It seems I’ve stumbled upon that most peculiar (and often painfully self-revealing) of human endeavors: the bucket list. But this isn’t your average “learn to play the ukulele” or “visit a quaint European village” kind of bucket list. No, dear reader, this is a list born from a deep-seated need to outrun something, a need so profound it manifests as a series of self-imposed athletic tortures disguised as goals. It’s a meticulously crafted plan to flee from [insert whatever specific anxiety/fear/issue you want to imply here – e.g., stagnation, my looming midlife crisis, the feeling of being “stuck”]. And what better way to ensure my inevitable public humiliation (a small price to pay for temporary mental reprieve) than by declaring these lofty ambitions to the vast, unforgiving expanse of the internet?

1. Run a marathon in every state in the USA. (Running From… Boredom)

Because apparently, a fleeting brush with endorphins isn’t enough to ward off the creeping ennui. No, I must subject myself to 26.2 miles of suffering fifty times over, from the mosquito-infested swamps of Florida (where the mosquitoes are probably running from something too) to the bear-populated wilderness of Alaska (where I’ll likely be running very fast from a bear). I can only hope that by the time I reach Hawaii, I’ll have developed gills, webbed feet, and an immunity to existential dread.

2. Run a sub 5-hour marathon. (Running From… Mediocrity)

For most runners, this goal might elicit a polite chuckle. For me, it’s akin to attempting to break the sound barrier while wearing concrete shoes and carrying the weight of all my past failures. I suspect I’ll need to harness the power of time dilation or perhaps hitch a ride on a particularly speedy tortoise, or, better yet, a bolt of lightning aimed directly at my backside.

3. Run a marathon in a foreign country. (Running From… My Comfort Zone)

As if subjecting my own nation to my wheezing, flailing form wasn’t enough, I’ve decided to inflict my particular brand of “running” on unsuspecting foreigners. I can only imagine the diplomatic incidents that may ensue when I attempt to explain, in broken phrases from a pocket translator, why I’m sprawled across their finish line, muttering about the inherent futility of human existence.

4. Run 12 marathons in one year. (Running From… The Present)

Because who needs functioning knees, toenails, or a coherent thought process? I’ll consider it a rousing success if I manage to complete this goal without my legs deciding to pack up and leave for a less demanding owner, or without completely losing my grip on reality and starting to communicate solely through interpretive dance.

5. Complete all of the above by the time I am 50 years old. (Running From… The Inevitable)

A race against time itself, then. I can only hope that by my half-century mark, medical science will have advanced sufficiently to replace my entire lower body with bionic parts, and my brain with a self-soothing AI that will whisper affirmations whenever I start hyperventilating. Or perhaps I’ll simply invest in a very fast mobility scooter and a lifetime supply of denial.

In publishing these goals, I’ve essentially handed the universe a gilt-edged invitation to point and laugh, a challenge that I know it will gladly take up. But fear not, dear reader. I shall persevere, armed with nothing but my wits, a frankly alarming amount of body glide, the faint glimmer of hope that I can outrun my own shadow, and the unshakable delusion that I am, in fact, a runner. Onward to glory! Or at least, onward to the nearest aid station… and a long, hard look at my life choices.