In 2017 I ran approximately 633 miles — the last three point five of them at about nine this morning, wearing two hats a facemask and multiple layers, in a gentle chill down along the Lehigh River and back up Main Street through the middle of Northampton borough, past the Roxy Theatre where KISS and Billy Joel once played.
(Not on the same bill.)
That distance equals an out-and-back to Montpelier, Vermont; Lynchburg, Virginia; or Mississauga, Ontario, all with mileage to spare.
Or I could have gone one way straight out all the way to Louisville, Kentucky, or Saint John, New Brunswick, again with mileage to spare. (Alas, I finished six miles short of achieving a one-way trip to Chicago.)
Somehow, it never occurs to me each year to push off and just keep going. Oughta make all that distance add up to something, you know.
National and international chaos aside, 2017 was actually a pretty great year for me in a whole bunch of significant ways. But based on my current disinterest in shoveling out the I-me-mine, I don’t feel like sharing most of it. Maybe it will winkle out over time; no great loss if it doesn’t.
I don’t see myself writing here all that often in 2018. I have also learned to never say never.
Who knows? New things are bound to turn my head, and that urge to write never totally goes away. In fact, I am looking at something in another browser tab right now that has at least three short blog posts in it — things no one but me will care about, certainly, but the words will come out anyway, and maybe they will find some other set of eyes to entertain.
Now I have shut the other browser tab and broken off the Grateful Dead shows I was downloading so I can shut down this machine and go sleep my way into the new year.
We will see what mileage is behind us a year from now.