I am a male, not a boy but definitely not a man. I’m this weird in-between thing, and I am definitely not alone. I’m not Superman. Nor Batman. I am a runner. I am second year art student that chosen to run the Los Angeles marathon. It didn’t decide to run because I was an expert runner or because it was some life long dream. One day over summer I was thinking of ways to get in shape and I thought I could run a marathon. I liked the idea that I would be challenged physically and psychologically by what would be longest 26.2 miles in my life.
This seemingly whimsical fancy to run a marathon is only part of a greater pattern that has pervaded my life. So far throughout my life I have gone to great lengths to make my life harder than it has to be. Do I have to run a marathon? Are any of my friends crazy enough to run a marathon? I would say no to both of those questions. But I am running the marathon. I have been putting my body through an extreme workout schedule, watching what I eat and buying overpriced running shoes for what some might consider a waste of time.
I am running to carve away my emerging love handles, improve the quality of my life, do something really hard, to prove to myself that I can commit to something, and most importantly (at least my most selfish reason) is to experience the feeling of crossing the finish line and being able to dance my horribly choreographed victory dance and to have a never ending smile induced by the runners high that will coursing through my veins.

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