Day 1

Nothing is ever easy.

Standing in our upstairs bathroom, downing a bottle of water as I tried to will away the cold that overtook my body in the night, a steady rain pounded the skylight above me. This morning, there wasn’t much light. It was all gray and gloom.

This was the day I was supposed to start?

There are times when you feel like you’re the only person on the planet and your plans are the only ones being ruined. This was one of those moments. God was showing off his cruel sense of humor. My plans were now His punch line.

A few weeks before, I decided I’d attempt a new challenge. I’d run five marathons, logged thousands of miles over the previous few years and, honestly, was getting bored. I could get faster. Or, I could make things interesting. I’m not going to be lining up with Ryan Hall anytime soon, so interesting seemed like the way to go.

Beginning with Jan. 1, 2011, I was going to run every day. No excuses. Weather, injuries, delayed flights. None of that could serve as a way out. Somehow, some way, I would strap on my running shoes and hit the pavement every day.

The goal of running 365 consecutive days is challenging enough standing alone. Working as a baseball reporters adds another element. My schedule is erratic. I often work late nights. On the days I have off, I’m often sitting in an airport. It is practically impossible – with the unpredictabile life of a journalist – to have a set time to run each day.

The offseason would seemingly make things easier. That used to be true. Now, though, there’s this 16-month-old wild boy taking over my house. Fortunately, Highspeed Hayden typically powers down for a couple hours in the early afternoon. His naptime becomes my Go Time. On Day 1, this would be my plan of attack.

After Hayden decided to exchange Mickey Mouse’s Clubhouse for his crib, I went for my gear. It had warmed up enough to melt the piles of snow that had blanketed our town. The only problem was that rain. That freezing cold rain that was showing the streets that I needed to cover.

I headed out the door and made my way through the mist. I could deal with mist. It actually felt a bit refreshing at first. I was quickly warming up in my long sleeves. The rain cooled me off some as I pushed a hard pace at the start. One mile in, I was feeling good, feeling confident. I had planned to do four miles, but maybe I’d do six or seven. Shoot, the way I was feeling I might consider eight or 10 miles.

Two miles in, that all changed.

Now I felt like death. The confidence was gone. All I could see were all the Christmas cookies I’d downed at the in-laws’ house. After running the Philadelphia Marathon in November – with the exception of a Thanksgiving Day 5K run in Illinois – I had taken more than a month off. I deserved it. That’s what I said anyway. Truth is, I lost interest.

This four-miler on New Years Day was my way of getting interested again. It was going to be the same as countless runs before, but so much different. It was the first in a long line of runs. No. 1 of 365 and beyond.

And it hurt.

Almost three miles in, the blue question marks spray-painted on the sidewalk at my feet mocked me. “Why are you doing this?” they asked. “What were you thinking?” they taunted. “You didn’t actually think you could do this, did you?” they continued.

I picked up the pace, and a cold wind at my back pushed me forward. Finally, the elements were extending a helping hand. Finally, God’s cruel joke ran dry and he was giving me a little assistance down the stretch.

Nope.

Turns out that breeze was the calm before the real storm.

I was suddenly in a complete downpour. I couldn’t tell if the drops streaming down my face were from sweat or from the rain. It was probably both. I wanted to stop, but running outside presents a classic dilemma. If I stopped, I would be no closer to being home. I had to run harder if I wanted to escape the storm.

Or, maybe I could stop and build an ark.

I bolted down Redwood and finally reached my street. Completely drenched, I walked to the porch at my home, stopped, and looked up at the sky, hands on my hips. I was done.

And I was only at the beginning.