I ran 1,700 miles last year.
I know this because I am obsessive about tracking and recording every mile I run. Warm-ups and walk breaks don't count; the only miles worth noting are the ones where my legs are pounding, pushing, propelling me around lakes and up hills, trying their best to squeeze out what remains of my youth and vitality.
Actually, this compulsive behavior pays off. I have never won a race, but I have finished second (once) and third (once), never last, and usually near the top of my age group.
So I have learned that putting in the miles works for me.
Except when it doesn't.
• • •
It's 2 a.m., and I am awakened by a sudden soreness behind my right knee.
When I get up, I can barely walk. Every step down the stairs sends a sharp pain shooting down my stiffening calf. I spend the next four days hobbling like I have a wooden leg.