My mom joined me for the first few miles.

I had one simple rule: no music or podcasts. I wanted to immerse myself in my surroundings and the walk itself—to be one with sights, sounds, and thoughts. I wondered what I’d learn about myself.

I walked past people sitting in traffic. It felt good to be on the other side of the glass for a change. But it mostly felt anticlimactic. I was just a ghost drifting through their ordinary routine.

After tripping on a raised piece of concrete, I introduced my second rule: no looking at my phone while walking.

I had an unreasonably large dose of lasagna for lunch, then crossed a highway, as sidewalks gave way to my first paved rail trail.

The first trail segment followed power lines, which provided unrelenting sun and a soundtrack of crickets and birds. I passed an occasional cyclist or jogger, and a lone rollerblader.

After a quick water and snack refill in Wayland, I experienced my first (user) navigational error—a trail labeled as “in design” was completely non-existent and impassable. For the first time I stepped onto the road, facing traffic.

The tiny-shouldered, fast-moving traffic of route 20 gave me a surge of adrenaline. I wasn’t yet acclimated to cars and trucks rushing by so closely. I leapt into the first strip of littered tall grass I saw, comforted by my decision to wear pants.

A mile ahead I returned to the safety of the rail trail, just as my body started to signal that it was ready to wrap things up for the day. The last few miles were so straight and repetitive that they crawled by.

I stopped for the day after 18 miles. While I felt proud for completing day one, it was overshadowed by the day’s lack of spectacle and the intense soreness in my muscles.

Achilles check-in: Good, just a little sore and stiff. The real concern was that in spite of my toe-sock-and-wool-sock technique, I discovered a blister developing on the bottom of my right pinky toe…

I stayed at a friend’s house and was fed more Italian carbs, beat a child and a grandma at ping pong, and slept like a rock.

42,090 steps.
325,910 left.

With the blister tended to, I set off feeling better than expected, this time accompanied by another friend I don’t see often enough. Before I knew it, we had breezed through six miles of rail trail,parting ways after an early lunch. He’d be my last companion on the walk.

I passed through Hudson and found it jarring to go from rail trail to sidewalk to road shoulder to woods in the span of a couple hours. Each setting required a different mindset. At first, alone in the woods, every sound made me jump. But after I settled in, I appreciated how much less my mind had to work compared to the constant stimulation of the road.

After a short jaunt through the woods of Bolton, I swore I could hear a trickle of not-quite-Green Day filtering through the trees.

I emerged from the woods and came across a festive Autumn scene: beer, cider donuts, a giant corn maze, and a band (the perpetrators of the Basket Case rendition).

I tried to buy a single cider donut, but they only sold them by the bag. They told me to just take the rest home. I explained that that was tricky since it was over 300,000 steps away.

I returned to the protective cover of the woods. I couldn’t believe how many squirrels I’d seen and heard already. They were unrelenting in their plight to gather stores for the winter.

I alternated between trudging and strolling several miles until I reached the vast reservoir in Clinton. The expansive view was beautiful but deceptive, and like the day before, I had to grind out the last few miles.

My body ached when I finished, and the blister encompassed the whole pinky toe. I dined on Cup Noodles in my hotel room. Despite my exhaustion, I only slept in fits and starts, mostly thanks to my upstairs neighbor, who was trying to get their own steps in the entire night.

42,090 more steps.
283,820 left.

Every step on my pinky toe hurt. It took about an hour to acclimate to the discomfort, and I carried on.

I visited a scenic porta-potty in the middle of nowhere next to a railroad track. Royal Flush was the name. I kept the door open for the full experience.

I learned the value of a walking stick. I went through a few, getting a feel for my desired size and weight. A stick is great for some help up a hill, a baton twirl, or the idea of protection in case one of the infinite barking dogs I passed decided I was a problem.

I encountered endless stretches of barely traveled roads. By this point, the walk lost the romantic light I painted it in before I left. Step after step, road after road. It was nothing special, it was just walking. With the sole purpose of my day being to walk, my emotions oscillated from delight to dread to indifference. Like most things in life, there was time for both appreciation and annoyance.

Some family and friends tracked my progress, thanks again to space technology. I got a text alerting me to a shortcut.

Ford the river, he said.

I’ll take a peek, I said.

I veered off the trail and found a suitable place to ford the river shallow stream. I was most worried about getting my feet wet, which would exacerbate my blister situation. But I went for it nonetheless. The time for adventure was now.

I butt-scooted across a downed tree, hopped across slippery rocks, and made it to the other side. It felt amazing to shave off a couple miles.

I stopped for some pizza, fried chicken, and a Snickers at the only store I passed on the day’s walk. While airing out my feet, I was treated to a 10-minute long motorcycle parade, which provided the auditory antithesis to a half-day soundtrack of little more than squirrels, birds, and crickets.

The day ended. I noticed that by the second half of the day, I had fewer ruminations; my thoughts, it seemed, had exhausted themselves too and given up circulating in my head.

I stayed with a childhood neighbor that I hadn’t seen in over 20 years. We crammed two decades of catch-up into a couple hours of conversation while her daughter watched Bluey. I sang the theme song at the start of each new episode because I missed my daughter (and I’ve heard it so many times it has become a reflex).

Lasagna again. 10 out of 10.

39,560 more steps.
244,260 left.

Boredom gave way to invention. I came up with various acorn-inspired games to help pass the steps.

Acorn Smash™: Smash an acorn with your walking stick, in stride. Improves hand-eye coordination.

Acorn Baseball™: Stuff a bunch of acorns in your pockets and bat at them with your walking stick.

Acorn Dodgeball™: Avoid the falling acorns being tossed at you by squirrels in trees.

I felt much safer than I anticipated on the roads. On quiet back roads, it was easy enough to listen for cars and cross to the other side to avoid a close call. The busier roads usually had wide shoulders or a yard to provide a buffer. For an unavoidable tight squeeze, I’d make myself as visible as possible (by walking into the road when the car was still at a distance) before hugging the edge of the road and whispering the magic spell “please don’t hit me.”

Excitement was on the horizon; I saw a sign for honey pointing in my direction.

A few miles later...no honey to be found. I felt misled.

A second honey sign appeared. I forgot that its intended audience was cars, not pedestrians.

I reached the honey. Even the smallest jar was far too big for my needs. I hoped I wouldn’t regret passing on it, like I did with the donuts.

I took a break in front of a post office. Its patrons gave me neither wave nor smile. Just blank stares. This seemed to be the norm for encountering a pedestrian in an unexpected place in the land of cars.

I found a stick: light but strong, shoulder-high, smooth, and it fit my grip like a glove. Some refinements with my knife (I no longer regretted bringing) and it would be a keeper.

I saw someone approaching a quarter mile ahead. For a brief moment, I was convinced it was a parallel universe version of myself (they had a matching fluorescent yellow hoodie after all, and I hadn’t had a Snickers in a while). I thought about what I’d say as they approached, and decided to ask how their blister was doing.

We passed each other, but it wasn’t me. We did the barely noticeable head-nod hello, and I kept on walking.

Beer Can Bingo™: See if you can find every popular domestic beer on a single street.

In New Braintree, I stopped at what I hoped was a farm stand with some food, but struck out. That was my plan for lunch. Twenty minutes later, another farm stand, but this one chock full of things to eat. I met a loquacious farmer named Herb (perfect farmer name). He told me his family tree connected him to everyone from an old King of England to the first person who died in the Revolutionary War.

Although it was quite hot, the walk after my break felt almost meditative. My mind wandered over typical useless worries and future plans, then with nothing left to over-think, I passed the remaining miles somewhere between thoughtlessness and environmental awareness.

35,420 more steps.
208,840 left.

The blister hadn’t subsided, in case you’re wondering. I learned to live with it, just hoping it didn’t get infected before I could reach home.

The day began with a heavy fog that blanketed the roads and fields. This would be my first 20-mile day. I was hopeful my body would be up to the task.

It was a day of nearly all roads. With the poor visibility, I clipped bike lights to my straps to give the cars an extra heads-up that I existed.

Someone left a furlong of burnt rubber on the unblemished asphalt. I wondered if every time they return to this spot they say, Oh yeah that was all me.

The fog lifted after a couple hours and I settled into the daily groove of the long and winding back roads. They were a familiar and tranquil routine at that point. The only vehicle I saw for a few miles was a mail truck that passed me in both directions.

I approached the town of Ware.

I began to fixate on the word traipse, and wondered how it was or wasn’t related to trespass. I didn’t exactly know its definition, but sometimes a word just feels right. I knew that I was traipsing.

More miles-long stretches of back roads with no car or person in sight, though plenty of houses. I saw a lady on a porch. The thought of our imminent interaction excited me.

I passed by unnoticed. It took a full minute to walk by, yet she was looking down at her phone the whole time, probably not expecting an intrepid interloper at that time of day.

I found I was taking fewer photos. Like my thoughts, the desire to capture my surroundings dwindled in the second half of the day. The number of photos was also notably inversely proportional to the discomfort of my blister and the weariness of my feet.

I appeared to be at an impasse for the second time on the walk. The path on my navigation was clearly not a path in the real world, again. The trespassing signs assured me the land belonged to someone else, and was not for traipsers.

I could either double back, adding a couple extra miles, or *gulp*, trespass and hope for the best (i.e., to not get shot). I chose the latter, and took a direct line through the woods, staying as far from the houses as possible. I made it through with just a few scratches, and despite my highly visible fluorescent yellow shirt, scampered through the woods unnoticed.

Given the number of signs I saw, you’d think trespassing is the most violated law in Massachusetts. If I were tallying things, there would be a tight race between squirrels, trespassing signs, and beer cans.

The clouds dispersed, the light fell gently through the trees, and I decided it was a sign that the rest of the day would be smooth sailing.

Until the GPS navigation voice penetrated my mental silence, only to remind me that I still had to follow the road for 1.8 miles until my next turn. I felt like I had been on the road for ages, and the unemotional delivery was soul-crushing. But I stayed positive by deploying the carrot-and-stick motivating tactic in the form of my last snack—a bag of Cheez-its (and a Snickers bar)—which I devoured promptly when I hit the three-miles-left milestone.

I arrived in Belchertown, tended to my blister, and headed over to the local pub for half-off wings night. I sat next to an old guy and he was pleased to talk about my walk. He couldn’t believe it. He regularly drove up from Springfield for the wings, and a bit of Keno.

I downed a Guinness, a dozen wings, and a personal pizza. The man tried to get the bartenders to share his enthusiasm about my walk, but they didn’t seem to find it remarkable (or were just too busy doing their actual jobs).

I finally introduced myself, I’m Russell.

Me too! He said.

I knew there was something good about him. He’s only the third Russell I’ve met in my life. We parted ways and I went to bed encouraged, having crossed the halfway point.

47,150 more steps.
161,690 left.

Back on a rail trail. I was reminded of how nice it was to shut off the traffic-watching part of my brain. No more worrying, just walking.

I filled the stretches of marked quarter-miles by counting my steps at different paces. They fell between 550 and 600, or about 2,300 steps per mile.

I practiced walking with my eyes closed on the straightaways. This was harder than I anticipated. I veered off the path within 20 steps nearly every time.

Walking by idyllic farms in the Pioneer Valley reminded me what a luxury this walk was. I was grateful for the opportunity—for work, no less.

Unfortunately my gratitude didn’t diminish the regular physical reminders that it wasn’t a luxury for my body. 19 miles in I started feeling a pull on my achilles for the first time (don’t tell my PT). Nothing serious, but it had been mostly out of mind for the whole walk, overshadowed by the toe.

My musicophile friend called to check in on me. His first question: What are you listening to?

I told him nothing at all, but often I was my own jukebox. I was in my sad-boy-90s phase of the walk, and had just been whistling Between the Bars by Elliot Smith. I wish I had recorded everything I sang; it would’ve made for an exceptionally niche playlist.

The best I could cobble together is this small sample of hits from the road:

I spent the night with my family in Northampton. They came to give me a little morale boost before my final days. I was most excited that my daughter enjoyed some sweet potato fries at the restaurant. A big win to get another vegetable in the rotation.

43,700 more steps.
117,990 left.

My hips and feet were tender in the morning, but I felt good with a shorter day ahead of me. I had some extra pack weight—an assortment of bars from the grocery store—since I’d be staying the night on a farm a couple of miles from town.

I observed something I called a distance warping effect. Over three-quarters of the way through the walk, it hadn’t felt like I’d gone very far. My mind only held context for a day’s worth of walking, so despite having gone 100 miles, I hadn’t internalized that accomplishment.

I came to accept that there weren’t any grand epiphanies on the horizon. Not that I expected them, but I figured the magnitude of the experience might have elicited one or two. Instead, it was just a lot of walking. Sometimes pleasant, sometimes not.

Self-doubt entered the chat. A line from the book I’d read the night before planted the seed. An acute awareness of the discomfort in my right foot nurtured it. And the fact that I had yet to cross the 10-mile threshold, with my first big incline looming ahead of me, let it blossom.

I didn’t know if I had it in me to do the hill. It occurred to me I could get a ride and be home in under an hour. Quitting would be so easy.

Halfway up the long incline I stopped to go to the bathroom and refilled my water in a small, vacant multi-shop building in Montgomery. As I exited the bathroom, I startled a man who appeared out of nowhere.

I was about to lock this place up. Good thing I ran into you, he said.

He offered to refill my water bottle and we chatted a bit about the walk, and how he had done the 100-mile wilderness section of the AT.

I headed back out revitalized, and made it over the mini-mountain. I nearly jogged down the equally long descent into the valley where I reached the farm. I ran into a guy.

Is this your farm? I asked.

Nah I’m just living here he said.

He showed me the outhouse and I made my way to my cabin (or shed with a bed) that I didn’t leave the rest of the day. I stayed the night among sheep and cows. I ate two bars and a packaged muffin, and went to sleep shortly after the sun set.

40,250 more steps.
77,740 left.

I woke up before sunrise, ate my last energy bar, and hit the road an hour earlier than usual. Carpe diem, baby.

I crossed into the town of Russell, and for the first time I felt that I might actually do it.

The day began with a steady ascent for the first six miles. With narrow shoulders and switchbacks, I was constantly listening for the car or truck that came every few minutes so I could move to the opposite side of the road.

I heard the hum of the Mass Pike ahead, which gave me a boost of energy. It was the last big milestone in my mind.

A mile later, I still hadn’t reached the highway. It turned out to be a very distant hum, though I was impressed by how far the noise carried down the mountain.

I stopped for second breakfast at the country store in Blandford. I hate to admit it, but a small, hokey plaque resonated deeply with me: Live Simply, Expect Little, Give Much (Norman Vincent Peale, I later found out). I considered this phrase for a good chunk of the day’s walk.

The waitress put a coffee in front of me before taking my order, and I didn’t want to be wasteful or rude, so I drank it. I only drink decaf.

My first roadside interaction—eight days into the walk—came in Otis.

Hey man, you need a cold water? He said.

I was so surprised by the gesture that I reflexively declined.

No thanks but I appreciate it! I said.

He pulled away, and I didn’t know why I turned it down.

I quickly approached my end goal for the day, but nearing my home turf, adrenaline kicked in. Or it might’ve been the coffee.

It was only 2 p.m., and regardless of what was fueling me, I thought I could make it home. I chewed on this idea for a while then resolved to make it come true. The allure of sleeping in my own bed won out. I checked my maps to see if it was feasible before sunset. Budgeting just a couple of small breaks, I thought I could make it. I set aside the fact that it was another 14 miles, which would put me over 33 miles for the day. I ate my (hopefully last) Snickers and got after it.

I don’t have much to recall from that stretch. I went into a sort of trance. I walked, and walked, and walked. I took a single five-minute break to refill my water and stretch at a library in Monterey, then kept on walking. I felt detached from my body, I was just a robot, going through the motions. I’m sure my feet hurt, but I could deal with that the tomorrow.

On the phone, my wife reminded me not to overdo it. I told her I was listening to my body, though in reality I was just ignoring it.

The distance warping effect returned when I crossed into Great Barrington. My judgment of time and distance was so dialed into my car trips along this route that it just felt all wrong on foot. The four-minute drive between the ski slope and the Chinese restaurant took an hour to walk.

Just as the sun set I reached the outskirts of downtown where the sidewalk began. I walked directly to the restaurant where my wife was working to surprise her (and eat all the food).

I saw some folks I know and they invited me to join them. They lovingly interrogated me about my walk as I inhaled what was put in front of me and spaceily answered their questions. I didn’t stay too long since I still had about two miles before home.

It was my first night walk, and it was perfect. I strolled through town, appreciating all that was familiar. I floated up the hill to my home, opened the door, and just sat on my steps, not quite sure what to do with myself for a while. I was exhausted, but happy. I was prouder of the fact that I’d done 33.5 miles in one day than the walk itself.

I eventually mustered up some energy to take off my shoes. It wasn’t pretty under there, but I didn’t plan on using my feet for a few days.

77,740 steps.
Zero left.