2005: The Year I Stopped Being a Beginner. January started the usual way: running first, cycling when the weather allowed it. And it did allow it, even then. But by the end of the month, the real cold had moved in. On some mornings I noted -5, even -9 degrees Celsius. Snow and ice underfoot. You adapt or you stay home.
The strange thing is that conditions like that also produce some of the most beautiful running I know. Frost-covered trees along certain stretches of the route. I still stop mentally at that sight, even now. Bare branches in winter do something to me that I cannot fully explain.
An Unwelcome Guest
February brought something I had only read about: freezing rain. I encountered it twice that month. Both times, luckily, it started while I was already out running, so I made it home before the roads turned into skating rinks. Had it started before I left, I would have stayed in.
There is almost no technique for freezing rain. Over the years I have figured out a few things: run on the grass beside the path if there is any, or on gravel where the shoe gets some grip. The asphalt becomes a mirror. It is not worth the risk of a serious fall.
Spring and the Knee Question
March still had its share of -8 degree mornings. I was ready for spring, and spring eventually arrived. When it did, cycling took over some of the running slots, as always. But I held a floor: one or two runs per week, minimum, through the whole summer.
After the knee problems from two years earlier, I had spent nearly two years carefully building the distance back up. By May I was at seven kilometres. Then eight. By the second half of August, ten kilometres had become the standard run. Sometimes a bit more, without any complaint from the knee.
Twenty Kilometres
October. Someone I ran into had finished a marathon a few days before. At the time that seemed almost beyond human range to me. But I left that conversation fired up, and decided I was going to run something long.
A few days into the month, one afternoon, conditions were perfect: 19 degrees, slightly overcast. I finished my usual ten kilometres, turned around, and started again. The idea was simple: go until it feels like enough, then turn back. My favourite radio programme was on, genuinely interesting, so I barely noticed the time passing.
I got home. I had done it twice.
The next day I felt it. But I was happy. Twenty kilometres. Three years earlier I could not run a fraction of that distance without stopping. The number felt significant.
Building a Real Base
After that, eleven to thirteen kilometres became the regular distance. Shorter runs still happened when time was short. Later I would find anything under ten felt somehow unfinished, but that shift came gradually.
November: 17 runs. December: 20 runs, including another twenty-kilometre effort. The holidays meant time, and for me, time meant running. Christmas Day, both days. December 31st.
December was the strongest month I had ever had. Twenty sessions. The long run contributing. And for the first time: over 200 kilometres in a single month. That number mattered to me. It felt like crossing a line.
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2005: 146 runs / 1,178 km / avg. 8 km per session
Since 2002: 368 sessions / 2,357 km