Tuesday 3.36: A Year of Running
A couple months ago, I set a goal of running 219 miles—the distance between the Boston Marathon finish line and my apartment in Brooklyn—by Christmas. As of this writing, I’ve run 205 miles, and it looks like I’ll finish in a few days. It’s sort of celebrating early, but I’m donating the buck-per-mile $219 to Running Strong for American Indian Youth today, because I’d imagine they’d prefer to have the gift before Christmas.
I didn’t set any personal records in 2020. I’ll have run a little more than 600 miles by January 1. I ran three virtual races in the last three months, each 5K. I had hoped to improve my time slightly with each race, but in the end, the opposite happened:
Halloween Cyber 5K
Mile splits: 7:24 / 7:11 / 7:03 / (+0:43)
Overall pace: 7:10 min./mi.
Finish Time: 22:17
Turkey Trot Cyber 5K
Mile splits: 7:18 / 7:19 / 7:07/ (+0:49)
Pace: 7:13 min./mi.
Finish time: 22:25
Holiday Cyber 5K
Mile splits: 7:19 / 7:11 / 7:08 / (+0:58)
Pace: 7:15 min./mi.
Finish time: 22:35
The final race was particularly disappointing. I posted a 3-mile time of 21:38, giving me 38 seconds to cover the final 160m for a personal best on this particular course. Ambitious, but doable. As soon as I started my final kick, I threw up. The final 160m took me nearly a minute. A fitting end to my own personal approximation of a competitive calendar in 2020.
Last night I jogged through the park for the first time since that particular race. I’d been surprised at how disappointed I was at not reaching my target time. I kept replaying the race in my head, thinking about where I could have gained a few seconds, where I could have perhaps coasted or relaxed to control my breathing—and in doing so, my gut—a little better. But now, running without the pressure of a race (even just a virtual one) allowed me to reflect.
I thought about the races I was supposed to run in 2020: the Brooklyn Half Marathon in May, then the New York Marathon in November. In a year of trauma and loss and disappointment, these cancellations barely register. But in terms of the cumulative effect of quotidian disruptions we all felt, it struck me. Before the virus hit, I had assumed my year would be dedicated to extensive distance training. Just staving off injury was likely to constitute the most difficult physical test I’d ever undertaken. I’ve never run a marathon, but am familiar enough with the training regimens to know that they are necessarily all-consuming. There are no days off. I had prepared for that, and then suddenly it was no longer there.
I still ran, of course, but every loop was filled with more sirens and fewer pedestrians. I didn’t train thoughtfully. I was only ever concerned with going a little farther or a little faster, and I rarely succeeded. Looking at the descending times of the last three “races” of the year, I can see the result of that course. I had no idea what I was doing. I was just sort of beating myself up.
So jogging slow, comfortable for the first time since all this started, I had the sense that something had changed. Maybe it was the news of the vaccine, maybe the end of this year’s races, or Trump’s presidency, the excitement of the storm now blanketing the city, but something felt different. I breathed easier. I looked at trees. I diverted at one point to pursue a raccoon. I thought about my form, but I didn’t go any faster or slower than I wanted to. It felt really good, and purposeful, to run without a purpose.
I coouldn’t remember the last time I felt like that.