Running Letters – Issue 3

Out of Winter

Righteous Readers,

Yesterday, I tackled what was likely my last wintry run of the season—16 miles of flowy single-track. 36 degrees when I finished up. I was joined several times by an industrious pileated woodpecker. Good tiding and good sensations, though my legs were heavy from Friday’s 400s at the track.

Peak winter hit hard this year—sharp and unrelenting. A deep freeze settled into the bones and roots of Mohican, and into the blood of the runners who call it home. All of us have been waiting patiently for the great meltening. As I sometimes do, I felt a need to train just as deep as the freeze. So I did. Through the coldest and darkest days, I kept moving—on the roads, on the treadmill, cycling to nowhere in the basement. While the world was white and still, I handed myself over to the craft of moving by measured effort. But now we’re shaking free. The roots are wriggling, and the bones ache for more miles deep in the forest. It’s time for the art and lore of running to bloom again.

Soon, the trails will drain, and then comes the lush, vibrant spring I’ve celebrated on foot and on two wheels every year since 2004. I think athletes appreciate spring more viscerally than most—maybe because we feel we’ve earned it’s gifts after pressing on with our outdoor rituals through the cold. I’m proud to say I confronted winter running head-on this year. I bundled up and stepped out for tempo runs, even when the wind chill was sub-zero. I got my strides in on stiff legs. I let the miles tick steadily by on weekly long runs. At this stage, after 22 years of endurance pursuits, there’s no more low hanging fitness fruit for me to pluck. If I want to improve, I need to train frequently, consistently, and with purpose. And honestly? I like it that way. Monk mode suits me.

That said, I am fiending for spring. I check obsessively on morning walks and preschool drop-offs—have the trails cleared? Has the track melted out? Have my legs hardened sufficiently? Are my lungs ready to burn again?

For the cyclists, the shift to spring is perhaps even starker than for the runners. After dozens of hours and hundreds of virtual “miles” in my dungeon, I’m ready for meandering gravel roads, rocky trail descents, salt stains on my bibs, and my unzipped jersey flapping behind me.

This morning, almost to mark the seasonal change and open up the riding season, Quinn and I snuck in a trail ride—my first MTB ride since last year’s Mohican race in May. We caught the last overnight freeze of the freeze-thaw cycle—an annual pattern where the deep earthen frost softens by day, refreezes by night, and repeats until the land is fully melted and dried out.

We climbed hard in the sideways yellow light of sunrise, winding through white pines and mossy rock gardens, until we hauled ourselves up onto Hickory Ridge, spun easy across the park’s northern border, and then bombed the slick, steep, heavily rooted drop back down to the river, literally hootin’ and hollerin’ at each other the whole way. Bikes are officially back. Sunset spins are just around the bend.

68 days of committed training in the books this year.

165 training hours.

1,081 all-purpose miles.

65,529 feet of climbing.

10 weeks until my 12th Mohican 100 on the mountain bike.

12 weeks until I try to crack 24 hours for 100 miles on foot in Mohican.

I’m savoring the work.

See you out there.

Crispy