This year didn’t bring many events either. The city runs continued as described the year before. A few beautiful full moons — the January one and the Worm Moon in early March were especially memorable.
Small Incidents
In January, on an evening run, a small Maltese dog got me: an elderly woman was walking it on a long leash, and as I passed, it lunged, growling, and bit my ankle. There was also a bout of sleet in late January — zero degrees, thoroughly soaked.
And a few times during the year, my ageing body sent signals. In March, for variety, the pain showed up in my Achilles tendon. It lasted a few days but didn’t stop me from running. I hoped it wouldn’t get worse, though by the end the pain had started creeping up into the lower calf. I have an effective tool for that: compression calf sleeves, which did an excellent job once again. A few runs later, the problem was gone. I rate them highly — I often combined them with red tiger balm, even after marathons. For minor pains and strains, they’re a real help, though for the more serious pulls I’d described in earlier years, they did nothing.
In December, the sole of my foot started hurting mid-run. Fortunately, that passed quickly too. And throughout the year, the occasional stabbing pain in my ankle or knee would appear and vanish after a few hundred meters. These signals could no longer be ignored. They weren’t from falls or from stepping on a stone — things that also happened occasionally. These were clearly age-related. I was fifty-one. But I kept running my near-daily ten kilometers and figured that as long as I could do that, I had no right to complain. I still couldn’t imagine it ever ending. It would, but not yet.
The Fitness Test
That year, my workplace held its annual physical assessment for all employees, separated by age group and gender. I was astonished to learn that the exercise most people dreaded was the two-kilometer run. The horror stories they told about this “extreme ordeal” were unbelievable. There was supposedly a time limit, but from what I recall, you could have met it at a brisk walk. Most started running two months beforehand just to be able to pass — and stopped as soon as it was over. They looked at me with envy: the runner, for whom this was nothing, because he runs five times that distance every day. But not one of them considered taking up running regularly for their health and quality of life. My own age group painted an especially bleak picture: many couldn’t do a single push-up. That’s when it hit me: that’s what I’d be if I hadn’t started running in 2002. Unable to run a hundred meters at fifty-one, let alone do push-ups. And I was quietly, deeply glad I hadn’t chosen that path. For the quality of life — not for fashion, not for bragging rights, not to earn anyone’s envy.
The Annual Fall
In November, the yearly fall arrived. I hadn’t written about this before, but statistically, I fall roughly once a year. Sometimes from stepping on something carelessly, sometimes from a sudden evasive move that leads to a careless step, stepping off a kerb — or simply falling for reasons even I can’t explain. This year it happened in November — just when I’d started thinking I might get through the year without one. On a foggy evening, in the dark, a pavement defect sent me to the ground. I usually land on one or both knees, sometimes my hands too. The question is always: where does the skin come off — just the knee, or the palm as well? This time, since it was November, my trouser knee tore open too.
These aren’t big falls. They don’t usually stop me from running, though this time my knee hurt for a few days. But these are normal runner things; we barely notice minor pains like these. Whether that’s good or bad is another question.
The trousers could be mended and were perfectly usable for evening runs — I didn’t treat my outings as fashion shows. I always repair clothes and shoes if they’re still functional; I never throw them away over a tear. In shorts, though, the scar stays visible for a long time — sometimes forever. Both my knees carry a considerable collection by now: running or cycling, left or right, one year or another. They don’t fade, at least not for me anymore.
Fifty Thousand
The year passed quietly, improving only my statistics — most notably by crossing the fifty-thousand-kilometer mark before the year was out. I didn’t pop champagne. The next day, I went running.
2020: 317 runs / 3,187 km
Since 2002: 4,747 sessions / 50,302 km