There’s something deeply funny about the fact that one of the most meaningful symbols of my twenties ended up being a beer that tastes like someone dropped an apple orchard into a tailgate cooler. Not a fine whiskey. Not an expensive bottle of wine. Just Busch Apple. Cold enough to hurt your teeth.

And over the years, it became attached to some of the best moments of my life.

There are some traditions that don’t look important at first. They aren’t loud or life-changing in the moment. They just sort of appear in your life one day and become part of who you are. Then years later, you wake up and realize those small traditions built some of your favorite memories with the people you love most.

For me, that tradition was the Kentucky Derby.

I was struggling by this point. The final two miles were brutal. The sun had climbed higher, the breeze disappeared and the course felt like it had turned against me. Twenty-four miles in, I was technically in the home stretch, but the finish line felt like it kept inching farther away. My legs had that heavy, uncooperative feeling—like they were part of the team, just not fully bought in anymore.

Then came the turn.

We’re on our way to dinner when we see the glowing porch lights of a laid-back coastal bar. Naturally, we pulled over and wandered inside. The sound of someone playing a guitar spills out from a small stage surrounded by sunburned tourists clutching Mai Tais and margaritas.

This wasn’t on our itinerary, but it felt like it should’ve been. So we stayed.

The steam engine leans into the curve like it knows something I don’t. No matter how sharply we turn, no matter how steep the drop or how tight the passage, the train doesn’t hesitate.

Most of us want a say in every turn. We want to know what’s next, how it ends, and ideally have a backup plan in case things go sideways.

Friendships don’t really work like that.

The Michigan Wolverines beat the UConn Huskies this week to cut down the nets and win the National Championship. One shining moment, confetti falling, ladders out at center court—the whole thing. It’s the image every kid who’s ever picked up a basketball has imagined at some point.

What you don’t picture as a kid is the other side of it.

At first glance, you might think I’m a runner, but I can assure you the only place I’ve historically run to was my 8 a.m. Japanese class in college. Sure, I have what people might call a runner’s build and a decent amount of stamina, but I’ve never really been interested.

And yet I found myself signing up for a half-marathon.