Why I run

I remember my mom waking my sister and me early one Sunday morning to cheer on my dad. We had signs. I also remember him coming home sweaty pretty much every day, squeezing out his singlet after whatever he'd been doing outside.

My dad ran a lot. His friends did too. As a kid, I thought this was just what men did: run far.

They had so much joy, so much energy. Long bike rides, long runs, long nights out partying. They've been friends since they were kids and they're in their early fifties now. I grew up with their kids. All the adults seemed to care about was work, running, and whatever sport we were watching together that weekend.

I wanted friends like that. I wanted to be like my dad, too. Maybe I wanted to impress him. Maybe he was my idea of what success looked like. I'm still not entirely sure, but when I eventually wanted to get in shape, I had an example to follow.

Running was a familiar face in unfamiliar territory

At university, I had no clue what to do to get fitter. Lifting weights had always been a stranger to me. But running? I knew a little something about running.

On the rare occasions I joined my dad at the track, he'd give me advice. He even taught me to carb-load before a taekwondo event. I had a gut feel for running far, so I leaned in, and it didn't push back as hard as lifting weights did.

That familiarity didn't mean I was fit. In April 2022, I couldn't run more than a kilometre. Most days, I could barely motivate myself to get off the couch or my desk chair.

When I signed up for the Toronto Waterfront half marathon, I put down a projected finish time of 2:40:00. I finished in 2:11:20. I'd been conservative when I registered, and I was still surprised by the result when I wrote about it the next day.

I'd be lying if I said I don't like how I look now much more than I did before. Running has given me a stronger body, a better-looking body. That's definitely the cherry on top.

The real dessert of this whole thing is the people I've met.

I found people I could be myself around

I was partying a lot in 2022 and 2023. The years of unrestrained debauchery. By 2024, things were starting to feel stale. My relationships felt empty. Everything was about chasing the next high, the next festival, the next big dopamine hit. I was drained all the time, but my social presence was at an all-time high, so I felt like I had to keep it up.

Then Luc Zoratto invited me to his fortieth birthday at Bevvy's that August. We went on his birthday run, and I started joining the weekly Sober Striders runs. When Luc told me Ryan Hiscox was looking for team members for Run to Montreal, I was immediately in.

I didn't really know anyone else on the team. I met Jeff in the RV and initially thought he was going to be this stoic, cool guy I wouldn't be able to connect with.

Boy was I wrong haha!

Jeff had brought his laptop. He was pulling together the spreadsheet Luke had built, the route files, the Google Maps handoffs, the estimated times based on everyone's running data. There was so much to coordinate, and he was thoughtful about all of it. He was also down for everything: taking an extra running leg, jumping on a bike for someone else, grabbing food and water, taking photos.

Nobody drank on that trip. There was no alcohol to hide behind, which was uncomfortable at first. We had to learn about each other. Humour helped, and we settled into some very bro-ey language pretty quickly. Lower voices, louder conversations, jokes that wouldn't fly elsewhere. Juan's nickname is All American Beefcake.

I felt comfortable speaking my mind and telling my stories. Being a dude. A bro. A friend. There were men at different stages of their lives, all in close quarters, and I could just be myself around them.

I was the youngest, the slowest, the one who carried the least of the burden. But I got to document it all, and I'm so glad I did. Those are memories for life.

I found out what it means to show up for someone

By the time Kofi was preparing for his first hundred-mile attempt, Jeff and I had done Run to Montreal together twice. I'd seen what he was like when things were difficult. He's the kind of guy who will drop everything to talk to you if you need him.

Kofi had brought up Canyons in 2025. He had his heart set on it, and we knew he'd need a crew. Jeff and I volunteered immediately, along with a few others. In the end, everyone else couldn't make it. It was just the two of us and this daunting behemoth of a task.

Jeff was unwavering. I hadn't expected him to falter.

We took time off and flew from Toronto to California for the race in 2026. Kofi booked the BnB. Jeff drove the car, mapped out the logistics and cooked spaghetti so we were all fed. Having Jeff on your team feels like a cheat code.

I'd seen the YouTube videos about hundred-mile ultras. I expected race logistics and maybe some emotional pep talks. I hadn't understood what it would ask of us when our friend was emptied out and we were trying to help him keep going.

At an aid station, Kofi was sitting in a chair, in pain and freezing.

“My quads are thrashed.”

We got him under a blanket, hugged him to keep him warm and tried to get some food into him. I was watching my words. I felt our job was to help him rally; deciding to stop had to be his decision.

Then I said, “Even if you don't finish we're still proud of you.”

I thought I'd fucked up. It was the “even if you don't finish” part. In my mind, I'd let the thought of not completing it into a conversation where I was supposed to be helping him continue. He already felt terrible about bringing us all that way and not making it as far as he'd intended. Jeff and I wanted to make sure he was okay.

We tried to rally him several times. Another runner he'd spent a big chunk of the race with was getting ready to head back out. His wife was beside him. The runner tried to get Kofi to come along, but Kofi told him to go on ahead. The runner's wife was grateful to Kofi for keeping her husband company out there. Later, Kofi told us how much running with that man had helped keep him going, too.

Kofi decided to stop, and we supported his decision. That conversation with him freezing under the blanket was one of the darkest and realest I've ever had.

The car was parked up a big hill because we weren't allowed to park below. After stopping his race, Kofi still had to walk about a kilometre uphill on beat-up legs, head down. It felt heavy walking with him. We went and got food afterwards and talked through the ups and downs of his race.

Jeff showed me how I wanted to treat people

At Sulphur Springs, Jeff paced me for our first fifty-mile ultra. We took each other's ultra virginity HA!

It took us seventeen hours to cover eighty kilometres, with two thousand metres of elevation gain, in constant rain. Slick mud. Pools of water. I got my shit rocked over and over again.

Jeff was in front of me the whole way. He's a much faster runner than I am, but there he was, ankle-deep in mud, waiting for me to get down a hill. I'd rolled my ankle earlier in the day and it was hurting. He was patient. Not once did he complain.

He kept picking up trash. Bending down, picking it up, putting it in his pocket. For seventeen hours. At the aid stations, he was kind to the volunteers, asking how they were, checking in.

Meanwhile, things were getting tough and I was getting pissy with Mikee, who was there supporting me.

Jeff didn't say anything to correct me. Being around him, watching how he treated people, I caught myself.

“I need to be nicer to Mikee the next time we get back.”

By the time we got back to her, I'd finished the third loop. There was one left. I was nicer. More gentle.

I admire the runner, the Christian, the man Jeff is. I want to be more like him. He can spend seventeen hours out in the rain and mud with me and still have patience for other people.

I made friends who've become my family in Canada

Being an immigrant in Canada without my parents nearby is tough. I miss ordinary things. If my dad were here, he could help me learn to drive using his car. My mom could help out with food every now and then. I could go over to theirs, hang out and recharge.

In his fiftieth-birthday post, I thanked my dad for what he'd given so my sister and I could pursue our dreams in Canada. I'm grateful for that life and I still wish I could spend an ordinary weekend with my parents.

The closest thing I have to that support here is friends I've done really crazy stuff with. People I can trust because they've gone up to bat for me. People I've taken time off and got on a plane for, too. That's my chosen family in Canada.

We never stopped chatting after that first Run to Montreal. The group chat is alive and buzzing and infinitely funny. We've signed up for more races, looked forward to doing it all again, celebrated new babies and milestones. We check in on each other. We're there for each other.

My dad and his friends have been doing this for decades. I grew up with their kids, watching them make time for long runs and long nights together. I wanted friends like that.

Now I'm in the group chat.