Feeling the burn

writing like I run + upcoming deadlines

A long time ago, an ex was telling me about a friend who was flying cross-country to run a marathon. My next question was something like: “Wow, so he must be competitive?” (if he’s paying for a flight and hotel to do this torturous thing) or "Is there a chance he’ll win?” (because, why else?!) The answer was no. He just liked running. I was not a runner at the time, and I was utterly confused.

Not long after, I decided to try this running thing. I was new to Chicago, having moved there after college graduation without a job or a plan, and I wanted to meet people. So I paid my entry fee to the Chicago Marathon before ever running more than a few miles, printed out a training schedule, and joined a running group.

Have you ever walked or run along the Lakefront Path in Chicago? It tugs at you with bright blue skies and skyline views. One more mile, five, fifteen. The wide concrete trail swoops between the city and the sparkling lake that looks like an ocean, past marinas and skyscrapers and a ferris wheel. At first, running was uncomfortable. I was overwhelmed by the distance between landmarks and water fountains. But slowly, I found my groove, and the sky and the view pulled me along. I found the right water bottles for long distance running. I learned how to consume calories along the way. My muscles and my lungs got stronger. And the satisfaction of running grew bigger than the discomfort. I started to feel like I could run forever.

I didn’t make any new friends while training for my first marathon. (Turns out I prefer the silence and freedom of running alone. I made friends elsewhere.) But I did run the Chicago Marathon that summer and absolutely loved it. I loved the cheering crowds of strangers, the thrill of finding my visiting family along the course as they navigated the city to see me, the silly signs and the music and the sideline parties. I loved the sweet support of volunteers handing me sloshing little cups of electrolytes and the fellow runners who offered words of encouragement with pain smeared across their own tired faces. I loved that we were all in it together.

The 2009 Chicago Marathon—that’s me in green!

I didn’t win the marathon. (Lol.) I landed smack in the middle of 34,000 finishers. But at the end, I understood why people do this thing over and over again—even when they are but a speck of spandex in a sweaty stream of strangers who all receive the same participation metal. Only 0.00006% of runners in that race landed on the podium. But most runners never think about or even see the podium. They do it for the love that sneaks into your tired limbs, the way you feel completely drained but full of something new.

My first marathon was 17 years ago(!!!). It took eight more years and moving to Portland, Oregon to discover trail running, and then ultramarathons (which is anything longer than a marathon, and something I once called deranged). A friend convinced me to sign up for my first 50K, and after a few days of saying “No! Why on Earth would I do that?” I said, “OK, fine,” and then the Earth was beneath my feet and it was great. That first training season, I fell hard for trail running—figuratively but also literally; I fell at least three times, my foot hitting a root or a rock, my water bottle flying into the trees, my arms and legs flailing akimbo. (You fall far and dramatically when you’re running downhill.) I gave myself some fist-sized purple bruises on those falls, and then I kept on running.

Eventually, all the little muscles that help you balance and pivot on uneven terrain get stronger. You learn to see the trail without staring at the trail. I haven’t taken a trail tumble in years.

With road running and then even more so with trail running, I discovered a new kind of time and space to let my mind wander. You can’t think about finish lines when there are 15 or 20 miles to go. (Being a slow runner makes this especially so.) Instead, you think about the ground, your breath, the sky. And then you learn to hold all of that while your mind wanders elsewhere. I often find myself writing in my head on long runs, seeing words I’ve been noodling on snap into focus between the soft pounding of my sneakers on dirt and leaves. After hours of quiet beneath a canopy of trees, fleeting thoughts and ideas circle back with new edges and color.

I haven’t been running nearly as much as I used to in those years of marathon and 50K training. And my pace has gotten significantly slower. These days, I’m more often stopping to identify a bird call on the Merlin App or snapping a photo of an old house because I love how the color looks against the snow. You might say I don’t work as hard on running now. But running is always working on me. All those years of training still live in my bones. I know so many miles, so many pains and thrills, thanks to running. I have written so many words thanks to running. There has never been a podium. Not even close. And yet, I am always a runner.

It’s been a slower season of writing, too. I’ve been less consistent about this newsletter, and I haven’t published as many articles as I have in past years. But I’m also finding a new sense of clarity in my work, circling bigger and bigger ideas, and I feel good about taking the time and space for those ideas to collect dirt, sunshine, and some big purple bruises.

I never really think of running in terms of being a good runner. I am a very (very) slow runner, but I also once ran 32 miles around the base of Mount Saint Helens, navigating boulder fields and terrain so steep we needed ropes, which people seem impressed by. Sometimes I think about working to be a better runner, but for me that just means running more. Mostly, I run because it feels good, and when it feels really good, I know I’m getting stronger.

I want to write more like this, too.

You could define success in writing as whatever the top 0.00006% of writers are doing. You could bow out of the race, because your career might never look like the most successful ones. Which is akin to about 33,990 runners in Chicago deciding they’re not going to race that day because there’s no way they’ll end up on the podium. All of that collective training and hard work and progress would cease to exist. All of those people on the sidelines would watch ten seconds of action as the premiere runners sprinted past their city stoops. Then the streets would go quiet. No one would throw sideline parties for ten seconds of race time. Even the finish line would feel empty.

We need all the runners out there. We need all the writing, too.

To write like marathoners run is to know that you can only judge progress for yourself, to know that the fibers of your muscles are tearing and rebuilding, tearing and rebuilding, over and over again to become a stronger version of you. We get better as we write, no matter the end result. Running and writing both bring us to new places, to new people, to new ideas. Sometimes the words are for two people or two hundred or two thousand. Sometimes there is no one to witness you grinding uphill. In my experience, that is often when the right words and ideas click into place.

I will keep trying to write like I run. Because I love it. Because it feels good. Because I’m getting stronger and thinking more clearly when I write regularly. And when I put the finish line out of mind, that’s when I have the most fun. Every mile is worth our attention. Every race is something to write about.

Upcoming Deadlines

Waterman Fund Alpine Essay Contest for Emerging Writers | Submit by March 15

Maryland Creativity Grants | Apply by March 31

Silvers Grants for Works-in-Progress | Apply by March 31

A Public Space Fellowships | Apply by March 31

More Good Stuff for Writers

• It seems like every writer I know is raving about this Structure From Chaos class with Lauren Markham, in which she helps writers get organized around big writing projects. So of course I signed up! Apparently there are a few more spots open for March.

• And a pitch call from me! I’m the new editor of Connecticut Woodlands Magazine, a quarterly print publication where we cover conservation, the environment, wildlife, and outdoor recreation in Connecticut. I’d love to see summer and fall pitches from New England writers! Take a look at the archives to get a feel for what we publish. I’m at brobinson at ctwoodlands dot org.