501 miles is what Strava noted as my total for the year, as of this morning.
500 is the 2020 goal I privately laid down for myself back in January, when I was cautiously wading back into running after baby #2, before I took a leap of faith and registered for a fall half marathon, before COVID-19, before I had any real inkling of what running would look like for me this year.
I wanted to just mark this moment, I guess. It’s not that huge of a deal — 500 was a somewhat random number, nice and round and biggish. Seemed like a good goal.
I’m not going to throw a party or take a break, or say, “Ha, make it 1,000!” But I’m proud. And grateful. Proud of my body for handling the return to running with strength, if not much speed (yet!). Proud of myself for dragging my tail out of bed at 5 am most mornings to do the darn thing. Grateful to my mom and dad for instilling a work ethic in me — ha, I accidentally wrote “worth ethic,” but you know what, they gave me that, too. Grateful to my family and friends near and far who make me feel like I have so, so many people in my corner. Grateful that the time and place that I run make it pretty easy to run safely these days.
Grateful for running, period. This summer makes 25 years that I’ve been running. TWENTY-FIVE. “Friends” had only been on for one season when Dad took me to get my first running shoes! Does Saucony even make the Grid Iron anymore?
But again, aside from lots of reminiscing, what is there to say, or to do? I’ve had plenty of adventures, but so many more lie up the road out of view. Thinking about them puts a smile on my face.
So I’ll just give the signpost a respectful light slap, take in the scenery for a moment or two, take a deep breath, and keep going.
It’s what we do.