The glare of car lights and thunderous semi-trucks drowned the sound of the racing heartbeat within me. My desperate cries for my friend Joe blended with the chaos, unsure if they were reaching his ears. In that frantic moment, Joe and I, driven by some reckless pursuit on a stretch of I-95, hoist ourselves over a cold cement wall, landing with a thud in a train yard. Little did I know this impulsive escapade would become a pivotal encounter, etching its impact on the canvas of my life for years to come.

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Ah, the question that has echoed through the corridors of my past like a haunting melody: "How did I get here?" It's more than a mere inquiry; it's the punctuation mark in a narrative laced with one questionable decision after another. It persisted not just during my runaway escapades but far beyond the days when I finally hung up my running shoes. That particular night, the answer to that poignant question wove into the fabric of a stolen car.

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Against better wisdom, we dared to dream of a journey from Lancaster, PA, to Parts-Unknown, Florida—in a stolen car, mind you. No money in our pockets, just young and blind audacity propelling us forward. It's clear we weren't exactly candidates for MENSA. After all, I was only seventeen years old.

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