We’re talking about running—on your terms.

• Maybe you’re starting again after a long break.

• Maybe you shuffle a couple miles now and then.

• Maybe you’ve got a quiet streak going and want to keep it alive.

Wherever you are—you’re here. And that’s enough. 

I live in Spokane, but I spend a lot of time in Portland.
If you’ve spent early mornings in either city over the past few years, you’ve seen it too: people sleeping under bridges, in doorways, bundled in the quiet outlines of cold cement corners.

For me, it started around 2016.
At first, it was just a few.
By 2020, it was everywhere.
I’d be out running before dawn, and they’d be there—sometimes asleep, sometimes walking, sometimes just sitting in silence.

And one morning, without planning it, I said:
“Good morning.”

I started leaving granola bars.
Wrapped in a little note I’d scribble the night before:

You’re okay.
You’re a good person.
Here’s something to eat.

I’d wrap the note around the bar with a rubber band.
I left them quietly—on a rock, on a bench, near a sleeping bag.
No noise. No speeches. Just something human.

Then I added a $5 bill.
Not because I had to.
Because I could.

Later, I stopped leaving them anonymously.
I realized my presence might startle someone sleeping, and besides, it felt more right to say it directly.

So if I passed someone walking early, shivering, alone—I’d slow just enough and say:

“Let me buy you breakfast.”
“Here’s a granola bar and five bucks.”
“Have a good day.”

No sermons. No catch. Just eye contact and motion.

And more than once, the response came back, soft but clear:

“I appreciate you.”

I’ll be honest—those three words land deeper than anything I’ll get from a finish line.

I’m 70 now. I’ve been running for decades.
I’ve been lucky. My legs still move. My mornings still start with effort.
And somewhere along the way, I realized:
If I can run, I can give.
Not just attention. Not just distance.
Compassion.

This isn’t a campaign.
It’s not about being noble or noticed.

It’s about seeing people who are usually ignored.

Here’s what I carry now:
A granola bar. A five-dollar bill.
Rubber band. Pocket. That’s it.

Sometimes I hand it off.
Sometimes I just say “Good morning.”
Either way, it’s something real. Something quiet.
Something a man can do without fanfare—but with purpose.

I call it the Five Dollar Morning.
Maybe it spreads.
Maybe it just stays with me.

But if you’re a man who still moves—
and you’ve got a little extra in your pocket—
consider it.

Because someone out there will wake up tomorrow on concrete.
And maybe the first words they hear come from a guy like you.

And let’s care along the way.