There’s a distinct peace that comes with deciding you’re as good as you’ll ever be, when, creekside, you sit under an awning, riffled by the wind, the sun on your arm, a beer in your hand, and your comrades at your side, laughing and exchanging wild stories, too many Hawaiian sweet rolls and not enough water and the hubris that can cause little annoyances to turn into huge tribulations when you’re running three 10Ks in 24 hours. The seam in your sock becomes a piece of gravel and the string cheese you ate between legs 2 and 3 has you thinking that you should’ve brought along an adult diaper. Running in the middle of the night is a novelty all its own, headlamps bobbing through the fog, a 2 A.M. race an exercise in faith; despite the potholes, you somehow manage not to turn your ankle. Like running a marathon, relays can bring out the best and the worst in your body, and both can kill that spark.

I didn’t run regularly for over a year after. I was spent, burned out, and ruined for a while. I liked the idea of two- and three-mile runs and I did them here and there. Then I went for weeks not running at all. I had extra time to catch up on dishes, laundry, or miscellaneous tasks I rarely did, like tending our modest backyard. We planted sunflowers, tomatoes, and a pumpkin. I went for walks, truly seeing a few quiet neighborhoods I didn’t know existed in the small town I’d spent nearly a decade in. The world opened up and nonrunning thoughts took over. For a while, the part of me that loved to run seemed to pass away. I was convinced as the weeks and months went by that I would never get back into it.

And there was always a reason not to. Winter brought early dusk and I didn’t like running in the cold or the dark. I relished sleeping in, my body still seemingly recovering from what I’d considered my last and best race. I liked to walk, regularly making the loop around my son’s school, passing a field with horses, goats, and crickets, the wind in my hair and the sun on my face. These were sensations I hadn’t noticed, not when I ran. When I ran, I noticed my heart, my feet, my dream that I could always be better. I noticed my breath, my stride, the best of myself, but the sun was always an afterthought. I liked this other world, this let-happen kind of world rife with spontaneity. Before I’d always led a have-to kind of life—have to get in a run, no matter what, even if it’s dark, even if it’s late.

Now there were gems at every turn, spontaneous trips to the lake, walks around Lithia Park and the Plaza at dusk for spur-of-the-moment cups of cocoa. There was so much more time. But how could a little thing like running seem to leave a hole a life could fit into? It was an hour a day, after all, just an hour a day. Only it wasn’t, not really. I was spending a lot of time just thinking about running and that was the thing I didn’t miss, being beholden, obsessed in a sense, or just very much in love. But there were so many other things I loved more, like going to the Plaza for a cup of hot cocoa with my son. There were only so many hours in the day and so many days in a life and I was spending too many of them thinking about running.

So I didn’t run. Fall turned into winter and spring turned into summer. Everyone was asking when my next race was, and my simple answer was that I didn’t know. There was nothing on the horizon. No plans at all. “I’m taking a break,” I’d say. “A hiatus,” was the word I used. But what was a hiatus, exactly? In my mind, it was a forever kind of thing.

Then late summer blossomed. The sky was smoky from nearby fires. It was hot, not ideal running weather, but I nonetheless jogged (rather than walked) the mile home. I could tell I was out of shape, breathing hard despite the fact that I was moving slowly—but there was something I hadn’t felt in a very long time, a glimmer, a familiar longing in that feeling I got when I ran, the hard pump in my chest, the feeling of work, of breathing hard. I loved it, missed it, and wanted it back.

Little by little, I started running again, a mile at a time, then two. Eventually, Thad a three-mile loop, then a five-mile loop. Like building a castle a brick at a time, I laid down my aerobic base with the intention that, someday, I’d do something with it. I couldn’t imagine not having a plan, something to aim my hard work at. My running was willy-nilly, five miles here and seven miles there, but by October, I felt fit enough to enter a local 5K. The result wasn’t spectacular, but it was a good place to start, to dream again. But of what, exactly?

I knew friends who were training for the California International Marathon, and I wondered if I’d ever do another (I’d run only one). Ultimately, I decided I wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment. Instead, I’d keep it vague, gradually building my mileage as I felt my body getting stronger, fitter, faster, my excitement growing as I dreamed, once again, of what could be. I was shocked at the newness of running, despite the fact that I’d been doing it for years. I’d never have guessed that it would ever be like it was in the beginning, those first short runs, adventures I thought were gone.

I began doing long runs and throwing in a double here and there (something I’d never previously done). I fell in love with going out that second time, November caught in the swirl of dusk and the brightly colored leaves that seemed to glow. I loved the rain and the fog, fall settling in the sweep of mist and drizzle that dampened my face. I was amazed at the ease with which my body remembered, after all of the time off, the combination of novelty and fluency thrilling. I knew how to run the way I knew how to breathe, but this was uncharted territory; never in my life had I ever done doubles with any consistency, and it didn’t take long for me to feel the difference in my strength.

The only thing I needed to do, then, was to set my sights on something, and it couldn’t be in the spring, couldn’t be some ethereal, faraway goal I hoped to achieve after months of base. I hadn’t done any speed work and my base was recent, but I wanted to race, to test my mettle on the course, even if it was cold, even if it was dark. The Holiday Hustle, a 5K in Central Point, was December 13th this year and the money raised from race entry fees was used to give hungry