This must be the place: ‘To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift’
Sunset in the Balsam Range. Garret K. Woodward photo
Dec. 31, 2024, marked the ninth anniversary of my “running streak.” Since Dec. 31, 2015, I’ve run every single day. The standard is to complete at least a mile to qualify as a run, with most of my jogs hovering around three miles.
To preface, I’ve been a runner since I was 12 years old (39 now). I ran competitively from middle school all through college as a Division-1 athlete. During all those early years, I would average about five or six days a week running, either for practice or for competitions week-in and week-out.
And I vividly remember those days growing up in the North Country of Upstate New York. Rural America. Small towns. The stuff John Mellencamp songs are about. Trail running in the Champlain Valley and Adirondack Mountains. Carefree treks down old dirt farm roads or along Lake Street in my hometown of Rouses Point. Below zero temperatures in the winter and sweaty, humid summers, those fall months of foliage and frolicking, springtime in vast open fields.
To note, my father is a lifelong runner, now at age 82, having finished around 85 marathons and thousands of road races across America. He was one of those old-school runners in the 1960s and 1970s when it was kind of weird to simply go for a jog. He would tell me stories of folks back in the day pulling over asking if he needed a ride somewhere. And he still is at it, slowly jogging each day.
Thus, my love of running comes from him. For me, it’s always been my escape from the world, the way I assess and process life, and the means by which I conduct myself as a human being amid the unknown universe. It is the one part of my day I am truly alone, with no smart phone or distractions, just listening to the earth whirling around me, the sounds of my breathing and my shoes traversing the ground. It’s euphoric and intrinsic, with my gratitude to be able to go on a run always at the forefront of each jaunt.
And it was in the exact era of the late 1960s through the mid-1970s when the late, great Steve Prefontaine entered the legendary pantheon of American long-distance running. “Pre” has remained a lifelong inspiration to me, especially with his notable quote, “To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.” It’s a sentiment and an ethos eternally chiseled on the walls of my mind.
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I first heard that quote in middle school. As a seventh-grader, I tried out for the cross-country team at Northeastern Clinton Central School, surrounded by cornfields and only a couple miles from the Canadian Border. The person who told me that quote was my late running coach and English teacher, Mr. Brian Power. He was a lifelong friend to my parents and myself until his passing in 2021.
At first, I viewed the Prefontaine quote as motivation to become a better runner and teammate, a more refined athlete who sets goals and aims to execute objectives. Don’t waste the talent. Simple enough. As I’ve gotten older, the quote is motivation to not only be better writer and journalist, but also a better friend, family member, lover and curious old soul. In truth, the “gift” is not just running talents, it’s relationships and dreams, interactions and connections.
In all reality, the running streak came to be totally by accident, as I soon said to myself, “Well, let’s see just how far I can take this.” It was the last week of December 2015. Up until that point, I would rotate each day between running and cross-training (mountain biking, weightlifting, hiking, etc.). But, at that time, I was visiting my old college cronies in Brooklyn, New York, for a handful of days.
With no mountains to climb or bikes readily available to traverse the city, I decided to run every day I was in the Big Apple, which was fine by me, seeing as when I travel, going for a run in whatever place I find myself is my souvenir from that trip. In all honesty, I don’t think you can ever really know a place unless you go for a run through it, simply absorbing and listening to whatever you pass by.
After a week or two of running every day, I started to keep track of where I was running, how far I went, how I felt and what I was up, something I still do to this very day. Once I hit a hundred days in-a-row, I decided to aim for 500 days, then 1,000. If I feel good, why not, right? Even if I have to drag myself out the door on some days, I’ve never once regretted a run by the time I finish. It’s always felt good for my body, mind and soul.
New Year’s Eve 2024 marked 3,289 days in a row I’ve put on my running clothes, laced up my shoes and headed out the door for a jog. Late nights and early mornings. Sunrises and sunsets. Dozens and dozens of states across America throughout these last nine years — Montana to Maine, California to Florida and seemingly everywhere in-between — alongside trots in Canada and Mexico.
Nowadays, the streak (much like running has always been for me) is a Zen zone, a meditative state where I tap into the depths of my heart and soul. Right around the half-mile mark of a run, my body starts to relax and I find my ideal rhythm of pace, breathing and trajectory of my journey. Although I may have a framework of where I want to run on a given day, the beauty of the jog resides in the serendipitous movement of left, right or straight ahead.
Today (Jan. 1, 2025), as I kicked off the beginning of my 10th year of the streak, it very much felt like that as I completed a four-mile loop at the Tsali Recreation Area in rural Western North Carolina. Lots on the mind. And yet, my heart and soul remain optimistic, where I aim to radiate compassion and curiosity.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
