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How to Remember a Year in Running

Zoë Rom

January 16th, 2025

5 min read

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The internet is awash with year-end wrap-ups this time of year, bombarding us with everyone’s carefully curated highlights. Spotify Wrapped lets us bask in our own musical eccentricities (where, thanks to my endless loop of Brat during various ultras, I received a “personal note” from Charli XCX herself for being in the top 0.001% of her listeners). Strava’s Year in Sport breaks down our year into days active, miles run, and feet climbed, complete with colorful graphs to remind us of those long climbs and skipped Mondays. Meanwhile, a deluge of “Best of” lists sums up the year in books, movies, and music—most of which we missed because we were too busy running through the woods with Brat blasting in our earbuds. Almost every trail running media outlet has its own rankings of the year’s athletes and performances, slotting our wild, beautiful sport into a tidy hierarchy.

I deeply understand the human need to quantify and compare—it’s how we make sense of the world. And in the age of algorithms, I can even appreciate a more human-centered curation of media. But I can’t help feeling uneasy about the ways these tidy summaries—playlists with cutesy names, two-dimensional stats, or rote rankings—fail to capture the messy, beautiful chaos of a single year in a human life. What’s more, they might even shape how we move forward. If our primary way of recording and remembering becomes dominated by power rankings, top-ten lists, and kudos, what kind of life does that incentivize?

And, more importantly, what other ways of counting and recording might better honor the richness, nuance, and wildness of a year spent running trails?

So much of the current framework feels consumptive, measuring our lives by what we’ve consumed or “conquered” rather than what we’ve created or contributed. Instead of cramming ourselves into AI-generated archetypes (Pink Pilates Princess, et tu, Spotify?), what if we measured our years by the friendships we forged or the communities we built? Instead of tallying virtual kudos, what if we celebrated the number of hugs exchanged or the finish-line tears we shed?

As runners, we love a PR, but what if we expanded that definition to include personal records of all types, rather than the incredibly narrow definition we’ve been handed? Emily Dickinson had a knack for measuring time through nature’s tiniest, most vivid details. For her, the “number of daisies” or the “buzz of bees” weren’t just observations—they were markers of moments, capturing the fleeting beauty and quiet magic of life. Instead of focusing on numbers or metrics, what if we measured our year in the ephemeral wonders we encountered—the wildflowers lining the trail, the hum of insects on summer runs, or the way the light shifted through the trees? It’s a more intimate, poetic way to honor the miles we’ve traveled. This framework might be too complicated to share in a 20-second TikTok, which makes it all the richer. 

In Rent, the song “Seasons of Love” asks the timeless question: “How do you measure a year?” What if we ditched the dull, conventional markers—months, days, minutes—and instead focused on what really matters: connection, joy, and meaning? The lyrics suggest measuring your life in daylights, sunsets, midnights, and cups of coffee—those small, universal moments that weave together the vibrant, messy tapestry of being alive.

Now, let’s flip that for your running year. Could you measure it in the steps that took you farther than you ever thought possible? In the number of summits that took your breath away? Forget grams of carbs—what about the support that carried you through? How many times did you push just a little further than you believed you could? And how many times did you stop mid-trail, look around, and think: This. This is exactly where I want to be right now.

Try fitting that on a water bottle.

Forget miles, race medals, or Strava segments. What if we measured our year by the intangible treasures of the trail? The number of sunrises we chased, the dirt we ate (accidentally, of course), or the post-run coffees (or occasional whiskey) we downed while still sweaty and slightly dehydrated. Now, that’s a year worth celebrating.

The way we remember shapes the way we move forward. If we reduce the past to flat numbers, lists, and rankings, we risk diluting what we love most about this sport—distilling its vibrancy into a shadowy echo, rather than a reflection of the heart and soul that brought us here in the first place.

Don’t get me wrong—I love the lists. I’ll keep voting for runner rankings, devouring year-end recaps, and trying to capture the essence of a year in whatever imperfect way I can. These ways of remembering matter, but they’re not the whole story. I don’t think we should toss them out—but instead, expand our definition of what remembering can be and consider how that helps us move forward.

When you try to bottle lightning, you risk not only flattening its spark but also shattering the bottle in your hands. Maybe it’s time to toss the bottle altogether—let the lightning be wild, untamed, and unpredictable.

Zoë Rom

One thought on "How to Remember a Year in Running"

  1. David Fecteau says:

    Thank ypu for this, Zoe.I loved reading it.

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