In a world that moves faster every day, filled with constant noise and endless distractions, there are still stories that unfold slowly, with quiet determination. Stories like Brad Ward’s. Not flashy, not rushed, but written in steady footsteps and early morning air.

Brad didn’t set out to become a runner. Like many midlife Americans, he just wanted to feel a little better. It was September 2023, and he had laced up his sneakers to start walking. The goal? Five miles a day. His road in Monticello, Indiana—stretching simply from house to road and back—became his training ground, his therapy, and, quietly, the site of his transformation.

He dropped seven pounds in his first week. Set a goal of reaching 225 by Christmas. Cut calories, counted miles, and noticed that to lose what lingered, he’d need to push harder. Raise the heart rate. Sweat a little more.

By January 2024, he had a new goal: finish the Indianapolis Mini Marathon in under three hours. At the time, Brad was walking 16-minute miles and hadn’t run a step. “Not sure I can run the whole thing,” he texted. “But I want to finish under 3 hours.”

But then something beautiful happened. March came, and with it, a milestone: three miles, no stops. Days later, six miles—his heart steady, his pace crisp. Ten-minute miles. Brad was running.

And once he started, he didn’t stop.

In May 2024, Brad ran the OneAmerica 500 Festival Mini in Indianapolis. Two hours, seven minutes. A marvel for a man who couldn’t finish three miles just months prior. A victory. But not the one he truly wanted.

By October, on the undulating hills of Mackinac Island, he dropped his time to 2:04:50. “I swear the first ten miles was uphill,” he wrote afterward. But the climb suited him.

He was, in every sense, ascending.

Brad began to chase a bigger dream: one half marathon in every state. A goal not born from ego, but from wonder. From the simple American romance of the open road. From the idea that one step, followed by another, could carry a man farther than he imagined.

In March 2025, he ran the Shamrock Beer Run half in 2:07:01, just missing his two-hour goal. “Hit a wall at mile 9/10,” he said. A wall, yes—but one he would learn to climb over.

In May, it came. On the streets of Chicago, among nearly 9,000 runners, Brad Ward crossed the finish line in 1:59:25—a 9:07 mile pace, a personal best, and proof of what he had become: a runner.

It wasn’t just the time. It was the process. It was the man who, in January of the previous year, wasn’t sure he could run at all. It was cold roads, snow-packed shoulders, sixth grade basketball schedules. It was 2.5 miles in the dark and 3.2 before sunrise. It was 12-mile Saturday runs that ended not in exhaustion, but in quiet triumph: “Never got tired.”

Next, he will head west—to Boulder, Colorado—where he’ll run beneath the Flatirons, on a course known for its beauty and speed. The Boulderthon. A race that draws Olympians and amateurs alike. It will be his next state, his next story, his next quiet miracle.

Brad Ward has no fanfare. He doesn’t boast. But in an age of shortcuts, he chose the long way. Step by step. Mile by mile. A man who ran not away from something, but toward something better.

Toward health. Toward joy. Toward 1:59.

And, surely, toward 49 more finish lines.