1K Miles of Hope | Ep. 02: Second Day

I decide to run 1,000 miles over 100 days against cancer.

I wake up with my body completely seized up. Knees aching, ankle swollen, shins burning, feet that don't want to leave the bed. I take an anti-inflammatory to bring down the pain and inflammation, put ice on it several times throughout the day, and rub in camphor, menthol, and methyl salicylate. The one thing I actually anticipated ahead of time is chafing — I use vaseline for that.

By evening I feel better. Not good, but better. I don't want to wait until tomorrow, so I head to the same park as yesterday.

Today is special: my father decides to come with me.

We start running together. We make it to the 3km mark before the pain that's still there — still not fully gone — starts catching up with me. I slow down. My father looks at me and says: you're not running a 10-meter sprint. This is almost 40 marathons in total. 1,700km divided by 42km — one full marathon — is just over 40. That lands. I don't need to push through injury on day two. I need to still be running on day 100. I back off the pace.

My conditioning is already improving, I can feel it. But I have to be careful about injuries.

We cover 10km between running and walking. Then, at some point, a building across from the park catches fire. The street fills with fire trucks, people everywhere. The park guard comes over and tells us they're closing in five minutes. We decide to head out together and walk back to my father's house.

There, my father and I decide to finish the remaining 7km running around the block near his house. That is not a smart decision.

The block is much smaller than the park. Every turn forces me to pivot on my heel, and since I keep going the same direction, I'm loading the same heel over and over. By the last 3km I can barely put my foot down. I keep going anyway. I'm not stopping — not here, not with my father running beside me. He is my biggest inspiration for this whole project.

In 2016 and 2017, I go with him to the hospital and I see the word cancer in his medical file. I freeze. I already know what that word can do — I've watched it take four of my uncles away. But this time it's my father. My hero. Over time I come to understand that cancer isn't one thing: there are many types, many degrees of lethality. My father recovers quickly. He just needs to have some small growths removed from his face, as he puts it. He's fine soon after.

But you don't forget seeing that word next to someone's name.

On the last kilometer, I take off my running shoe. I finish without it.

I leave the block limping. I get to my parents' house, take medication, apply menthol and camphor, and hold ice on it for what feels like a very long time.

Result: 3h04 running and walking. Six minutes faster than yesterday. I actually ran today — not fast, not far, but I ran. Another day done.

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