I went for my first-ever run on my 30^th birthday.  It thought it would be fun, but it turned out to be the opposite. 

No, this is not me. Way too buff.

I decided to jog to a bridge 10 kilometers from my family cottage.  Big mistake.  By the time I reached my destination, it felt like someone had unscrewed my kneecaps, poured sand into the holes, and then screwed my kneecaps back on. 

Also: each time I took a breath it sounded like a family of mice was playing accordions inside my lungs.

I’d made the classic beginner’s mistake of going out too hard, too soon.

At least I was running in a beautiful place.  Lake Kennisis, Ontario – a place I’d write a novel about one day.  But pretty scenery doesn’t make running any easier. Nor do hills the size of the CN Tower. 

After that first run, I didn’t lace up my sneakers for a week. But running is a bit like eating olives. You’ve got to try a few before you discover that you love them.

After 100 miles

There I am, years later, after learning how to run properly.  My knees still hurt a bit after hard efforts, but nowhere near as much as they did that first day.  As for that family of accordion-playing mice, I evicted them from my lungs years ago.

This is a blog about how a lazy guy (me) went from being a non-runner to a serious writer, and also from being a non-writer to an Ultra author.

And hopefully it’s a blog about how you can do the same.