I used to be a runner. Not a professional one, mind you, but a decent one. I ran for fun, for health, and for the thrill of it. I loved the feeling of the wind in my hair, the sweat on my brow, and the adrenaline in my veins. I ran every day, rain or shine, hot or cold, morning or night. I ran in races, in parks, on trails, and in the streets. I ran with friends, with strangers, with dogs, and with music. I ran because I could.
But then, something changed. Something terrible. Something that made me stop running. Something that made me lose my passion, my fitness, and my self-esteem. Something that made me gain weight—lots of weight. Something that made me… hungry.
It all started when I moved to a new city for a new job. I was excited about the opportunity, but also nervous about the transition. I didn’t know anyone there, I didn’t have a place to stay, and I didn’t have a clue about the culture. I felt lost, lonely, and stressed.
So I did what any sensible person would do in such a situation: I ate. I ate to cope, to comfort, and to distract. I ate whatever I could find, whenever I could find it, however much I could find it. I ate pizza, burgers, fries, ice cream, cake, cookies, candy, chips, soda, beer, and more. I ate like there was no tomorrow, like there was no consequence, like there was no limit.
And boy, was I wrong.
At first, I didn’t notice the change. I was too busy with work, too busy with eating, and too busy with ignoring. I didn’t pay attention to the scale, to the mirror, or to the clothes. I didn’t pay attention to the signs, the warnings, or the alarms. I didn’t pay attention to myself.
But then, one day, I decided to go for a run. I hadn’t run in a while, but I figured it would be easy. I figured it would be fun. I figured it would be like before.
But boy, was I wrong.
I put on my running shoes, my running shorts, and my running shirt, just barely noticing that they were much tighter. I grabbed my phone, my headphones, and my keys. I headed out the door, ready to run.
But as soon as I stepped outside, I felt it. I felt the weight. The weight of my body, the weight of my food, and the weight of my guilt. I felt it dragging me down, slowing me down, and holding me down. I felt it crushing me, suffocating me, killing me.
I tried to ignore it, to shake it off, to run it off. I tried to run, to jog, and to walk. I tried to move, to breathe, to live.
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t run anymore.
I collapsed on the sidewalk, gasping for air, clutching my chest, crying for help. I looked around, hoping for someone, anyone, to save me. I looked around, and I saw them.
They were everywhere. They were runners. They were running past me, around me, over me. They were running with ease, with grace, with joy. They were running like they could.
They looked at me, and they laughed. They laughed at me, at my size, at my plight. They laughed like they were better, like they were smarter, like they were happier.
They laughed, and they ran.
I hated them. I hated them for running, for laughing, for living. I hated them for being what I used to be, for having what I used to have, for doing what I used to do.
I hated them, and I wanted to join them.
I wanted to run again. I wanted to run like before, like them, like I could. I wanted to run for fun, for health, for the thrill of it. I wanted to run because I could.
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t run anymore.
I lay there, on the sidewalk, alone, defeated, and dying. I lay there, and I wished. I wished for a miracle, for a second chance, for a new life. I wished for something, anything, to change.
But nothing did. Nothing changed.
Except for one thing.
The hunger.
The hunger that had started it all, the hunger that had made me eat, the hunger that had made me stop running. The hunger that had made me gain weight—lots of weight. The hunger that had made me… hungry.
The hunger came back. It came back with a vengeance and a fury. It came back stronger, louder, and hungrier. It came back, and it took over.
It took over my mind, my body, my soul. It took over my thoughts, my feelings, my actions. It took over me.
It made me hungry. Hungry for food, hungry for more, hungry for everything. Hungry for… them.
Them. The runners. The ones who had laughed at me, the ones who had run past me, the ones who had left me. The ones who had what I wanted, the ones who were what I wanted, the ones who did what I wanted.
The ones who were running.
I wanted them. I wanted to catch them, grab them, and eat them. I wanted to eat their flesh, their bones, and their blood. I wanted to eat their speed, their grace, their joy. I wanted to eat their life.
I wanted to eat them, and I did.
I got up, and I ran. I ran faster than ever, faster than them, faster than anyone. I ran with hunger, with rage, and with madness. I ran with a new passion, a new fitness, and a new self-esteem. I ran because I could.
I ran, and I ate.
I ate them all. I ate the ones who had laughed at me, the ones who had run past me, the ones who had left me. I ate the ones who had what I wanted, the ones who were what I wanted, the ones who did what I wanted.
I ate them, and I felt good. I felt good, and I ran.
I ran, and I ate.
I ate, and I ran.
And that’s how I became the world’s fastest runner.
And the world’s last runner.
