Then December arrived.
I’ve spent the last twelve days of this month reflecting on the last twelve months. This was in no small part because of something that happened as the month rolled in, namely an acceptance letter to a marathon lottery. And if or not I find myself standing at the start line of a marathon in Chicago in October of next year, no matter if I do that or run screaming in the other direction, the year 2020 will likely be defined by my effort to get there.
Marathons have a way of doing that.
On and on I go.
I’ve already written a couple posts on my thoughts about being accepted, and the effect it is likely to have on my year. I’ve started cross-training in earnest, if for no other reason than I need to train myself up to get ready for the actual marathon training. I am like as not to register for a few more races in the spring and summer to guage my fitness. And I’ve even booked a hotel, which oh-by-the-way is gonna be hella-expensive in Chicago on race weekend.
I’m going to start the new year — new decade — in a similar way to how I’ve ended this one: by scaling back my running. Over the past couple weeks I’ve actually been on a bit of a break. After running hard for eleven and a half months this year, the past two weeks as I’ve written all these posts I’ve simultaneously been hiding out. Writing rather than running. I’ve run precisely once, and that was on purpose.
A break. A reset. A re-think.
Tomorrow, January first, a couple things happen: the new year and the new decade begin with a five klick resolution run though the snowy streets of Edmonton, the gates open on at least one major training run, and my imminent return to routine means that I actually need to start thinking about something that is only a day closer but will no longer be separated by a decade of measure.