My brother Matt takes over the blog with this post on the fiber of trail running and living in general:
“Were fucked.” The usual trail is obstructed by three feet of ice and snow; a natural road block stands between us and wilderness. Two weeks with no time on the trail has transformed our usual desire for wilderness into a constant, anxious craving. Deep within a training schedule for an upcoming ultra, we both understand the importance of putting miles on our legs. I want to run; I need to run. “Were fucked.” We relocate to another trailhead, 100 meters from our original location. This track offers a bit more hope, as the snow appears to be packed down by hikers and wildlife. Our first few steps are uneasy. The snow is deep— at least a foot and a half—but the first few inches are baked solid. We continue to walk on the trail, making it a few steps on the crisp crust before sliding waist deep in the powdery subsurface. “Were fucked.” Neither of us our willing to call it day. No words are exchanged but it’s understood: we are not leaving until we reach the top of this mountain.
We’d come to find that this would require an interesting amalgamation of walking, climbing, running, and shuffling. We take the first ascent at a fast hike. I begin to breathe heavily. Any section of trail that offers stability is taken at pace, until one of us takes a dive into the thick white blanket that covers the trail. Even when we are running, it appears to be more of a delicate tip-toe through already sculpted tracks. With each step, my original frustration and disappointment fades. My concern with miles and numbers and races slips away. I find myself smiling with every foot-fall. There is no thought, just me and the wilderness that surrounds me. There is snow, rock, trees, the occasional deer…and me. We trudge through a stretch of icy sludge and rip through another half-mile of single track. The trail opens and we have reached the top. I don’t think of my pace or the number of miles flashing on the screen of my fancy GPS watch. In fact, I have a feeling that I am probably the closest one can get to not thinking at all.
“Were fucked.” The usual trail is obstructed by three feet of ice and snow; a natural road block stands between us and wilderness. Two weeks with no time on the trail has transformed our usual desire for wilderness into a constant, anxious craving. Deep within a training schedule for an upcoming ultra, we both understand the importance of putting miles on our legs. I want to run; I need to run. “Were fucked.” We relocate to another trailhead, 100 meters from our original location. This track offers a bit more hope, as the snow appears to be packed down by hikers and wildlife. Our first few steps are uneasy. The snow is deep— at least a foot and a half—but the first few inches are baked solid. We continue to walk on the trail, making it a few steps on the crisp crust before sliding waist deep in the powdery subsurface. “Were fucked.” Neither of us our willing to call it day. No words are exchanged but it’s understood: we are not leaving until we reach the top of this mountain.
We’d come to find that this would require an interesting amalgamation of walking, climbing, running, and shuffling. We take the first ascent at a fast hike. I begin to breathe heavily. Any section of trail that offers stability is taken at pace, until one of us takes a dive into the thick white blanket that covers the trail. Even when we are running, it appears to be more of a delicate tip-toe through already sculpted tracks. With each step, my original frustration and disappointment fades. My concern with miles and numbers and races slips away. I find myself smiling with every foot-fall. There is no thought, just me and the wilderness that surrounds me. There is snow, rock, trees, the occasional deer…and me. We trudge through a stretch of icy sludge and rip through another half-mile of single track. The trail opens and we have reached the top. I don’t think of my pace or the number of miles flashing on the screen of my fancy GPS watch. In fact, I have a feeling that I am probably the closest one can get to not thinking at all.
I take a seat on a snow covered
rock and take in the view. I wipe the sweat from my eyes and think— this is why
I am out here. Sure, I am here to run, but I am here for much more than that.
This week’s time on the trail served as a reminder that trail running is about
much more than just running. It’s about excitement. It’s about seeing what’s
out there. It’s about discovery. It’s about adventure. Perhaps, most
importantly, it’s about learning.
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