Content warning: I’m fully aware that there is no non-obnoxious way to talk about one’s fitness activities, and yet here we are.1 Hopefully there is something worthwhile here, whether entertainment, commiseration, maybe inspiration—if not feel free to skip this one.
In January I resolved to log 365 running miles in 2021, one for each day of the year. (It was my New Year’s resolution in 2020 as well but I fell, oh, 180 miles short.) Long time readers of Pinch of Dirt might recall that for the first month of the year I ran a loop of Fort Greene park, which is about a mile door-to-door, every day. This helped ensure I didn’t fall behind from the word “Go.”
Inevitably, I did fall behind, as soon as it stopped being a daily habit. I went weeks at a time without running, although I always picked it up again, eventually. Sometime in late October I realized it wasn’t too late to salvage the endeavor and avoid having to go for “third time’s a charm,” but I would have to drastically increase my weekly mileage. By November 1, I had logged 206 miles. If I had been running seven miles a week, as planned, I would have 305 miles already. I was almost 100 miles behind and would need to make those up by the end of the year. I had two months to run 159 miles.
As I closed in on my goal, I kept a short, informal journal (run, open Substack, type, repeat) for the final 10 days:
10. I just got back from running the short loop around Prospect Park, which door-to-door is a little over 5.5 miles.
It was a clear day, but cold, especially going into the wind. My ears under my baseball cap were icy; I should have worn a winter hat. I did wear a bright yellow sweatshirt with a moose on it, which kept me warm and made me feel bright and happy (and I like to think makes the other pedestrians in the park smile, too). I got a thumbs up from an older man in bright blue tights—the second time this week, same time of day, same guy, almost certainly. It’s taken me aback both times: Do I look like I need a thumbs up? Does he thumbs-up everyone? Is it the sweatshirt? If I remember maybe I’ll give him one back the next time I see him.
31 miles to go before the end of the year, or just under 3.5 miles a day. I think I should be able to make it, if I don’t get sick again, or injured.
9. I don’t think I will go running today. It’s my last day of work before the holiday break, and I might try to do laundry this eve instead so I can stop pulling sweaty and stale running clothes out of the hamper for one more turn around the block. [Reader: I did not do the laundry.]
When I started this resolution in January and ran a mile every day for a month, I was surprised at how tired and sore that relatively short, relatively easy, but still daily activity made me by the second or third week.
The past two months have been a different story. The muscles in my shins twinge and burn at random times, and I’ll find myself doing weird contortions while standing at sink washing dishes to relieve some previously unknown and unforeseen discomfort. After several days of consecutive runs even my back, belly, and arm muscles are sore.
But I’m also pretty good about taking a break when I need it. While I believe long-distance hiking has increased my pain threshold, I think my strong disinclination for discomfort has generally kept me from getting injured in ways that other new runners might be susceptible.
Will need to log 3.875 miles a day for the rest of the year, but the “office” is closed between Christmas and New Year’s Day, so I’ll have No Excuses, No Off Days.
8. Christmas Eve. It’s funny how flickers of pain will move around on a long run: First something starts up on the top of your foot, before fading away. Then a sudden shooting pain in the left thigh disappears as quickly as it came on. A tender feeling around the shins. After a while, a dull ache starts to radiate out from the arch of the feet, and down from the knees. It keeps you on your toes, keeps you grounded—extremely present in your body.
Took a plodding lap of the park today—the long loop. Cold again, the trees bare and skeletal. I wanted to bank miles before what looks like a washout of a Christmas Day.
24 miles left.
7. Christmas. I lied; I did take another zero day. Just presents and coffee and bagels and cooking Christmas dinner and wine, with one intermission to walk outside.
6. Boxing Day. After a morning spent deep cleaning the bathroom my throat and nose are burning with chemical fumes, and when I finally pull on my sweatsuit and head outside, the cold late afternoon air is a relief. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The wind smacks into me as I turn onto Flushing Ave, a corridor that runs roughly alongside the East River, at first at my back, shoving me onwards. Then I turn into it head on and it’s a real slog, like running through water or sand.
The clouds are fluffy and pink like cotton candy, darkening to purple.
I’m not going that far, so my aches and pains are muted like the sky, mere shadows. On the way back I lengthen my stride down the long straight and narrow sidewalk and it feels good to stretch out. I’m not pushing but I’m not too tired, either. If it weren’t for the wind I would have gone longer.
21 miles left.
5. A miserable outing. I slept poorly last night; I didn’t eat well today—coffee and half of the last Russ & Daughters bagel and lots of cream cheese and a handful of chocolate truffles. I don’t want to leave the house, but I do anyway.
It’s gray and looks like it might rain, or snow, but doesn’t. Plodding, mindless movement, upbeat music. I cut my run slightly short because of construction on the route.
Strava overestimated my distance by almost a fifth of a mile again. This has become a perpetual headache. Early in the year when I was running less frequently, and for shorter distances, these little inaccuracies didn’t seem like a big deal. I figured it covered all the running/jogging/movement I did outside of my tracked runs—like that time I ran while backpacking to get to a hotel in time to buy beer and snacks. But suddenly when I began running longer distances while the Strava track zigged and zagged around my route, those inaccuracies felt a lot more like cheating. I started using onthegomap.com to get a better distance estimate and editing my Strava runs after the fact.
There are lots of suggestions for ways to improve your GPS track but a lot of them are not exactly feasible, like avoiding tree cover (which I like and seek out) and tall buildings (if three and four story brownstones count as tall buildings, I’m screwed). Although I’m committed to the app for the rest of the year, I’m already thinking about how to mix it up in 2022, like running for time but not distance, or running set distances/routes but not tracking my time or pace—or just using a stop watch.
18 miles left—gulp.
4. These miles aren’t getting any easier. Another late start, another rather empty stomach. I know better than this. Is it laziness or self-sabotage?
It’s a slightly warmer but dreary day. I am not feeling well on my run, and it’s not all sore muscles and fatigue. Something else is not feeling right (I later dianose simple dehydration). I take two brief breaks and walk a little bit, pausing Strava. I consider finding a Citibike and going home but think of the wasted effort getting out here and not getting in (all) my miles. In the end I start jogging again and am uncomfortable, but make it most of the way back before stopping to walk again.
12 miles to go.
3. I take another unscheduled/unplanned zero day, but I do finally work my way through what feels like 50 pounds of laundry. At least I’ll have clean tights and sports bras tomorrow!
Still have 12 miles to go.
2. The penultimate run. I go out around noon, after coffee but before eating. Apparently this is when the fast women run, as one after another passes me. (The fast men seem to prefer to run closer to sunset.) It’s wet today, and my legs are wooden, but functioning. They carry me all around the park.
Not so very long ago running more than a couple miles was either unthinkable or an agony or both. And not so long before that even running a mile was a real chore! In this furious push to reach 365 miles, running 5 or 6 has become almost routine, something I sincerely never could have imagined at any other point in my life.
Just six miles to go.
1. New Year’s Eve. E. and are both wrapping up our running goals today, so we head out together to do my first-ever bridge loop: left on Flushing, over the Manhattan Bridge, jog over to Allen Street and up to Delancey, up and over the Williamsburg Bridge, and then back along the waterfront to our street.
Of course, I’m well up on Manhattan Bridge when I realize I never got my “one mile” cue from Strava, and when I pull out my phone realize I paused the app while slipping it into my running belt. But I know that the route we’re taking is over 6 miles so I’ll meet my goal whether the dumb app knows it or not. Ethan has a little over 7 to do today to meet his own mileage goal so he is running ahead and then periodically circling back to say hi.
It’s gray, gray, gray, the clouds low over the bridges. It’s my first time running up the Williamsburg Bridge and that Pepto-Bismol ribbed tunnel is STEEP and my legs are tired from the run yesterday but I don’t care, I’m almost done with my goal, la-dee-da.
And then I am done, well past the 6-mile mark, but there’s still a few minutes to go in the musical I’m listening to so I sprint the last little bit until the last few bars have faded out. Snap a celebratory photo.
Would I do it again? Yes and no. For many runners, 365 miles in a year is nothing. It’s easy. As a “serious runner” (his designation) Haruki Murakami ran approximately 36 miles a week and would surpass 365 miles in just two and a half months. But that’s not the case for me. 365 miles in a year was a stretch goal, achievable but still (again, for me) ambitious. To meet it, I ranked up on all levels: distance, frequency, consistency, and I probably also saw modest improvements in pace (although I was not seriously tracking that and can’t trust Strava anyway).
I am so freaking excited to not do that in the coming year(s). I stopped practicing yoga in the morning when I decided to make this last push, because I found I didn’t have the mental or physical bandwidth to do both most days. I stopped biking and turned down invites for long walks because I had to get my miles in, and didn’t have time for other activities. I stopped virtually all other forms of exercise (other than, you know, grocery shopping and laundry, which absolutely count as exercise if you don’t have a car or in-building laundry) to meet this goal, and I don’t want to have to do that again!
That said, the miracle of meeting this goal and running an average of 18 miles a week for the past 2 months is that 7 miles a week no longer sounds so wildly ambitious or out of reach. I have a different resolution for the 2022 in mind, but after a good long rest I may start running again, and it’s entirely possible I just might happen to run another 365 miles next year, too. Maybe.
Reading list
I’ve got lots of links squirreled away to share in 2022. Happy New Year, friends!!
“There’s a wise saying that goes like this: A real gentleman never discusses women he’s broken up with or how much tax he’s paid. Actually, this is a total lie. I just made it up. Sorry! But if there really were such a saying, I think that one more condition for being a gentleman would be keeping quiet about what you do to stay healthy. A gentleman shouldn’t go on and on about what he does to stay fit. At least that’s how I see it. / As everybody knows, I’m no gentleman…” —Haruki Murakami, Foreward to What I Talk About When I Talk About Running
Happy, health New Year!