Around this time last year, a friend goaded me into trying to run 1,000 miles in 2013. It wouldn’t average out to too terribly much–about 20 miles per week given that I would have to take two full weeks off to go to an island and capture gulls for science. No running out there. I agreed to the challenge, and today, I hit the mark with ten days to spare.
If I’d run it all at once, as the crow flies, I could have been on Jekyll Island, Georgia by now (which is lovely; I’ve been), or along Ungava Bay in Quebec, or in the middle of the Atlantic, having overshot Bermuda by a couple hundred miles.
I thought maybe I’d hit 1,000 on a longish run, and be someplace back on the more scenic sections of the roads around here. Instead, I wrapped up just exactly by my house. No witnesses, unless you count the dead opossum that’s been hanging from a crooked branch in a shrub around the corner for over a month now. No finish line festivities, no post-run drinks and snack station. I’ve run mainly on either side of the Massachusetts-New Hampshire border, stitching through over and over with my routes through every season.There hasn’t been much fanfare over the course of the year, but both solitude and traveling on foot have their own rewards, and I reckon by now, I’ve reaped about a thousand.