As far back as I can remember, I hated runners. Not running— running was fine, it was fun, it was what my dad did every morning. But runners? They were jocks. They were disciplined, had coaches, wore skimpy outfits. They were—blech—athletes. Me? In high school, I was an asthmatic, four-eyed, smart-aleck skateboarder. The cultural chasm between us could not be bridged.
Then, in my mid-20s, I started running to stay in shape. I’d leave my Brooklyn apartment in a singlet, my sensitive bits slathered in antichafing schmutz, an interval workout on my mind.
Except… Except that when I looked around at members of running clubs in New York (and around the country), I did not see myself—a nerdy punk-ass skater. I saw the clean-cut, hyperorganized, mainstream athletes I’d always resented.…