Getting stoned out of my mind made me a monster marathon runner — but not invincible.
It’s a blistering hot morning in downtown Denver, and I’m running as fast as I can. Harry Nilsson’s “Jump Into the Fire” is playing at full volume on my headphones as I dodge traffic, turn cartwheels, and leap over park benches. I’m about to enter my second hour of running, and I’m stoned out of my mind on marijuana edibles.
The Beastie Boys’ “Sabotage” comes on and a narcotic rush shoots up my spine, exploding into gooseflesh across my body. I’m pinballing around the city, effortlessly traversing miles between one park and another, running lap after lap before jumping back into traffic. There is no discipline involved here. No fitness goals. I’m not even tracking my distance or time, but I feel ready to chase down a fucking gazelle.
Up until the age of 30 I was the least athletic person imaginable. But for the last five years, I’ve been regularly loading up on cannabis chocolates and sprinting through the city, feeling weightless as I leap up steep hills and tackle distances I never thought possible. The combination of music, stress, and weed blend into a euphoric stew that has somehow turned me into a runner. And a troubled addict.