Do you remember your first runner’s high?

I do.

I was living in New York City, getting back into running after a long break. That night, I was on the East River trail near Battery Park, where the Statue of Liberty keeps watch and the Colgate Clock glows across the water. It was dusk—that golden hour when the skyline turns electric and the city becomes something else entirely.

I don’t remember how far I had run. At the time, it felt long. But what I do remember is what hit me near the end.

A flood of something—lightness, happiness, ease. My legs felt fresh. My pace picked up. My worries lifted. It was like I had caught a tailwind from the universe. That was my first runner’s high.

If you’ve felt it, you know. You don’t forget it.

I don’t experience it often anymore—maybe once or twice a year. These days, it usually shows up in the final stretch of a race, when everything clicks: my form sharpens, the pace feels smooth, and I’m able to surge to the finish. For those brief moments, it’s not just running—it’s flying.

I don’t run for the runner’s high. I run for other reasons: health, clarity, discipline, joy. But when it shows up, it’s a welcome guest.

Do you remember your first runner’s high? Where were you? What did it feel like?

I’d love to hear it.

—George
Founder, Peregrune