It's the final countdown.

At the beginning of 2013 when everyone was secretly relieved that the world didn't end in 2012 and everything seemed so shiny and fresh and full of potential, I decided that in 2013, I would run 1,000 miles.

Everything seems like a good idea in the hungover dawn of a brand new year.

I did some quick math, then took a couple aspirin, had a swig of some hair of the dog, then tried to do the math again.  It turned out that I would need to average about 20 miles a week to make that happen.

No sweat.

Or rather, a lot of sweat.  But whatever.  These miles needed to be run, and I was just the gal to do it.

I know myself well enough to know that without very specific goals, I'm the least motivated lazy lop around.  I had run almost 800 miles in 2012, so 1,000 seemed both a challenge and totally reasonable.  It was a competition of sorts, and I do love me a good competition.  Even when it's with myself.

The first few months were fine.  I owned it.  I ran.  I was fast.  I was motivated.  1,000 miles? Hell, I could do 2,000.  Or 1,500 at least.

Around month four, running ennui began to set in, but I plodded along.   After all, I knew that if I stopped I might never start again, and I had told myself that I could surely do this.  By month six I dreaded it.  By month seven I was really ready to quit and began fabricating potential excuses to try to get out of the the rest of my sentence.  I mean goal.  Whatever.  I determined that the only way I could surely get the rest of the year off was by breaking my own leg, but I also knew that breaking my own leg might put a damper on my ability to stay out of the crazy house, and that ability is usually tenuous at best, so I plodded on.

And I plodded.  And I plodded.  And I plodded.

Last month I got a bit of a second wind.  I think finally I was seeing that the end was in sight.  

As I sit here and write this, I am about 70 miles from making my goal for the year, and there is nothing - NOTHING - that will keep me from it at this point, not even a self-inflicted broken leg.  I'll drag it along behind me if I have to.

I think I though that running 1,000 miles would make me different somehow.  I thought that I would feel different.  Look different.  At the absolute minimum, I thought it would make me a better runner.

It turns out, none of those things is true.

I think it may have taught me one really important lesson though.

Don't make New Year's resolutions to your stubborn self while hung over.

I surely won't run 1,000 miles again in 2014, but I plan to remember that lesson forever.