Outrunning Forrest: On Running My 50,000th Mile
This article was originally published by HuffPost.
This summer I ran my 50,000th mile.
Adding every mile I have ever run — long runs, track workouts, easy jogs, ultimate Frisbee games at camp in the 1980s, little league baseball games in the 1970s, sprints to airport gates to catch flights — I conservatively calculate that I reached the 50,000 mile mark sometime this summer. Probably earlier.
To me — and many of my former University of Oregon distance running teammates — this begs the question: “But how fast are you?”
Not necessarily very fast.
I am a former sub-4:30 miler and 72-minute half-marathoner. Depending on your perspective, that may make me pretty fast. Or not.
Coming from a school that boasts Olympic distance running legends Prefontaine, Salazar, McChesney, Burleson, Rupp and dozens of others, along with gold medalists Joaquim Cruz and Matt Centrowitz, I rank near the bottom of the list of runners who have competed at Oregon. Anyone who saw me run at my best, which was age 20, would understand why: for all the passion I had for running, I had zero natural running grace. I am certainly one of the slowest distance runners that Bill Dellinger, Bill Bowerman et al. have churned out at Oregon in the last half century.
But, boy, what I wouldn’t give to be that “slow” today. To run one more sub-5-minute mile.
I actually ran a mile time trial recently. Five years ago, I ran 5:35. This time I told myself that as long as I was under 6:00, I could finesse it and tell people, “Hey, I ran 5 minutes and high change.”
I ran 6:03. Can’t finesse that.
But while I am determined to get back under 6 minutes, I take some solace in the fact that I reached 50,000 total miles.
By the Numbers
50,000 miles. This is equal to the distance around the earth’s equator (24,874 miles) multiplied by two. Or, consider running across the U.S. — as the fictional Forrest Gump did — roughly 2,800 miles. Gump crossed the country four times, and then made the TV news and attracted a cult following. I’ve run the equivalent of 18 cross-country trips.
How did I do it?
Not by running marathons or ultra-marathons. Running a 26.2-mile race is a different level of crazy — I don’t even like driving that far. No, I’ve just completed a lot of reasonable-length 3-, 5- and 8-mile runs.
I started running at a young age, completing my first 5-mile race at age 9, so I got off to a good start. I logged at least 1,000 miles before my 10th birthday. I continued to run casually through age 13, averaging 15–25 miles per week. By age 14, as a freshman in high school, I was already 10% of the way to 50,000. I began to run more seriously, logging roughly 50–60, then 70–80+ miles per week for the next half dozen years — with a number of weeks at 100+ — until I approached college graduation. Then my priorities shifted.
After college, I started working two jobs and cut back on running significantly until I got accepted to grad school. I then settled into roughly 30 miles per week. Every week. The weather conditions, locales, times of day, cities and circumstances have varied considerably. But, other than an occasional rest day, my daily run has remained remarkably consistent. At one point, there were twice-per-day runs.
In high school, I often woke up at 5:45 a.m. and ran 8 miles with my father — a 2:39 masters marathoner and local running hero who inspired my own running. We’d talk every step of the way before finishing the run, after which I hustled off to catch the school bus. By 3 p.m., I was ready for my second daily run at cross-country practice. Those were good days.
Over the years, I’ve run in Central Park at 2 a.m. upon flying into NYC from California. I’ve run on hotel floors in Switzerland in the middle of the night. I’ve run in snow on Christmas morning when traffic is non-existent. I’ve run straight up Mt. Ashland Ski Road in Oregon and up Kearny Street hill above Broadway in San Francisco. And I’ve run in airport parking lots during extra-long layovers (thank you, Hertz, for watching my luggage). And I’ve enjoyed each of these runs.
So, with equal parts discipline, enthusiasm and tenacity, I have now run 50,000 miles. What lessons have I learned along the way?
There are two.
Lesson #1: Fast Is Important — and Relative
Watch elementary school children play soccer or other sports, and you’ll immediately notice something fundamental: They are unafraid to run as fast as they can. Sounds simple. Kids do it all the time.
Then, years and decades pass, and along the way people stop running fast and many stop running completely.
Don’t.
Even if running fast is as fun for you as eating gravel for breakfast, I swear it’s worth doing for as many years as possible. Let’s maintain that aspect of our childhood and fitness as long as we can. If we’re lucky, we can emulate the late Ed Whitlock and hold on that “real feeling of enjoyment” from running.
Admittedly, fast is relative. My all-out 10K race pace today — roughly 7 minutes/mile — was a nice light trot for me back in 1987. I am not even sure if 2-hour marathoner Eliud Kipchoge ever moves as slow as 7 minutes/mile, even when stumbling to the bathroom after waking up in the morning.
But it’s important, for health and other reasons, to try to run and to try to run as fast as you can once in a while. Occasional anaerobic workouts are invaluable. As Bowerman said, “If you have a body, you are an athlete.”
Lesson #2: Running Is Two-Dimensional; Life Is Three-Dimensional
One of the unique aspects of running for time is its pure, stone-cold inflexibility. “There is no such thing as luck in distance running,” said 2:13 marathoner Josh Cox.
He’s right. When you’re trying to run fast, the watch doesn’t lie.
In other sports, things can be finessed. A hobbled Kirk Gibson can hit a game-winning homerun off Dennis Eckersley in the World Series. An injured Willis Reed can score two baskets in Game 7 of the NBA Finals, inspiring the Knicks to a title win over Wilt Chamberlain’s Lakers.
But the watch is less forgiving than Eck or Wilt.
In 1987, I ran a half marathon in 72 minutes and high change (see what I did there?), and that 5:33/mile pace reflected my fitness and ability at that time. Thirty years later, I am now over 30 minutes slower. That means the 1987 Phil could run 13 miles, stop to watch a full episode of Who’s the Boss?, then sprint the final 193 yards and still beat the 2017 Phil.
Yes, even Tony Danza would admit the watch is unforgiving. I ran all my fastest times at a young age — my PRs were all at age 20 and under. No one tells you on race day at age 20 that this will be the fastest you will ever run. So, I will say it now: savor every ounce of strain and fatigue from those PRs because decades from now you will fight to remember how exactly it felt to run that fast.
Unlike running, however, life is three dimensional. Distance running is a lonely, independent-minded sport, even when you’re competing for a team. Life brings infinitely more complex challenges — and opportunities. It can actually be more forgiving sometimes.
I am now a relatively new husband and brand-new father of a 7-month-old girl who has now crawled an estimated 1/10th of a mile. Is it possible that not a single one of the 50,000 miles I’ve run has been quite as amazing as watching her various fits and starts of crawling?
Yes.
“But what about that one sub-4:30 mile you ran?” you ask.
Not as amazing.
My appreciation for my wife, daughter, and all the other non-running aspects of my life has grown. Immeasurably. Perhaps that’s the greatest residual achievement of running so many miles and fighting an unforgiving battle with the watch: realizing how much more there is to cram in to each hour besides miles and yards.
What Comes Next?
Does this enhanced appreciation mean that I will curtail my running? Will I stop trying to run fast? Not a chance. I am excited about running fast, on occasion, even as my measure of fast gets slower each year.
I now realize I will likely not be able to run another 50,000 miles. So, I’m actually stopping for a moment — taking a breather to appreciate this achievement and those who helped and accompanied me, in person or in spirit, on those runs.
Author and professor Norman Maclean wrote about his treasured memories of fly-fishing with his father and brother. He continued to fish the Big Blackfoot River even as he grew “too old to be much of a fisherman.” I do the same with memories of my friends and family members who once joined or watched me as I now venture out solo for my daily run.
Then there’s my dad. For me and my 77-year-old father, our weekly 8-mile runs before school have evolved into very rare biennial 1-mile slow jogs around the track, before he stops to watch me finish my workout. On this run, there are now few words spoken. The frequency, distance and pace of this run — as with all my others — has so greatly diminished.
The 50,000 miles worth of memories, however, are more hallowed than ever.
So, after carefully reflecting on this milestone, I turn my attention to the many non-running milestones to come. Our baby girl is already 1/10th of a mile along her trek. I cannot wait to accompany her as she begins her journey down brand new roads.
