It’s been a rough month for my running quest. May 28 marked the halfway point for my 1,000-mile year. I celebrated the day with a cool three-miler during Boot Camp leg day, and gave myself a mental pat on the back for making it that far.
And honestly, I felt like a bit of a badass. I’d run 500 miles in 6 months, not only more than I’d ever clocked, but more than I ever imagined I was capable of completing. And it hadn’t been that bad, either.
But then summer hit. Vegas summer, like an oven perpetually set to low. Don’t tell me it’s a dry heat. When you can feel your skin slow-roasting, it’s just fucking hot.
Me and heat don’t really get along. I remember middle school soccer games when I’d get so flushed that coaches would bench me, worried I’d collapse on the pitch right in front of all the horrified Newton soccer moms with their orange slices and their Volvo station wagons. During my first Ragnar Relay, a hard 90-degree leg in full sun left me so destroyed it took me hours to recharge. The leg was only four miles.
So it’s been a rough month. Between weekend trips and 88-degree mornings, I’ve fallen behind, watching the daily mileage tick up—from 2.69 to 2.83—with every missed run. Some days I’m just not in the mood, to fry for three miles, to hit the treadmill, to go out there and get it done.
Which is not to say I’m giving up on this thing. As of today, I’ve got 397 miles to complete in the next 140 days. This far in, it doesn’t sound like much, actually, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to quit now.
But if you see me running—sweating profusely, face a somewhat alarming shade of red—don’t worry. That’s just how it’s going this month.