I don’t think of myself as a runner.

I don’t have fancy, multi-hundred dollar shoes designed to fit the contours of my feet. I don’t own running clothes that can’t be found on the sale racks at Target. I don’t have a play list designed to match the beat of my feet.

I only have me, in that moment, pushing my physical space to go a faster, further.

It all started with a challenge. I’ve never been an athlete, and what other goal would a non-athlete set than to complete a marathon. And so I did. And I became addicted … to the race culture, the struggles I could overcome, the freedom to go anywhere at any time on my own accord.

Fast forward three years, two half marathons and countless fun runs later to tomorrow, when I will take off from the starting line for an oversized relay race. I will leapfrog with 12 other people, circling Las Vegas in an out-of-breath chain, hoping to reach the finish line physically and mentally able—if not exhausted—nearly 30 hours later.

Ahhh … the life.

To me running isn’t just about putting one foot in front of the other. It’s about breathing hard, feeling the ground just beneath the rubber soles of my shoes—a constant, rhythmic motion that lulls my body into a space where I forget about time and don’t have to think about anything. It’s about bringing all the feelings in my body to one place where they’re all magnified and needed in order to complete a strenuous task. It’s about being quiet, waking up before the sun and watching the rest of the world wake up.

Tomorrow I join 11 others as we toy with the monumental task of completing a monumental race. We’ll laugh and play for 30 hours as we crawl around the edge of Sin City, but the moments that will stick with me will be the moments I am by myself, alone and in control of the world.

And it is then, in those moments when I most look like a runner that I will actually, finally, again be me.