December 2020

by Michelle San Antonio, a Rhode Island BAMR

As someone who used to run just three times a week, and whose running history includes countless injury layoffs, the idea of running more than 2,000 miles in a single year was once unfathomable. 

Then 2020 happened. (Mic drop.) And I suddenly found myself running A LOT. I’d marvel each time I did something I previously thought impossible: Running five days a week! Running 50+ miles a week! Running five days in a row! 

In August, when I realized I had already run 1,000 miles, I had this nutty idea that maybe I could do the unthinkable and “run the year,” running  2,020 miles by December 31. It seemed both foolishly ambitious and devilishly enticing. I mean, what better way to show this wretched year who’s boss? 

While alluring, the goal would mean upping my mileage even more, and the fear of injury loomed. So I relinquished the 2,020 goal to the status of background noise. I knew it was there, but I was relishing running without thinking about the numbers, and wanted to keep it that way. 

I continued to get up and run every day that I felt like running (which turned out to be most days). Those runs filled me with joy, and lent my days stability and balance. My weekly mileage crept into the upper 50s, and even as high as 60. (It even makes my own eyes bug a bit to type that!) 

During one of those runs, I got a phone call from my sister that our dad had fallen and was being taken to the hospital. Being in another state, and hesitant to travel due to COVID, I felt helpless and unmoored. Thus began a month of anxiety, stress, sadness, and emotional turmoil as his condition worsened, and I feared that we might say our final goodbyes over Zoom. I ran more than ever—running out the worry, the panic, and the anger. 

Thankfully, Dad did return home, we were all able to be there with him; he passed peacefully in his living room with my mom by his side. We held a small service with our immediate family, shared many wonderful memories, and laughed and cried together. 

And I kept running, because I woke up every morning and didn’t know what else to do. The only thing that made any sense in the relentless awfulness was to run. The week my father passed, I ran 66 miles. I poured my heart out through those miles, and I’d return home feeling more centered, but also emotionally drained. 

When mid-December rolled around, I was closing in on 2,000 miles and knew I’d easily reach 2,020. But as soon as the goal was well within reach, I felt less driven to run. All year, running had been on my terms; it had been my solace and escape. Now it felt more like an item on my (endless) to-do list.

I still got out, though, and the miles were still enormously beneficial. On the winter solstice, on an ordinary 7-mile run on my basement treadmill, I reached my goal—2,020 miles exactly—with 10 days to spare. 

I considered blowing past 2,020, just because I could. But, frankly, I’m tired, and ready for a break. Yoga is beckoning, as are long, quiet walks. I’ll get back to running, but only when I feel excited to get out there again. That may be January 1…or not. When it feels right, I’ll go. 

I’m proud of what I accomplished this year, but more than that, I’m just incredibly grateful my body held up through all those miles (and all the stress), and allowed me to process all this year threw at me the best way I know how. 

And I’m glad that I have one positive thing to associate with the number 2,020. 

How about you, BAMR: Did you keep track of your annual mileage in this unpredictable year?