Chapter 1: A Cautionary Start

As I neared the intersection of Emmitsburg Road and Millerstown Road, I felt a twinge of apprehension. This particular crossing always makes me uneasy. The double yellow lines send a message that running here might be unwelcome. Nevertheless, with Millerstown’s speed limit set at twenty-five miles per hour, I knew this short stretch of road was just a connector between two park paths. I even spotted another runner coming towards me, which reassured my instincts that it was acceptable to run here. Besides, I wasn't in good enough shape to bypass this shortcut for a longer route.

While running along Millerstown, three vehicles passed me, each giving me ample space, and two drivers even waved in acknowledgment. However, as I approached Emmitsburg, a compact Honda swiftly cut the corner, encroaching into my lane. I braced myself to leap into the grass. But upon rounding the bend, the driver spotted me in my bright yellow shirt and adjusted their course, passing with a comfortable distance. I recognized the driver as my colleague, Gloria.

I couldn't tell if she recognized me, but my mind began crafting a hypothetical conversation for the next day. "Oh, hey Jeff, I didn’t realize you were a runner," she might say. To which I would respond, "Well, I'm in my sixties now; perhaps 'jogger' is a more fitting title." This led me to reflect on Mark D'Agostino.

"Who’s that?" you might wonder. Mark is the individual who sent me a rather harsh email after reading my book, Bad Ass: My Quest to Become a Back Woods Trail Runner (and other obsessive goals).

"Jeff," he wrote, "I’m halfway through your book, and I’m not sure I can finish it. Your attitude towards running pace and your dismissive comments about road running are precisely why people like me shy away from group runs, fear the trail community, and hesitate to label ourselves as runners... your casual remarks on running are challenging to digest. I hope you find ways to be more welcoming and empathetic."

Mark concluded his email with: "My twelve-minute pace isn’t a jog; it’s a run. I hope you come to understand that viewpoint soon."

Reflecting on those essays about running pace, I realize I was struggling with my own. I had transitioned from an eight-minute mile to a nine-minute mile, and then to a ten-minute mile. No matter how much I trained, I couldn’t reverse this decline, and I often berated myself after each run. Those essays were undoubtedly harsh; my frustrations were aimed at myself, but I can understand why Mark and others might take offense.

Fast forward five years, and I find myself running at a twelve-minute mile too. I came to the realization that the primary reason for running is to enjoy the experience. In my quest for unattainable speed, I had lost the joy of running. By letting go of that pressure, I now find every run to be enjoyable. I simply head out for a jog. I still consider myself a runner, and I push myself, but I doubt anyone sees me pounding the pavement and thinks anything other than "look at that older gentleman jogging."

I apologize for contradicting you, Mark, but this is my perspective. For me, a twelve-minute pace is indeed a jog, and I take pride in identifying as a jogger. It feels like a dignified label to carry.

I acknowledge Mark’s other critiques and appreciate how his email offered me a necessary dose of humility.

Chapter 2: The Journey of Self-Acceptance

The video title is "That Runner with An Excuse for Everything - YouTube." This piece highlights the various excuses runners often use, reflecting on the humorous and sometimes relatable reasons behind our choices in running. It showcases how we all navigate our running journeys, regardless of pace or ability.