I pulled down the metal curtain on the ten-foot cubic storage space that shrouded the near entirety of our belongings, locked them away for an unforeseen amount of time, and crowded into the SUV with my fiancé, Emily, and our black cat, Magic. It felt appropriate that it was the Ides of March when we began our 1500 mile trek east and the beautiful maroon mountains of the Boulder front range faded from our rearview mirror. There wasn’t a single person on earth that wasn’t being affected in some capacity by the emerging COVID-19 pandemic, a ubiquitous upheaval of daily norms, replaced with a haze of uncertainty. The travel company Emily worked for was forced to lay off staff, we sent out postponement notices to the guests of our “would be” wedding and we canceled our Italian honeymoon. With an ever-growing threat on the horizon, we consolidated ourselves within the comfort of Emily’s family home in Rochester, New York.

It was difficult not to feel down at this point. I was leaving my brother, great friends, and was saying goodbye to the Colorado wilderness, landscapes that had inspired me to get on the trails and enjoy nature to an extent I had never experienced before. I was worried that leaving the home that fostered my outdoor lifestyle would lead to a regression and most terrifying, a sedentary life restricted to the confines of a house in a foreign, flat environment. I kept reminding myself that my situation could be much worse. I  could have easily been without a job, considering that just a couple of weeks before the Covid-19 spread was officially declared a pandemic, I had willingly declared my resignation to my manager and colleagues. It was unbeknownst to me what events lay just around the corner when I made the decision to leave a job without prospects of a new position. I was eager to take a break from the monotony of sitting behind a computer screen and was looking forward to taking time off and backpacking around Colorado. The goal was to search for a fully remote position while I simultaneously indulged in the wild offerings that the abundant wilderness provided. I cast a few lines out to promising companies and connections that would hopefully reel in the flexible opportunities that Emily and I were yearning for. A few days, a couple of news cycles, and an economic collapse later, my current plan began to feel increasingly reckless and so I began to backtrack. I was fortunate enough to be able to rescind my resignation and, not only keep my current position but perform it in a fully remote capacity for the foreseeable future. It certainly wasn’t the way I envisioned landing a remote job, but these were uncertain times.

Moving in with in-laws is typically discouraged, but I was pleasantly surprised by how symbiotic and comfortable my new home was. A beautiful early 1800s home with ample space and wholesome inhabitants welcomed me with open arms. I settled myself in, set up my new office space, and for one of the first times in my life, had no social engagements or other events scheduled on my calendar anywhere in sight.  A blank canvas with an opportunity to begin anew, and two extra hours in the morning before my Colorado coworkers signed in two time zones west. There were no excuses. If I was ever going to be disciplined enough to rehabilitate my injury and achieve my running goals, these were near perfect conditions.

Five years prior, I had been in a skiing accident while competing in a slopestyle competition. I overshot a jump, careening down onto ice flats where I absorbed much of my fall with my left hip. My 21-year-old self, with a habit of feeling invincible, didn’t think much of it and figured I would make a full recovery as I had with all injuries past. I was sadly mistaken. Every year that followed, consistency in my running was reliably thwarted by stabbing pains in my left SI joint and the muscle areas surrounding it. Over the years, I experimented with various physical therapies: stretching, chiropractic care, dry needling, and even more targeted treatments of prolotherapy and platelet enriched plasma injections. Each gave me some degree of short term relief, but none were the silver bullet to put an end to the crippling pain.

My father often reminded me, “If you don’t change your actions, don’t expect different results,” a version of an adage originally attributed to Einstein. I took aspects of therapies that I felt were most effective and decided, during this quarantine period, that I would focus on being much more disciplined with my practice and equally patient with my running. Using a newly discovered software called GiaGPS, I made a major breakthrough in my running planning. No longer did I rely on the sparse variety of pre-curated trail options, or my own internal compass, but rather had access to a myriad of trail networks which provided me the freedom to easily create and export my own routes. I could predetermine the mileage and elevation I wanted to achieve, export the GPX data to my watch, and voila! I had a navigation system keeping me on track and, more importantly, I became more comfortable navigating deep into areas I had never been without fear of getting lost.

I was amazed that there were so many trails close to my new home. The further I zoomed in to a certain area, the more intricate and detailed the lattice of trails became. Not only were there more areas to adventure into, but I could make each run unique with little preparation. One of my first runs was in the marshy area feeding into Irondequoit Bay known as Lucien Morin Park. Even though the maximum and minimum elevation of my run only ranged by a couple of hundred feet, paling in comparison to the long stretches of climbing I would do out west, the roller coaster ride was more difficult than I expected. The slippery, muddy conditions overlaid with thick gnarled roots required a challenging amount of focus which, if slightly broken, resulted in my legs being swept out from underneath me and a dunk in the mud. I was further humbled when my pace was forced to a power hike on some of the steep uphills. How was this supposedly mild terrain beating me up?  It was quickly becoming apparent to me that the perceptions I had of this new environment were wildly off. There were new challenges in store.

Mud was a consistent challenge in much of early spring. At first, I attempted to avoid puddles in an effort to keep my feet dry, but this was a fool’s errand. Seemingly endless swaths of trail were presented to me saturated from edge to edge. Instead of evading the muddy rivers, I eventually learned to dart through the ankle deep slop with a delicateness akin to running over hot coals. Wet feet are an inevitability out here, it was just a matter of how long into a run I would have the privilege of enjoying them dry.

Warmer weather became more frequent and the moisture was slowly being sucked from the drenched earth. As conditions began to improve, so did the speed of my runs, which led to another technology that reshaped my relationship with running. Strava was not something new to me, as I had been using it for every run since 2016, however, quarantine made a certain aspect of the app more appealing. Most races had been canceled in 2020 and, without the motivation fuel that competition provided, I had concerns regarding the longevity and consistency of my discipline. Enter Strava segments—an interactive way to compare how other runners perform on a segment of trail or road, with leader boards and the coveted crown awarded to the KOM or “King of the Mountain”. On some lesser-known segments, I began to notice that I was placing in the top 10, earning a virtual medal, and, on occasion, was able to obtain the crown. Back in Boulder County, the volume of world-class athletes meant I rarely was in the eyesight of the top 10 spots. Don’t get me wrong, many people don’t run segments giving it their all-out effort, and there were still many local runners capable of faster times. However, this small incentive, to symbolically plant my flag on my favorite routes, was surprisingly effective. Based on the digital breadcrumbs other runners left in their wake, the Strava heat maps illuminated unmarked paths, adding an extra layer of sophistication to my route planning. Perhaps most importantly, Strava provided me a newsfeed of all the other runners I follow. I witnessed a spectrum of activities ranging from amazing feats of athleticism to the equally inspiring daily slogs around the neighborhood. Others putting in the work when it isn’t glamourous, attempting to achieve their goals, is a powerful motivator.

My running mileage began to accumulate but I wasn’t paying much attention to it. I was preoccupied, configuring, and tweaking the various geometric patterns, each synthesis a prophecy of a future adventure to be born. I poured over the terrain scanning for the green territories representing protected lands, and the dotted trail lines that often decorated them. Crescent Trail, Auburn-Branch, Ellison Park, Webster Park, Indian Hill; these all contained some of my favorite and most frequented local trails. Then about two hours southeast, there was the horseshoe of state parks that cradled the Finger Lakes. Lush greenery and vineyards covered rolling hills surrounding the road that led me to these much anticipated weekend destinations. The awe-inspiring views invoked memories of the early mornings back in Colorado, getting up before the sun to adventure deep into the cathedral of mountains. As I let the unsuspecting charm of this region sink in, it dawned on me that the abundance of beauty this world had to offer can be found almost anywhere, as long as we are willing to look for it.

Forty-five minutes southwest, Letchworth State Park contained one of the most beautiful canyons I have ever seen. It was mindboggling that its existence was unknown to me, having grown up only one state over in New Jersey. Nicknamed the “Grand Canyon of the East,” I knew after my first visit that I wanted to do a special run there, something grand myself. Having been inspired by the personal projects that many fellow trail runners had embarked on in the absence of races, I wanted the Letchworth canyon to be my assignment. The plan solidified when I discovered the site fastestknowntime.com and learned that one of the closest routes was a perfect 26.2 miles that ran the length of the entire park from north to south along the Finger Lakes Trail. This would be my third attempt at running the marathon distance, but my first time doing it unsupported. On my long runs throughout the summer, I had trained my body to work efficiently over long distances, consumed energy in the form of squeezable nutrition packets, and could carry up to 3.5 liters of water in my hydration vest. The unsupported attempt of this route was yet to be recorded so on October 18th, 2020 I ran the first, and by default, fastest unsupported time. Proud my name would stay in the lineage of record holders, I was able to look back on my year profoundly grateful for my progression as a runner and for the ability to submerge myself in the natural areas of New York state. A mere 13 days later my record was shattered. I smiled at the thought that someone else out there in the world shared the same arbitrary goal as myself and achieved it. The essence of this sport is not found on podiums or at the top of leader boards, but in the community and its deep love for the outdoors.

As I enjoyed a beer from my favorite local brewery, Other Half, and reflected on the last year, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of appreciation. This year I married the love of my life on a midsummer evening in the backyard garden, surrounded by birdsong. I was able to work remotely, setting myself up for a more flexible future of travel. Instead of being isolated in my tiny apartment in Colorado restricted from getting within 6 feet of another soul, I was taken in by my wife’s warm and hospitable family with whom I made countless memories. I maintained discipline throughout my training, ran unhindered from my hip injury, and accumulated over 1,000 miles and 100,000 feet of elevation gain. This last year certainly had its tragedies—racial injustices were highlighted, thousands of people have needlessly died, magnitudes more than that displaced from their homes and in financial peril. I look inward, to seek new mediums in which I can contribute to positive forces in this world. These sometimes come in the form of a donation, a protest, a civic duty, but can also be practiced more frequently through living each day with empathy, appreciating the simple things we sometimes take for granted, and sharing a smile with someone, even if it’s from behind a mask.