Chasing the High

(No, not weed. Close though.) Spoiler: Legal. Free. And you don’t even need rolling papers—just two lungs, decent shoes, and unreasonably tight shorts.

My "best-day-ever" friend has a son-in-law and a grandson who are runners. And not just weekend warriors—we’re talking in-shape, protein-shake-guzzling gazelles in $200 shoes who run 10 miles just to “clear their heads”.

Once upon a time, I was one of those guys. I ran. I mean actual running. Real miles. Daily. Six of them. Seven days a week. Rain, shine, or hangover.

Running was my therapy. My drug of choice. My dealer? Nike. My support group? Knees and ankles that hadn’t yet filed a formal complaint.

Now, let me introduce you to something called the runner’s high. If you’re a runner, you know it. You crave it. You chase it like it’s the hot bartender who once gave you a free drink and made eye contact for too long.

If you’re not a runner, you’re probably scratching your head saying, “What the hell is he talking about?” Let me explain.

Runner’s high is that magical, mythical burst of euphoria that hits around mile three.

Your lungs open up. Your legs stop screaming. And suddenly—you’re floating. Smiling. Solving world hunger. You might even cure your own daddy issues.

It’s real. A natural high. The body floods with endorphins. Everything becomes possible—even forgiving your ex.

I used to hit that high regularly. I’d lace up, crank some Springsteen, and by the second chorus of Born to Run, I was there.

And while I was out there flying, I wasn’t just thinking deep thoughts—
I was solving global conflict.
Mapping out home renovations.
Figuring out how to break up with a friend without making it weird.

That’s the power of that particular high.

Fast-forward to today. Let’s just say my runner’s high has been replaced with a slightly less athletic pursuit: I still hit the gym, walk a lot—but mostly, I focus on not pulling a hamstring.

These days, the only sprint I do is toward the recliner to grab the remote before Netflix asks if I’m still watching. Yes, Netflix. I’m still watching. Stop asking—this is my ultramarathon.

But still, I remember. I remember what it felt like to be that sweaty. That strong. That free!

So when I hear about my friend’s grandson clocking a sub-6-minute mile, it makes me smile.
I get it.
I nod like the wise old sensei of sore hips and creaky knees that I am.

‘Cause I was there. I chased the high. And for a while, I caught it.

And trust me, that high? It’s better than sex. (Okay…better than some sex.)
And unlike sex, you don’t have to fake enjoying The Condition—just hit subscribe and stick around for more laughs.