I had been running for what felt like hours—although, in reality, it had only been a measly half-hour. My legs were on fire, my chest felt like it was in a vice, and I was gasping for air like a fish out of water. Finally, I spotted a large rock and, with the grace of a dying walrus, I plopped down on it, desperately trying to catch my breath.

"Great job... marathon champion," I muttered to myself, rolling my eyes. "Thirty minutes in... and... you're already... dying."

As I ...