A proper Thanksgiving, for me, has to start with a run.
Obviously, on a day that’s centered on consuming massive amounts of food, it makes sense to try to burn off some calories ahead of time. It is also helpful to get physically hungrier before sitting at a table where certain relatives will monitor your intake and ask questions like, “Are you sure you’re eating enough?”, when you don’t meet quota.
There is always something wholesome about getting out to breath the air, to take the scope of the land. But on a day like Thanksgiving, much of which is spent inside, sitting and watching other people play football, it is easy to fall into a daze of inactivity and cabin fever. I have an easier time accepting this when I’ve plopped a run into the bank a couple hours earlier.
My memorable Thanksgiving runs include the times in high school when I ran the 12 miles from home to my grandparents’ apartment with my dad. Later, I drove up to the 4.7-mile Manchester Road Race to spill my guts on the pavement against my college cross-country buddies. I also hit the roads at a local 5K when I lived in Wyoming. Even in a new place with new faces, it was comforting to keep the tradition going.
I left my apartment Thanksgiving 2014 with no plan in mind, one of my favorite ways to run.
There is plenty of territory to cover here on northern Minnesota’s north shore. The immense Superior National Forest, right outside my door, stretches up to the Boundary Waters and Canada. Some snowmobile trails in the nearby woods offered a good pathway to the wild. While there was some snow cover on them, there was not yet enough to accommodate the loud machines. The woods still belonged to the chittering squirrels, laughing woodpeckers and the hard breath of any runner who decided to puff up the grade from Lake Superior into the Sawtooth Mountains.
I thought about how the holiday had changed for me over the years. Once the kid who grabbed the turkey drumstick, I’d stopped eating meat in middle school. Some beloved faces left the dinner table as new ones joined.
Since I started living away from the New England in 2011, I haven’t been around for the family meals, though I’ve shared meals with new friends in new places and faithfully dropped a line to the old gang in Connecticut.
Unlike past years, I didn’t have an invite to anyone’s table (that’s what happens when you get to a new place, keep to yourself and read a lot.)
The tally of Grand Thanksgiving Traditions for 2014 stood thusly:
Thanksgiving Turkey? Nope.
Pumpkin Pie? Nope.
Macy’s Day Parade Viewing? Who cares?
Football Viewing? Ditto.
Shopping on Black Friday and or Thanksgiving Day itself? Hell no.
Sitting At The Family Table? Nope.
Sitting Amongst Friends? Nope.
Sitting At Any Table? Yes, a delightful meal for one consisting of butternut squash fresh-baked bread and stir-fry.
Calling in to The Family? Yes, I’d have a Skype chat with them later in the day.
Going Running? Hell yeah!
Seeing that running was one of the only common threads between past holidays made it feel even more important to observe the tradition.
Thanksgiving celebrates (among other things) the bounty of the harvest: think Norman Rockwell’s “Freedom From Want” painting from the Four Freedoms series: a happy family gathered around the table brimming with food.
If I didn’t have the bursting table in front of me, I could feast my eyes upon bountiful landscape of Minnesota’s north woods in winter.
There were the immense cedars that had raised their twisted arms to the sun long before the Mayflower caught sight of Massachusetts; solemn stands of spruce and balsam fir; the aspen and birch whose bark flashed white against the late autumn illumination.
My tracks joined those of mice, voles and squirrels. Somewhere in that forest, packs of wolves were out, still stalking their native territory.
As for human souls, I might have run clear to Canada without seeing one.
Not caring to stop, I passed by the trails I’d known onto new territory. Every time I thought about turning around, some glint along the trail ahead that would tempt me further. The snow got deeper as I got further into the hills. Sometimes the crust held; sometimes it broke. I slowed to an awkward shuffle.
Eventually, I came to Six Hundred Road — a well-kept logging road that I’d biked on months earlier. I knew I could make a convenient loop by hooking right to the Sawbill Trail leading back to my apartment. Boring mashed potatoes. Turkey stuffing. I looked left to where dark spruce trees flanked the snowy lane. Yes, I could do with a helping of that.
I knew that there was an intersection with another logging road in a couple more miles, one that would lead me back to civilization. I’d be committing myself to about 16 miles of running though, longer than I’d gone since June. But I didn’t feel like I’d had my fill yet.
I took the road to the left, letting icicles accumulate on my beard and mustache. The road climbed steeply to the top of “Heartbreak Hill” so-named because it had been the heartbreak of old loggers who tried to sledge timber up the steep grade.
In another couple miles, I came to the intersection with the other logging road, where I could look all the way down (about five miles as the crow flies) to Lake Superior.
I ran downhill for a few miles, and then split off onto the Superior Hiking Trail along the frozen Temperance River. I indulged in several stops to look at icefalls and appreciate the meringue-like formations in the frozen foam.
For the last course of my run, I made a point of running the rest of the way down to Lake Superior.
The snow had almost disappeared along the lake’s edge, but the lakeside rocks were shellacked with ice. Wisps of steam climbed into the single-digit air, and obscured the horizon into a dreamy blur.
I walked out onto a dock and stood there tired in the sun.
The feast had filled me. And I was thankful.