging, hiking, the elliptical, or yoga (you get the idea). But this time she didn't take no for an answer, and as the younger sister I had no option — I was lower on the food chain.
The first run started on a hot, sunny July day right after lunch. Some people don't like to eat before runs, but for me it's a must. I don't know about full meals. My sister and I started our run, and I was immediately told to slow down. This is a crucial piece of my running journey and I will stand by it. The reason I never thought I could run longer distances (or run at all) was probably that I started out too fast. And by "too fast" I mean fast for me, which is probably not very fast for anyone else.
We ran down the hills near my house until we reached a fork: we could either go directly onto the Burke-Gilman Trail, or we could go up into a neighborhood called Inverness nearby and then get on the Burke-Gilman. I wouldn't say my sister enjoys pain, but let's just say she never backs down from a challenge and will choose the hard route every time. These hills are a slow burn; as you get closer to the top, the temptation to stop increases exponentially, but I kept going because I wasn't about to appear weak and lose this competition because yes, everything is a competition.
We ran on the Burke-Gilman all the way to 77th Street. Once we hit that halfway point, I felt like I couldn't possibly take another step. It was over 80 degrees, and I hadn't run in months, so yeah, I stopped to "get the rocks out of my shoe." To be fair, there were actually rocks in my shoe, but was it 100% necessary to stop? No. Don't worry, it was only for 30 seconds, and then we were back on the run.
Approaching the end of every run, there are four main hills from the trail to my house: the first really big one; the smaller, less-steep one I use to "recover" from the big one; the windy-road one; and the final, smallest but steepest one that you always have to sprint up — that's the rule. I don't know how, but I made it up all of the hills and home safely to drink a gallon of water, and I found out that we had run three miles.
The next day we did four miles, and from then my training truly began. I asked my trainer (ChatGPT) for a 10-week half-marathon training plan, fully doubting whether I could actually do it but hey, at least it would be good exercise.
Ask anyone and they'll tell you I'm not secretive or mysterious. I normally tell everybody everything, but this time I kept my mouth shut for the first couple of weeks. Slowly, though, as I gained confidence and mileage, I started telling people about my goal: 13.1 miles. By telling everyone, I fully committed myself to finishing because I cannot let them down.
So I kept training and training and training. I was running more than I ever had before, but somehow still got winded climbing the stairs. (Hypothesis: even if you're in the best shape of your life, stairs in your house, school, or work will still kill you.) I ran in another state and even in a different country just to stay on the grind. Even the start of school didn't derail my plan. Three miles began to feel short and my idea of "far" kept changing. With the half-marathon approaching in my Google Sheets training plan, I felt excited and no longer nervous. If I could run 11.97 miles, how much worse would 13.1 be? Everything in the past few months led to this. Could I do it — or would I fail and let everyone who believed in me down? …coming next week!