Some people run 2,100 kilometres in a few months.

It took me almost two years and nine months.

My pace is average at best.

Which may make one wonder, what is there to write about in a journey like this?

Quite a lot, I think.

Because for me, this was never about speed.

It was about becoming a runner when I was not one.

There was a time I had never run even a few kilometres. Running was simply not part of my identity.

Then one day, almost unexpectedly, it began. With encouragement from my father-in-law and the Balewadi runner group in Pune, I started.

And somehow, I never really stopped.

Looking back, what gives me the deepest satisfaction is not the 2,100 kilometres.

It is the consistency.

Showing up despite office travel.

Running through minor injuries.

Finding time around ordinary life and its endless practicalities.

Continuing, even when progress felt slow.

That, more than distance, has taught me something.

Endurance often looks ordinary from the outside.

It is usually built in small repetitions no one notices.

One run.

One week.

One early morning.

One decision to keep going.

I have also learned that average pace tells only a small part of the story.

Discipline has its own rhythm.

And progress has many forms.

For someone who never thought of himself as a runner, this journey has quietly changed how I think about effort, patience and even myself.

Maybe that is reason enough to write about it.

And maybe it is time I start documenting this journey.

Not because it is extraordinary.

But because ordinary consistency has its own stories.