June 11, 2002. My first run. But let me tell you how I got there — because it didn’t start with running at all.
I had always hated running. In high school, during military service — I dodged it whenever I could. I once hid in a bush with a few friends, skipping the middle laps and rejoining the group at the very end. If I absolutely had to run, I went so slowly it drove the teachers mad. Running was something that happened to other people.
Then life happened.
In late 2001, we were buying an apartment. Renovations, moving costs, endless expenses. My road bike needed repairs I simply couldn’t afford. I had to stop cycling. And I handled it badly — I kept eating as if I was still training. Six months later, I had gone from 82 kg to 108 kg. I’m 182 cm tall. I was 33 years old. I bought new clothes and told myself everything was fine.
But something was missing. Eight months without sport, a body I no longer recognized, and a growing restlessness I couldn’t ignore. I thought about it from every angle. Cycling was the problem: once I got on the bike, I couldn’t stop at 20 kilometers. I’d end up doing 70-80, nearly three hours. And the weather — rain, wind, trucks on country roads — made it genuinely dangerous. I needed something shorter, simpler, and weatherproof.
Running was the only answer. I hated the idea. But it was the only answer.
A friend who ran regularly gave me some advice: alternate running and walking, gradually reduce the walking, never stop completely — keep moving forward, however slowly. He also gave me a pair of his old running shoes. Worn, even slightly torn in places — but real running shoes. “You can replace shoes,” he said, “but you only get one set of joints for life.” I put on a fitted pair of shorts, a sleeveless shirt, and headed out.
My goal: three kilometers.
The result was humbling. About 150 meters in, I stopped — completely destroyed. Heart pounding out of my chest, gasping for air, legs refusing to continue. This from someone who had been cycling 50-kilometer routes at a solid pace just a year before. But there had been eight months of nothing, and 26 extra kilograms. I shuffled a few more times that day — I won’t dignify it with the word “running” — and came home convinced: running simply wasn’t for me. At least on a bike you actually go somewhere.
I got the bike repaired. Went back to cycling. But it wasn’t the same. Maximum 40 kilometers, average speed down from 30 to 23 km/h. My body had changed. And that’s when something clicked: either I let laziness win for good, or I fight back.
On July 22nd — six weeks after that first disaster — I tried running again. Same goal. Same result. No improvement. I came home ready to give up entirely.
Then the bike broke down again. No money for repairs. Running or nothing.
On August 30th, I went out for the third time. And I made myself a promise: whatever happens, I don’t stop. Not because it feels good. Not because I’m improving. Just because that suffering is still better than nothing. Something shifted that day — not dramatically, but enough. Through September I went out seven times, each time a little less walking, a little more running. October 3rd. October 6th. I could feel something building.
And then — October 8th, 2002. My 11th run. I ran the entire three kilometers without stopping. No walking. No breaks. Just three kilometers, from start to finish.
I was so afraid of losing that momentum that when I traveled abroad a few days later, I packed my running shoes and ran there too. I wasn’t going to let it slip away again.
October: 10 runs. November: 8. December: 13 — even as the cold set in and the days shortened.
By the end of that first year: 41 runs. Approximately 150 kilometers.
And I could finally say it about myself: I had started running.