Saturday, I ran 5 miles. On a track.

For the uninitiated, that means 20 relentless laps around the same oval of pure mental torture.

Twenty.
Fucking.
Laps.

Like a hamster in some cruel endurance experiment designed to break my will.

As if that wasn’t psychologically punishing enough, a few rogue highschool football players decided to turn my run into an obstacle course—except instead of cones, it was actual footballs flying toward my head.

So yeah, this wasn’t just a long run. This was a survival exercise in patience, endurance, and my ability to avoid getting taken out by teenage chaos.

But honestly, dodging footballs is nothing compared to what I’m really running from—a breast cancer diagnosis that, no matter how many miles I put behind me, is still there.

Mile One: The Delusional Optimism Phase

Ah, the beginning! Fresh legs, full heart, can’t lose.

I start my first few laps thinking, This isn’t so bad! My playlist is on point, my stride feels solid, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I think:

“Wow, maybe I actually like running?”

This is, of course, where I fucked up.

I am at peak runner’s denial.

Mile Two: The “Wait… I Still Have HOW Many Laps?” Phase

At this point, I’ve made it through four laps and it suddenly dawns on me that I still have sixteen more to go.

SIXTEEN.

My brain immediately starts spiraling and grasping for distractions:

• “Maybe I should switch directions? Go counterclockwise? Throw off the laws of physics?”
• “Let’s count how many cracks are in the track. That’ll be fun!”
• “What if I just stop now and tell people I did five miles? Who’s verifying this?”

(Answer: My own freaking sense of integrity.)

Mile Three: The Existential Crisis (Now With Bonus Footballs)

This is when the real chaos begins.

Because not only am I fully sick of this monotonous loop, but now the high school boys playing football have turned my run into a live-action game of dodgeball. Wheee!

Suddenly, my peaceful, mind-numbing laps become a high-stakes survival course.

• A football whizzes past my head.
• Another lands dangerously close to my foot, nearly taking me out.
• One of the little shitheads actually yells “HEADS UP!”—a solid two seconds too late.

I am dodging projectiles while trying to maintain pace, and at this point, I start wondering if my health insurance covers “accidental high school football-related trauma.”

But honestly? This is nothing compared to the mental game that’s running in the background.

Because every step, every mile, every long run like this isn’t just about fitness—it’s about outrunning the fear, the stress, the lingering shadow of cancer. It’s about proving to myself that my body, the one that’s been through hell and back, is still capable of moving forward.

Mile Four: The Bargaining Phase (AKA: When I Seriously Consider Faking an Injury)

Alright. I’ve made it 16 laps.

I should be proud. Instead, I feel like I’ve been trapped in a time loop where I just keep running the same 200 meters over and over again like I’ve angered the universe and this is my punishment.

At this point, my brain is in full negotiation mode:

• “What if we just stop at 4.5 miles? That’s basically five.”
• “If I finish this, I get pizza. No, TWO pizzas.”
• “What even is running? Why do people voluntarily do this?”

Meanwhile, football missiles continue to fly, forcing me to swerve, weave, and pray that I don’t get taken out by a rogue Hail Mary pass.

Mile Five: The Sudden Burst of Energy (AKA Runner’s Stockholm Syndrome)

Somewhere around lap 18, something shifts.

Either my brain stops fighting me, or I’ve completely lost my grip on reality, but suddenly, I’m just running.

No bargaining. No overthinking. Just moving forward.

The finish line is close. The end is near.

And at this point, I am so determined to finish that they could be launching footballs at me with a T-shirt cannon and I would not stop.

And then—just like that—I’m done.

Post-Run Brainwash: Forgetting the Suffering

The instant I stop running, my brain does something deeply unhinged.

It ERASES EVERY SINGLE MISERABLE MOMENT.

The suffering? Gone.
The boredom? What boredom?
The football-dodging nonsense? Now a hilarious story to tell my friends.

All that remains is the dangerous thought of, “Maybe I could do more next time?“

And THAT is how running tricks you into coming back for more.

The Takeaway?

Long runs are psychological warfare. Pure and simple.

Sometimes your mind is your biggest cheerleader, hyping you up like a motivational speaker. Other times, it is your pettiest, most toxic frenemy, gaslighting you into quitting one lap in.

And on rare occasions—like when you’re dodging actual footballs—it just shuts down entirely and lets your body take over.

But no matter how much whining, bargaining, or near-death experiences with high school athletes happen along the way…

We still show up.

Because at the end of the day, I’m not just running for the sake of running.

I’m running to prove that I still can.

I’m running to remind myself that my body is strong.

And yeah, maybe—just maybe—I’m trying to outrun breast cancer itself.

Until next time, track. I’ll be back. Probably. Maybe. If I don’t get taken out by a football first.