I discovered my passion for running a year ago. At that time, I lived in an urban area teeming with traffic lights, cars, and pollution. I used to commute by car and often saw runners weaving between cars and gasping for air that hadn’t already been dirtied by traffic fumes.

One weekend, an old friend and I met up for coffee. It had been six months since we’d seen each other, and as soon as I saw him, I noticed he looked fantastic. “You look amazing! What do you drink? What do you smoke?” I asked him jokingly. Over coffee, he told me he had started running every day, and it had been the best decision of his life.

So, the next day, I rushed out to the sports store and got some super cool gear—the kind every rookie wears to avoid looking like one—and off I went to run. I'll spare you the details of this first, painful experience, but suffice it to say that the next day I called in sick to stay in bed, and rightly so, I must say.

I let a few days pass before my second attempt, but this time I took it easy and kept it up for the next few weeks. Little by little, I got the hang of it until it became a habit —if not an addiction— so much so that I even moved to a new apartment in a neighborhood with parks and gardens where I could run at ease.

Once I was settled in my new place, I ran in the park every day. I sought out new, unexplored paths and explored all the trails to challenge myself. Well, all but one—the one I called the jungle. It was the darker area of the park and also the worst kept.

One Sunday, I decided to shake off my fears and venture into the jungle. The path was narrow, and I continuously had to push branches out of my way, but the place had its charm, even if it was a little eerie.

Soon after, I heard someone running behind me, and instinctively, I picked up my pace. He did too. Then I slowed down until he overtook me, pushing past me as he ran down the narrow trail. I chickened out and didn’t say anything to the hooded guy, but then I put my hand into my pocket to check for my wallet. When I realized it wasn’t there, I yelled at the top of my lungs, “Hey, you! The wallet!”

In less than five seconds, the guy pulled the wallet out of his pocket, threw it back at me, and ran off at full speed.

I picked up the wallet and felt great—great enough to drum my chest like a gorilla. Not only had I faced the enemy, but I’d also beaten him!

As soon as I got home, I emptied my pockets and left everything on the dresser by the door. I took off my clothes on my way to the shower—until I realized that the wallet I’d just taken out of my pocket was brown, and mine is black. I quickly went back to the dresser and opened the wallet. The first thing I saw was the ID of someone named William Duckworth. Without meaning to, I had just committed my first robbery.

* Pictures by ¡Stockphoto.com