'the measured mile.'

I'm back at the rail.

There’s a phrase in my nugging that I can’t seem to shake: the measured mile.

I first encountered it in Mauricio Wiesenthal’s Las Reinas del Mar, a fever-dream of a book about the golden age of ocean liners. He recalls the Duchess of Windsor—dogs in tow—making a dramatic exit from the dining room in a fit of pique (allegedly recalled by the stewards as an imperious gesture: the Duke of Windsor’s second glass of cognac was discreetly taken away) before withdrawing to the deck. There, she would take what she called the ‘measured mile’: eight laps around the promenade, a ritual that was petty, theatrical, yet oddly disciplined.

It wasn’t the technical ‘measured mile’ of naval trials, where ships proved their worth against a fixed distance. This was something lighter, more social. The promenade deck was marked out for passengers who wanted to stretch their legs, keep their figures, or appear in motion. Walking it became a kind of performance. To ‘do your mile’ was to participate in the ship’s grand choreography, as though you too were contributing to its speed and purpose. For the Duchess, I imagine, it was both exercise and escape. A way to reclaim a little dignity, or at least to let everyone watch her try.

I think about this a lot. And lately, I’ve been trying out my own version of the infamous and cunning ‘measured mile’.

For me, it’s not eight laps of teak deck beneath the Atlantic spray, but eight laps around my neighborhood, eight minutes without my phone, eight little circuits to trick my brain into releasing its grip on the overwhelm. I call it meditation, or steps, or journaling, or just breathing room. Whatever you name it, it comes down to the same thing: a deliberate practice and a conscious effort to take what feels chaotic and turn it into rhythm.

It strikes me as fitting that it’s eight (8), tilt it on its side, and it becomes infinity—a looping figure that reminds us that perhaps this isn’t at all about finishing, but about coming back.

∞

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And here’s the truth I keep circling back to: I’m tired. Bone-deep tired. My words aren’t built to carry the weight of the world, even though my mind keeps insisting on trying. Every injustice is magnified, every moment of joy tinged with guilt. How dare I enjoy anything when nothing feels fair? How dare I rest when the current is this relentless?

And yet, to walk, to write, to measure a mile, is to resist the spiral. I write to shut the world out, yes, but also to rewrite it. To reshape it into something livable, something mine. That is the cure for my speech-maladie, my fragile but persistent way of keeping afloat.

This essay is my own promenade. A return after a little hiatus, a wave across the deck: hello again, I’ve measured the mile. I’ve traced the laps of silence, and I’m back at the rail!

The ‘measured mile’, whether claimed by a Duchess in exile or a writer squarely in the thick of it, is not about speed or conquest. It’s about repetition. It’s about carving out a circuit, however small, and moving through it until the body remembers what the mind forgets: that the big picture is made this way—through grit and consistency, through showing up again and again. And that survival, and sometimes even joy, reveals itself one lap at a time.

Happy New Year! You’ve got this!

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