I never wanted to be a runner.

I was 25 and living in Chicago. My average day consisted of waiting tables, acting in small theaters, and drinking beer. On the rare occasion I made it to one of the city's pricy gyms, I spent more time lifting weights and taking a spinning class than anything else. If I did get on the treadmill, it was never for more than 15 or 20 minutes.

My very first running event was a 5k in 2011 that some friends talked me into doing. I forgot my race bib at home, and had to take a cab back to the apartment to grab it. I barely made it back to the start in time.

Two months later, it was a Thanksgiving Day 8k with those same friends. I spent the night before partying and had no real intention of showing up to run. But an early text message guilted me out the door and to the starting line just as the race was beginning.

I only ever ran because someone else made me do it.

But a desire to log a couple miles here and there stuck with me. I wasn't very fast, and my endurance was laughable, but I actually began to enjoy running for the first time in my life. And I felt like I was pretty good at it, too! (I wasn't. But dammit, I felt like I was!)

In 2012, I moved to the suburbs of Denver and, in the years that followed, slowly began to increase my distances. Running became a form of meditation, a stress release, and a fun activity all rolled into one. I began exploring the Rocky Mountains and discovered a passion for hiking and running up in the high country.

I'm still slow. I'm still the doofus that stops to take pictures in the middle of the damn run. And frankly, I don't ever see that changing. It makes me feel alive, whatever that means.

This blog, Breaking 'Burbs, is sort of a journal for me as I continue to chase that feeling through the woods.