The sun is rising from the east, and the waves of the Pacific crash below to the west. I’m enveloped in a cool morning breeze that smells of salt and piney woods, running down California’s Highway 1, where lupines bloom out of craggy rocks. I’m racing the Advertisement - Continue Reading Below.

The drum of thousands of runners’ feet taps the road that ribbons into the distance beneath an early morning fog. To the east, lush valleys unfold over and over again, and to the west, jagged cliffs descend unto untamed beaches. I feel my existence momentarily and perfectly aligned with the universe as I move along the coastline. If I were to ever be convinced the world is divine and magical, it is now. I take a risk and go against what every marathoner is taught—don’t go out too fast—but I want to hold onto this feeling for as long as I can. I run with a sense of urgency and deep gratitude. I’ve been on the other side of this moment—sitting in cancer centers and witnessing the dying waiting to meet their certain death. I’ve reported on those with terminal illnesses, and I helplessly watched as my father died. But right now, I’m perfectly alive. Right now, I’m aware of how wondrously my body is moving in harmony with my breath and mind. Right now, I’m flying.

I continue with my slightly too-fast pace for some 20 miles but then feel the relentless beating sun. There are now goosebumps and white streaks of salt on my arms. I’m running into a strong headwind, and the road tilts at an unbearable axis. The miles stretch out indefinitely ahead of me. I’m acutely aware I don’t have much left to give. I’m no longer flying, and with each step, I feel weaker and more exhausted.

I’ve pinned a memorial ribbon over my heart in honor of my late father. The ribbon flaps wildly in the wind over those final miles—it’s the only sound I hear.

My father died of blood cancer during the pandemic. I didn’t understand at the time that he was showing me how to fight for this life. The pain of the marathon is temporary, but in those final miles, I think of Dad and his battle and all those days he fought quietly, despite his pain. And I decide, even though I feel like I have nothing left, I’ll find a way.

In my grief, I didn’t understand that Dad’s fight would someday change me. But now I keep running, with an awareness of how hard Dad fought to be alive. And on this coastal road in California, I decide that even though it sometimes hurts, I’m in love with being alive and chasing the feeling of momentarily flying.

Headshot of Jennifer Acker

Jennifer Acker reports on a wide range of health and wellness topics for Runner’s World and Bicycling. She’s passionate about delivering journalism that enriches the lives of readers. Jennifer is a lifelong runner—with several half marathons, and a few marathons under her belt, certified yoga instructor, and having grown up in the Pocono Mountains, always has a mountain bike and pair of skis ready for the perfect fall or winter day.