2016: The Lost Year

Oh, hi! Sorry, you startled me. I didn’t expect to find anybody here, but I’m glad to see you. Welcome back! Let’s catch up, shall we?

Well there’s no easy way to sugar coat this so let’s just get to it. 2016 was a shit year. Here are some shit highlights:

To quote that Forest Gump t-shirt, shit happens. Normally in such situations, running is my respite, my way to escape bad times. It’s my place of serenity, peace, and meditation. Unfortunately, for the vast majority of 2016, running was taken from me. For most of the year, I struggled to recover from knee surgery. Then, when I finally felt fully recovered, this happened:

Thanks for this, 2016.

Thanks for this, 2016. No, this is not a moon boot – it’s my actual leg.

This setback stole another couple months of running.

Again, normally when faced with such an onslaught of depressing news, I’d go for many nice, long runs. This year, after the election of the big orange crybaby, instead of running, I just got physically ill (literally – I was sick for weeks after the election – apparently PTSD knocked my immune system down) and went on a Facebook diatribe that had many of my left-leaning friends saying things like “Don’t worry, it will all turn out okay” while my right-leaning friends said things like, “Quit your crying, you big baby. Suck it up, Buttercup. You lost, get over it.” Like I was complaining because my team lost a fucking football game, and not because I witnessed firsthand the expedited downward spiral of our great nation. Without running as respite, I didn’t really know what else to do other than to howl via social media. But I digress. Let’s get back to the running blog – if you want to read my political ranting,  you can follow me on Facebook.

So, to summarize, 2016 was one big kick to the crotch by an NFL punter, or by a professional soccer player, or by a martial arts expert – you know, something much worse than your run-of-the-mill kick to the crotch.

Now the good news. 2016 is almost over. I ran yesterday. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t far. It wasn’t fast. But I ran.

So while 2017, shudder, looks pretty ominous (Trump is assembling something akin to the Guild of Calamitous Intent for his cabinet), hopefully at least I’ll be able to cope via running. And when I dig under the wall surrounding that concentration camp and make a break for it, I should be able to run at least 26.2 miles at or near Boston-qualifying pace.



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