Nostalgia

The first race bib I ever pinned on was the 2007 inaugural Unplugged Half Marathon in Burlington. There's pride and opportunity for perfectionism in pinning on a race bib so that it's precisely even. Later, I learned to crumple up a fresh, stiff bib into a tiny ball so that the flattened, distressed rectangle hangs soft and quiet from your shirt. (This worked until timing chips were adhered to the backs of bibs.) Most recently, I was helped into the tribe of ultrarunning with advice to fold a bib into the smallest square possible to reveal just your number, no extra space.

I've saved every race bib I've ever run in, and when I had cause to open that box the other night I was surprised to remember races I'd forgotten, and to see bibs whose provenance I couldn't place. The medals are much easier: far fewer of them, designed to be identifiable, and most are pretty to look at and have a pleasant weight when you hold them in the palm of your hand.

Also this week, I donated a pair of shoes that were with me through my single best year yet of running. I trained for and ran two marathons and a few halfs in this pair of Asics, including a PR and a lot miles thinking about Antarctica. I ran in them far past their lifespan, and started to think of them disparagingly as overused and dead toward the end. But this morning when I tossed them in the donation bin, I had to take a moment of anthropomorphized appreciation for all miles I asked of them, and all the adventures they gave me.