The first long run I ever did was in the winter. I remember it. Not well, not the entire thing. But I remember where I was at the point right before I turned around. When my own body had taken me further from home than it ever had before.
I remember the snow. I remember the field where I stood and caught my breath before I turned around.
My shoes were wet. I was tired, and I still had to turn around and run home. I was alone. It was the middle of winter, and nobody else I ran with all summer was there with me.
It was a cold, long winter, and I put in a lot of miles.
~
Around here, in the summer, it’s easy to put on your running shoes, get out there and rack up some miles. It gets hot, but in the mornings and evenings, it’s nice. If you run around one of a couple parks in town, you’ll see all kinds of other people running almost any time of day.
But in the winter, it’s a different story. You can run for hours without seeing another person on foot. Most people choose when to run, and most people don’t choose to run in the winter.
For me, it felt like less of a choice.
I wasn’t ever a great runner. It’s not like I ever won a big race or even came close.
To compete, to be someone who had any business competing, I had to take my advantages when I could. It’s like my abilities and skills, they were the last part of the peanut butter jar, and I was going to have to work that fucking knife to get every last little bit out, to get just enough to make myself a passable sandwich.
I ran through every winter when I was on a team. And for the last 15 years now.
It’s a lot of work for a small payoff. All that cold, all the wind, all the ice patches, all the times when I get home and stand in the shower until I can feel my own body again, it’s a lot to deal with for a little gain. But I’m all about the little gain. It’s all I’ve got.
~
All running is, really, is one long string of choices. A choice you make one day, then the next. And a choice you make from footfall to footfall. You string enough of those choices together, and you’ve got something worthwhile.
Running in the winter makes those choices hard. It’s easier to stay in when it’s cold. It’s easier to turn around early. It’s easier to tell yourself “The elliptical is pretty good, right?”
Choosing to run in the winter is hard. And hard choices, hard times, they make us better runners. Running uphill makes you a better runner. Running when you’re tired. Running through the snowstorm where you’ve got a scarf around your face that ends up stuck, frozen on your mouth, and you’re trying to listen to a Cormac McCarthy audiobook but you can’t hear anything because the wind is too loud. It’s those moments that, if you’re like me, if you’re an average person, it’s those moments when you have to keep going. It’s what you’ve got.
And it’s those moments when you’re snatching something away from the world. From the people who are naturally talented or just lucky. From anyone who doubted you, including yourself. It’s those hard, shitty moments that make you think that maybe, just maybe, you deserve a piece of something great.
~
For a lot of us, it’s going to be a long winter. A lot of us feel alone. Old. Sore.
I can’t tell the rest of you what to do. The only thing I can say is what I’m going to do. Which is what I always do.
Run all winter.
And running all winter, today, is both a figurative and a literal thing for me. It’s going outside and running all winter, but it’s also an idea. The idea that the only option, when the winter comes, is to let the winter set the parameters for your life or not. To gain what there is to be gained by pushing hard through a trying time or not.
For those of us who are average, know this: We become better than average because we’re willing to run when others won’t.
Look, like I said, I’m not here to tell anyone else what to do. You do you. If you’re going to grieve, then grieve. If you’re going to party, then party. You know what works for you and what doesn’t.
I know what works for me and what doesn’t.
What doesn’t work for me is anger. It makes me do things I don’t like and be a person I don’t like. I don’t run well on anger.
What doesn’t work for me is being defensive. It never made me a better runner to defend my performance. Defending my performance never made me happier about it.
What doesn’t work for me is blaming someone else. It might change how I felt, for a while, but it never got rid of that ache, that feeling of knowing that I didn’t do what I needed to.
What doesn’t work for me is sadness. It’s lousy fuel.
What works for me is being willing to run when others aren’t. When it’s hardest. When it’s the worst.
What works for me is running all winter.
~
My first long run was in the winter, but it’s not the one I remember the best.
The winter run I remember best was a run where my coach drove me out, so instead of running out and back, it was all a straight line towards home, one long, straight line, every footfall taking me closer.
If you’ve run and never done this, I recommend it. Damn is it a lot further when it’s all one way. As you drive out, you can’t believe how goddamn far it is.
My hands were freezing. I didn’t wear gloves, and as I got close to the end, my hands were so cold that they hurt to touch. They felt almost warm somehow. My fingertips were sore for a while after that. For days. All that shit that comes out of your nose, it was ice trails on the front of my face. I didn’t even feel what a mess I was because my face was too cold.
And I made it.
And the entire next season, when it was warm and there was no wind and when my hands didn’t hurt, whenever I was in a tough spot, I remembered: You’ve been through worse. You turned that into something useful. You can do this.
~
I’m going to run all winter.
That means I’m going to run all winter, but it means I’m going to write all winter too. I’m going to cook for myself and pay off my student loans. I’m going to apply for jobs that might be better suited to my skills. I’m going to sleep better. I’m going to push for a better life in every aspect I can control, and even some that I can’t.
I’m going to run and run and run, and when it’s over, when the winter ends, I’m going to have those miles under my belt. Those tough, frigid miles with shit all frozen to my face. I’ll have a hard time to look back on. Something that, forever after, I can say, “You made it through that. You turned that into something useful. This, THIS is no problem.”
But I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s not over yet. We’re not there yet. First, the running part.
I hope you’ll run too. Whatever that means for you, I hope to see you out there. I hope you run all winter.