He Ran His First Lap at Forty and Turned Men's Vitality Health Into a List of Questions to Ask

On Ah-Hong's fortieth birthday, his wife gave him a pair of running shoes. He joked at the time that she was calling him fat, but the next morning he dutifully put them on and started running along the riverside embankment. For the first two hundred meters he still felt like he had it in him, but by the third intersection he began to question his life choices—his calves felt like they were tied to sandbags, and his breathing was so ragged he couldn't even hear his own footsteps. He stopped under the bridge, gripping the railing and gasping for air. An old man walking his dog ambled past, glanced at him, and said, "Young man, you're just starting out, huh?" Ah-Hong nodded, and the old man added, "Everyone's like this at first. Don't fight yesterday's self." He remembered those words, but when he got home he complained to his wife first: "Are you sure there's nothing wrong with these shoes you gave me?"

His wife replied irritably, "There's nothing wrong with the shoes—it's your excuses that have a problem." The two bickered for a bit over it. Ah-Hong kicked the running shoes into the corner of the shoe cabinet, saying he was done running, but a stubborn unwillingness stuck in his chest. He wasn't trying to prove anything—it was just that under the bridge that day, he suddenly realized he found it hard even to stand up straight, and that feeling was worse than being teased by his wife. The following week he didn't go running; instead he went to the sporting goods store at the mouth of the alley, wanting to ask if there was anything that would "give him more energy if he took it." The clerk was a young man in his twenties who, after hearing him out, was stunned for three seconds before replying, "Bro, why don't you start by buying a jump rope?" Ah-Hong felt brushed off, turned around and left, and when he got home he took his frustration out on the shoe cabinet again.

The real turning point came in a rather silly way. One weekend, he went with his wife to the big-box store to restock. As the cart passed the health supplement aisle, he casually picked up a can labeled as a vitality booster. His wife glanced at it and only said, "If you want to take it, fine, but take a photo first and bring it to ask about at your next appointment." Ah-Hong said okay, but when he got home he set the can on the dining table and forgot even to take the photo. That can then sat on the table for two weeks, and every day he looked at it like unfinished homework. He vaguely knew the problem wasn't the can—it was that he hadn't figured out why he was so tired in the first place.

So he changed his approach. He got a notebook and wrote down what time he went to bed, how far he ran, and what he ate, entry by entry. The first week he noticed he often stayed up late scrolling on his phone; the second week he noticed he often ate just a bowl of noodles for dinner; only in the third week did he realize that every time he finished running he hurried to sit down—no wonder he was sorer the next day. None of these were remarkable discoveries, but for the first time they made him feel that the body's accounts left a trail to follow. He also started reading information online, and when he saw people discussing men's vitality health, he realized that under those four words were mixed too many things—sleep habits, exercise, diet, and all kinds of products of unknown origin. It wasn't something a single phrase like "take it and you'll have energy" could dismiss. He turned to a new page in his notebook and wrote: "Ask clearly first, then decide whether to buy."

Around that time he happened to see news about health supplement manufacturers expanding and the capital market buzzing. His wife, scrolling on her phone, said, "See, this industry is so profitable." Ah-Hong replied, "Profitable and effective are two different things, aren't they?" That remark made them both fall silent for a moment. He thought of the supplement from the store that had sat until it expired, and of the clerk's line, "Start by buying a jump rope." He decided to break the problem apart: fix his sleep first, add some protein to dinner, and switch running to alternating walking and running. He no longer rushed to buy anything; instead he listed his questions one by one in his notebook, including what he was currently taking and what he wanted to take, all on the same page, ready to ask about clearly at his next appointment.

A month later, he finally finished that lap along the embankment without stopping to hold the railing. He stood under the bridge catching his breath, and the old man walking his dog appeared again. This time the old man looked at him and said, "You're improving." Ah-Hong smiled and didn't say much. On the way home he detoured to the pharmacy—not to buy anything, but to ask the pharmacist with his notebook in hand: how to read these labels, which ones needed a doctor's advice first, and whether they would clash with what he normally ate. The pharmacist flipped through his list and reminded him to read the ingredients and warnings on the packaging carefully, not to touch anything of unknown origin, and to bring any doubts to the clinic to ask about. Ah-Hong copied these words down one by one, his handwriting neater than it had been back when he took exams.

His wife later asked him, "So are you going to take that can or not?" Ah-Hong shook his head. "Not buying it for now—wait until I've asked." His wife raised an eyebrow. "Since when did you become so calm?" He replied, "Since I realized I couldn't run not because I was missing a can, but because I was missing sleep." The two of them burst out laughing. That notebook grew thicker and thicker over time. There was no magic formula in it—just a pile of questions to ask, a few records of failure, and one line he had highlighted himself: anything claiming to make a person stronger should first be understood for what it actually is, and only then should you decide whether to put it in your mouth.

Ah-Hong still doesn't run fast, and occasionally he still gets so out of breath he wants to give up. But he no longer pins his hopes on some can of product, and he no longer writes himself off entirely just because he can't run one time. What he learned is to take care of the three things first—sleep habits, exercise, and diet—and to bring the remaining questions, along with his list, to professionals. There's no shortcut on this road, but it has made him feel much more grounded. As for those running shoes, he finally admits his wife was right to give them—the problem had always been his excuses.