At the starting line of the Bay to Breakers race in San Francisco last June, flour tortillas are flying, and runners are preparing to make the annual 12K pilgrimage from the Bay Bridge to the Pacific Ocean. Heading to our assigned corral, I spot a few racers rolling kegs and one totally naked but for his scant fringe skirt. A guy standing right beside me snags a tortilla and sends it skyward again. The starting countdown begins and ends, but we barely move.

When the mass of bodies loosens up, the tortilla winger鈥擨鈥檒l call him Jon*鈥攄arts to an opening. I follow close, hoping to stay with him. That鈥檚 why I鈥檝e come. This is my first race with , an organization that uses running as a catalyst for homeless rehabilitation. The idea that a running group could change someone鈥檚 life doesn鈥檛 seem far-fetched to me鈥攚ithout mine, I鈥檓 not sure I could survive raising my kids. For a decade, I鈥檝e been meeting some subset of ten women most mornings for a five-to-ten-mile jaunt. The running itself is largely beside the point of our predawn collective, and I imagine that the same holds true for the homeless individuals who become quickly folded into their Back on My Feet tribe.

I came to Bay to Breakers to meet the Back on My Feet contingent, expecting to do a mellow walk-jog鈥擨鈥檇 take my 鈥渞eal鈥� run later. But Jon, whom I鈥檇 met a week earlier on my first morning run with the Back on My Feet crew, is fit, and only 23, and his pace shows it. The run was far from mellow. This turned out to be the first of my many misjudgments about the Back on My Feet folks. Pushing myself to keep up, my glutes burned as I climbed the Fell Street hill and finally entered Golden Gate Park, around mile four. Jon eventually slowed slightly, but nearing the beach at the seven-mile mark, he sprinted off. We reunited at the finish line, sharing a salty embrace.

He was beaming. 鈥淚 kicked it to the finish,鈥� Jon said proudly. In my clammy tank, the ocean air quickly chilled me, and I wanted a warm shower. The crowds dashed my hopes that we鈥檇 find the rest of the group, and we hadn鈥檛 set a meeting spot鈥攕o my plan was to walk a bit and then call an Uber. I didn鈥檛 know where Jon was heading. Are shelters even open midday on Sunday? I didn鈥檛 ask, worried about making him uncomfortable. After leaving him there, I wondered all day about how he was faring.

Back on My feet was founded in Philadelphia in 2007 by serial entrepreneur Anne Mahlum, then 26 and aimless, after she ran past a group of homeless men and later dropped into a shelter to invite some of the folks to join her on a run. Today, the group has chapters in 12 cities, including Austin, Chicago, and Washington, D.C., and more than 6,000 homeless individuals have participated to date. (To recruit new members, Back on My Feet staffers visit shelters and pitch the concept.) The San Francisco chapter launched in 2016 and is the newest of the bunch. The idea behind the program is to harness the camaraderie of a running group, boost that with individual assistance like job leads and interview prep, and eventually transition the members from the streets to more stable living.

A simple incentive scheme underpins the program: The more participants stick with the running, the more help they get. After two consecutive runs, members get brand-new running shoes and clothes. If they complete 90 percent of the thrice-weekly runs for a month, they enter the 鈥淣ext Steps鈥� phase, which brings a caseworker who helps outline a plan for securing work and housing. Caseworkers jump in to help however is necessary鈥攚hether that means chasing a lost wallet, transporting clients to the DMV, paying the security deposit on an apartment, or securing a fresh supply of disposable contact lenses. (Jon鈥檚 lenses had been in his eyes for four months when he first showed up at Back on My Feet.) One caseworker even loaned a member her boyfriend鈥檚 belt and pants for a job interview. The painfully early 5:45 a.m. start time for the group runs is intentional鈥攋obs demand similarly rigid discipline. For job connections, Back on My Feet leverages partners like Safeway, Marriott International, and Stripe, which are open to hiring qualified candidates.

San Francisco badly needs initiatives like Back on My feet. As of this writing, the current waitlist for a shelter bed is people long. Despite decades of , the street population remains the among the nation鈥檚 largest cities. In the 1980s, San Francisco built emergency shelters and soup kitchens and purchased cheap hotels for temporary housing. Next came 鈥渕ulti-service centers,鈥� a beyond-shelters approach emphasizing extensive wraparound social services. In 2004, Mayor Gavin Newsom implemented the controversial 鈥淐are Not Cash,鈥� program, redirecting funds to create 3,000 new housing units. Currently, the focus is on building housing and the Online Navigation and Entry (ONE) System, a single database for all outreach to streamline the tracking and triage of homeless individuals into social services and shelter. Despite such a range of approaches, are homeless.

I initially assumed that Back on My Feet鈥檚 magic lies in the individualized approach to overcoming barriers. I figured that had to be the explanation for how approximately 500 of its participants have found work and 300 have secured housing. But Cricket Miller, the organization鈥檚 San Francisco program director, insists that the real power lies with the running group. The members form friendships with each other and build confidence as their mileage increases. Their interactions with volunteers also help restore a sense of normalcy, dignity, and social inclusion to their lives. 鈥淭he members are always saying, 鈥業 can鈥檛 believe these people want to talk to me,鈥欌�� Miller says, explaining that many members鈥� only human interaction comes from the social services system. 鈥淚t鈥檚 nice to be around regular people.鈥�

The Wednesday before Bay to Breakers, I had shown up at 5:45 a.m. to a vacant lot in the Tenderloin neighborhood. I stepped over a chain-link fence to join a circle of about 15 people. It was my first time volunteering, which entails joining for the morning run. Many members and volunteers greeted me with a hug. This running group is one of two that the organization sponsors in the city; each have meeting spots situated close to several shelters. During warm-ups, I scanned the faces. Who here is homeless? I imagined it would be obvious, but with almost all of us decked out in running gear, it was nearly impossible to tell.

I headed off with the three-mile group. A slight guy named Matthew jogged beside me and shared that he had been accepted into a natural-foods cooking school and might try a GoFundMe campaign to raise his tuition. It was around this time that four American women had advanced to the U.S. Open finals, so we also talked tennis. Not only is he a player, but he鈥檚 also a professional tennis umpire who has officiated matches, even at the U.S. Open. Three months later, while connecting on Facebook with another volunteer, I came across a link to Matthew鈥檚 GoFundMe campaign. In his plea for funds, he described himself as an 鈥渋nvisible homeless person,鈥� meaning you wouldn鈥檛 guess he鈥檚 homeless after meeting him. He鈥檚 right. I鈥檇 mistakenly assumed during our conversation that he was a volunteer. I learned later that Back on My Feet had assisted him in finding his current job as a dishwasher in a tech company lunchroom.

Back in the empty lot, we stretched, then huddled up, our arms tight around one another. We went around answering the question of the day鈥攚hat did we hope to try before the end of the month? A black-haired guy in glasses said mochi. I suggested cooking Thai food. For Jon, Barry鈥檚 Bootcamp. The wannabe chef said acupuncture. Then Kahtan, a member who seemed to know everyone, made an announcement: 鈥淚 had nothing 120 days ago. Now I鈥檓 starting my new job. I couldn鈥檛 have done this without you.鈥� He paused, looking like he might cry. 鈥淚鈥檓 really back on my feet.鈥� He broke into a crooked smile. 鈥淐orny, I know, but I can鈥檛 tell my story without those words.鈥� Later in the week, he was moving into an apartment.

Running together in the weeks following Bay to Breakers, I slowly learned parts of Jon鈥檚 backstory. Before Back on My Feet, he鈥檇 never been a runner, but he played high school basketball. He鈥檇 come to San Francisco last year on a bus from Oklahoma City. He was homeless there, too. Jon came knowing he鈥檇 initially be on the streets, but a relative told him that San Francisco had strong social services. Growing up, he attended nine different schools. 鈥淢ilitary dad?鈥� I asked. 鈥淚 wish,鈥� Jon said quietly. 鈥淔oster homes.鈥�

In June, he鈥檇 maxed out his allotted 180 days at the Lark-Inn, the youth shelter where he was living. To avoid the street while awaiting a likely housing option, Jon went to Texas to stay with his dad for a few weeks. 鈥淲hich isn鈥檛 a good situation, but I didn鈥檛 have another option,鈥� he explained. While there, Jon missed a key deadline for the two-year transitional housing opportunity he was hoping for. But Miller, who also acts as a caseworker, intervened and convinced the right person to give him a break and rent him the place anyway. Jon returned from Texas and excitedly told the group that he had subsidized housing for two years. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 all I need,鈥� he said confidently. 鈥淚鈥檓 at City College. I can walk onto the basketball team. Then I鈥檒l transfer to a four-year,鈥� he said.

With Miller鈥檚 help, Jon had created a r茅sum茅 and lined up multiple job interviews, including one for a part-time position covering the graveyard desk shift at 24 Hour Fitness and as a clerk in the team-sports section of local retailer Sports Basement. He got both. His City College schooling turned out to be more expensive than he anticipated, so Jon could only swing one course this semester, a basic literature and writing class. He needed the second job to cover rent and school. He paid the initial $2,000 school tuition in cash, and when his next paycheck comes, he鈥檒l pay the last $800.

Huddled up after a recent run, Jon stood beside a young guy with a speech impediment who was too new to have been issued his running gear yet. Jon recognized him from the youth shelter. 鈥淵ou鈥檒l see鈥攏ow that you鈥檙e in gateway housing, it gets much better,鈥� he reassured him. The question of the day: What is something we feel grateful for? 鈥淐offee,鈥� Jon exclaimed. He needed coffee to make it through his new graveyard shift at 24 Hour Fitness.

The following Wednesday, I was ecstatic listening to Jon animatedly describing his nights at the gym. 鈥淏etween 2 a.m. and 5 a.m., I鈥檓 the only one there鈥攅xcept the security guard. It鈥檚 like I鈥檓 running the store,鈥� he said. But when I asked how he was faring in his new place, his voice went flat. 鈥淚t鈥檚 OK,鈥� he said. It was one room, and Jon was getting a roommate, which was causing stress since his night job requires off-hours sleeping. Transitioning out of the shelter is often an adjustment. 鈥淵ou go from zero to 100 very fast. You go from being with 20 other guys, or 300, and then you are all by yourself in a room,鈥� says Miller.

At his new place, Jon now lives two miles from our run meeting spot. He used to just roll out of bed and step out the door, but with the distance and his crazy schedule, he鈥檚 not running as regularly. This is one unavoidable reality of the Back on My Feet model鈥攐nce members are 鈥渂ack on their feet,鈥� the actual running can sometimes fall by the wayside. But Jon showed up right on time last Wednesday. 鈥淚 had to push it, running, to get here,鈥� he said with a smile.

*Some individuals鈥� names have been changed to respect their privacy.

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