As the addiction deepened, the number of running days per month kept climbing. Twenty-five or twenty-six was now the minimum; some months hit twenty-eight — meaning three rest days in the entire month. Most of those weren’t planned recovery; they were forced stops due to weather or work. And I was finding them harder and harder to accept.
A Running Partner for a few days
That year my schedule had me running in the mornings, the usual ten to twelve kilometers. Winter was mild — out of fifty-one runs in January and February, only five were below freezing, the coldest a mere minus four. No snow at all.
In late January, we had visitors: a friend and his family. He’d been a serious runner in his younger years — marathons included. So it was only natural that we went out together a few mornings while they were staying with us. It was a new experience, running with a partner. Until then, I’d always run alone. The conversation made the hour fly by. I showed him my daily routes, shared stories tied to particular spots along the way.
In spring, a work trip took me back to my home country, where we managed another joint run. Two shared runs in two countries within a few months — there’s something satisfying about that.
Sofia
Just after that journey, thanks to another work trip in early May, I was able to add yet another country to my running map: Bulgaria, as I spent a few days in its capital, Sofia. I naturally didn’t leave my running shoes at home this time either, and over those few days I completed three 10 km runs around the city in ideal weather conditions, more specifically in the area around the central stadium.
What came as a great surprise in the city was just how many stray dogs lived on the streets. They were mostly in packs, and this brought back some not particularly pleasant memories for me… But fortunately, the dogs there were something else entirely: I doubt I have ever seen such peaceful animals. Most of them weren’t even wandering around — they were simply lying in the sun, usually in smaller groups. I noticed that they didn’t seem to bother anyone particularly: passers-by walked around them, went about their business, as if they weren’t even there. I was hoping that the next time I encountered dogs again, I would meet similarly peaceful animals (spoiler: that’s not how it turned out).
The Forest
Summer was pleasant again, and I made a discovery. Five kilometers from our apartment there was a large forest — ideal for running. I’d never tried it before, for a simple reason: five kilometers there meant five back, which used up my entire ten-kilometer budget on transit alone. On top of that, the route into the city center was congested: narrow sidewalks, heavy traffic, pedestrians, parked cars everywhere.
One day, I drove to the forest and started running from there. It was extraordinary. Paved sections with good surfaces, wide forest roads, narrow trails — I could choose freely. I already knew the forest well from hiking, so I had a clear mental map of where each path led and roughly how far. I didn’t have a GPS watch. I estimated distance from pace and time, and over the years that skill had become remarkably stable: I could pinpoint the five-kilometer turnaround to within about a hundred meters. I still don’t use any device to measure distance. If I can, I verify with a bike ride afterward — the difference is always negligible. But honestly it doesn’t matter: I never timed myself. I could tell from the music roughly how long I’d been out, and ten kilometers meant about fifty-five minutes.
The air in the forest was noticeably better. I resolved to come back often. The downside was sitting in the car sweaty afterward — but the five kilometers was only a few minutes’ drive, so a towel on the seat did the job. On weekday afternoons, I sometimes didn’t see a single person the entire run. Years later, I was lucky enough to live somewhere with a similar setting for everyday runs. I think of that with deep nostalgia to this day.
I should add: I’ve never liked trail running. I’ve tried it a few times, but uneven ground — grass tufts, hidden rocks, invisible mud beneath the leaves — doesn’t awaken in me the thrill of a challenge overcome. It awakens annoyance. A twisted ankle, a bad step, mud on my shoes and clothes. That’s just how it is: there are asphalt runners like me, and there are trail devotees. The shoe choice matters, though — and a good road shoe works perfectly on well-kept forest paths.
The Wild Boar
The most memorable event of the year didn’t happen in the forest. It happened on my usual route, on September 9th. Running along the road out of town, I noticed a yellow-light van parked on the bike path, two people scanning the bushes along the roadside. As I reached them, one stopped me and asked if I’d happened to see an injured wild boar. I froze at the question — but said no, and asked why. Several people had called in, he said, reporting one wandering near the highway. Then they got in the van and drove off.
About a hundred and fifty meters further on, the boar walked out of the bushes right in front of me. Maybe ten meters away. It stopped and looked at me. I stopped and thought about what to do — remembering my dog encounter years earlier, but suspecting this wouldn’t end as easily. Fortunately, after a few seconds the boar simply walked on at a calm pace toward another patch of scrub and disappeared, leaving behind its distinctive cloud of scent. I didn’t see any visible injury. I could now say I’d encountered a wild boar mid-run.
In November, within a few days, I had two more encounters with dogs, one involving several at once. I confirmed, once again, that dogs do not like runners. Fortunately these were smaller and mostly just barked. The walking technique worked again — slowing to a walk kept them from escalating.
The Whippet
One more thing worth mentioning: that year, we got a dog. A whippet, chosen specifically because I wanted a running partner. I won’t say much about it, because I managed to pick the one whippet in the world that hated running — at least with me, especially on asphalt. She loved chasing a ball, but the human-dictated “snail’s pace” was beneath her. She wouldn’t tolerate the leash, kept lying down, refused to go any further. I didn’t force it. From a running perspective, she was more of a hindrance than a joy.
2011: 322 runs / 3,481 km
Since 2002: 1,974 sessions / 19,022 km