Far from it. I was a fun-loving, twenty-year-old without a care in the world . . . except what pants would accommodate by my big fat butt. In 1983, I left my beloved Chicago Southside family and friends for ten months to study in Cardiff, Wales. That Christmas, my friend Martha and I spent our six-week holiday traveling through Europe on a Eurail pass. Completely open to new experiences, I viewed, listened, read, and mostly ate and drank my way through Europe. Lavish, slowly poured Guinness and rich English toffee in London, delectable chocolate truffles in Brussels, bratwurst and beer in Munich, crisp, cold Heineken in Amsterdam, schnitzel and Mozart balls in Salzburg, creamy tortellini alla panna in Florence, fettuccine al fredo in Rome, and buttery croissants in Paris created sensory memories to last a lifetime. I systematically stopped at every bakery, chocolatier, gyro stand, cafe, and pub in my path as Martha and I scoped out  cathedrals, museums, and river walks. Saint Martha traveled with a walking, talking Ratatouille.

Upon returning to my dorm room in Cardiff in January, I felt hefty and sluggish. Thank goodness there were no scales or selfies back then. I mastered the art of not completely drying my skin tight jeans, lying flat on my bed, grunting and tugging them on inch by inch, and sucking in my blubbery gut to get those suckers zipped. Days later, while savouring a favorite fish and chips snack from a chippie vendor, my friend Lisa challenged me to run with her the next morning.

Promptly at 5:30am on Jan. 17, 1983, Lisa tapped on my dorm door. Bleary-eyed and dry mouthed, I shuffled at her side while she ran along and chatted nonchalantly. Unable to utter a word, I struggled to survive. That breathless, painful plod changed my life. Lisa diligently continued her pre-dawn knock on my door, and by March 1st, I was hooked. I began logging my miles, and I’ve been neurotically doing it ever since.

On June 20th, 1984, I arrived at O’Hare to discover that my parents and lifelong friends were waiting for me outside of customs. I was styling a pair of second-hand much smaller jeans, a goofy hat, and new perspective on life. I had discovered the rhythm of movement, the peace of discipline, the joy of energy, and a strong desire to see the world from the viewpoint of trails, cobblestones, sidewalks, and roads, not from cafe windows. Travels are remembered by breezes, woods, lakes, moss, sand, flowers, mountains, snow, and sunshine. And somehow the world is a much brighter place.