Reflections on a run
I started writing this with the intention of speaking about my relationship with running from start to present to future, but it turned into something else and is already way too long. So I think I might make this a several part series on running and post a few more articles later on. But maybe not. We’ll see.
I sat on a burning rock by the lake, massaging my blistered and bandaged feet while squinting across the glaring sky-blue water. A young couple in a small motorboat waved at me as they passed. I nodded back and clung to the sight of them, gazing at the lovers and their boat as they shrank further into the distance until they disappeared on the horizon, leaving me to roast beneath the sun with my aching feet.
No one was going to save me.
Just a day and a half earlier, something compelled me to embark on a one night, 100 kilometer fastpack through the remote Pasayten wilderness. My running club planned the trip and mapped the route a few weeks earlier, and I figured I would join for a small portion of it, maybe the first 50 kilometers at most. Yet, throughout those weeks leading up to the trip, a small part of me tugged at the notion of going rogue and doing the whole thing. I knew it would be a very dumb thing to do, given that the farthest I’d ever run in one go was eighteen miles, but I also knew that I would, in all likelihood, manage to survive.
When I was younger, I did a lot of dumb things. True, teenagers are dumb, but I was especially dumb, even for a teenager. One weekend during my senior year of high school, I biked on the freeway with a friend because we didn’t know that freeways were strictly for cars (and got really confused as to why so many cars honked at us as they passed). The summer before college, I started a backpacking trip in the rain wearing nothing but a cotton t-shirt and running shorts with no extra clothing. By the time we reached the top of the climb, the rain had turned into hail and I had turned into a human icicle. Thankfully my friend brought extra clothing, and she managed to help me, frozen and turning blue, get out of my clothes and into hers. The rest of the group then set up emergency camp off the side of the trail, shoved me into a sleeping bag, and piled their bodies around me to thaw my stiffened limbs. I felt like the World’s Largest Dumbass at that moment, ashamed and guilty for cutting the trip short and weighing everyone else down with my stupidity. Yet, somehow, that shame did not stop me from running alone toward a bear in Yosemite National Park a year later, or running along a highway in the dark without a light or cell service to a restaurant where I convinced a stranger, a middle-aged man eating alone, to pay for my meal and give me a ride back to the beach where I had been sleeping the previous two nights.
As I grew older, I grew more cautious. Enough misadventures can make one weary of adventure altogether, and adulthood’s responsibilities invited anxiety. My later college years proved disastrous for my mental health. I struggled with schoolwork in STEM classes I hated, feeling both inadequate and unmotivated; my body changed in ways that enhanced my insecurities; I sought only external validation, which I didn’t receive much of; I desperately wanted to finish or drop out, yet had no idea what to do if I did; I stopped sleeping; I hated myself for not being perfect all the time and in every way; and I felt deeply alone. In one of my journal entries during that time, I wrote about how I felt like some weird caged zoo animal trapped naked and alone in a glass box while all the normal people stood around on the outside staring, unable to hear or understand me, like Billy Pilgrim in Slaughterhouse-Five when he gets abducted by aliens. The longer I lived in this world, the more terrifying it became.
Whoever I was in my early twenties wasn’t me; it was a hollowed-out shell of myself, puppeteered by anxiety, perfectionism, and loneliness. I know that now, and am so relieved to have (mostly) escaped from the binds that held me then. While I sometimes still struggle with the mental battles I faced in college, I have learned to accept them as they come with the understanding that they are simply a part of the human experience. Older and (hopefully) wiser, I am no longer the reckless teen I used to be, nor am I that anxious college kid. I have evolved into someone who has retained and lost certain elements of both characters, and will continue to morph and change throughout the rest of my life.
I now strive for balance. The greatest adventures sit on a fine line between recklessness and preparedness. When you step off that line and go too far in either direction, you end up either dead or unfulfilled. That line is a difficult one to walk, but it’s worth the challenge.
The 100K fastpack seemed to sit right on that line. Up until the night before embarking on the adventure, I wavered constantly between backing out and committing to the entire run. Recalling that incident years ago when my friends had to save me from nearly freezing to death atop a hailing mountain, my greatest concern was becoming a liability to others. I spoke with Abby, an experienced backpacker who was planning on doing the 100K, about it, and she said something along the lines of, “stuff can happen no matter how prepared you are. That’s the purpose of going in a group.”
I guess that’s true, I thought. We can’t control everything that will happen to us, no matter how prepared we are. That’s a fact of life. Just as we can’t control our futures, the loss of loved ones, aging, or the decisions other people in our lives choose to make, we can’t control the weather on top of a mountain ridge, or the wildlife in the forest, or the way our feet ache after travelling long distances. All we can really do is keep moving forward. So I chose to go forward with the 100K.
On Friday, Abby drove me and this other guy, Sean, who was planning on running the 100K in one day without stopping, several hours north. We arrived at the campsite late at night and only had a few hours to sleep before waking up at 5 a.m. the next day to head to Hart’s pass, our journey’s starting point. Regrettably, we weren’t as noise-conscious as we should have been that early in the morning when we arrived at the Pass and woke a bunch of campers. After getting yelled at by an angry park ranger, we started our adventure.
The first twelve-or-so miles flew by as we ran on the flat and well-maintained Pacific Crest Trail. Then I started feeling constipated. The rest of the group surged ahead while Abby and I stayed at our slower and steady pace. After a few more miles, I attempted to take a shit in the woods, and managed to squeeze out a couple of tiny pellets. The order of what came next is a bit hazy in my memory, but I’ll try my best to recount the following events in the order they occurred.
I can’t recall how many miles in we were, but at some point we veered off the PCT onto a far more remote and overgrown “trail” that looked like it hadn’t been maintained in decades. Our running came to a halt as we climbed over logs and whacked through a jumble of prickly salmonberry brambles, bushes, and ferns. I had no idea which direction we were headed, but luckily Abby had a GPS that told her we were roughly on “trail.” We got lost and turned around a few times, which added some time and distance, but eventually managed to make it out of the bushes.
Next, we hit a climb which took us to the top of a foggy mountain ridge. I learned then that the quarter-zip I purchased the week before was not quite waterproof, and felt my fingers and limbs begin to grow numb as wind and mist sprayed me from every direction. I felt a creeping sense of deja vu from that scary experience I had in the White Mountains when I was eighteen, but knew that mist was not as bad as hail, and that I was more prepared to push forward. At moments, a gap in the fog would open to reveal a deep, swooping green and gray valley surrounded by ridges. I would gaze out at the valley to remind myself that I was somewhere beautiful, and that I liked being in beautiful places.
After twenty miles, my feet ached and I felt a little brain-dead, but nevertheless optimistic. We were nearly two-thirds of the way through our first day! But just as I began to celebrate, the trail took us to a rocky and insanely overgrown dried-out streambed. Bent trees and bushes gathered in a tangled mess over smooth and slippery-looking stones. It looked like the thorn hedge guarding Sleeping Beauty’s castle. But I was no fairytale prince with a big sword.
“Are you sure we have to go through that?” I asked Abby, though, looking around, there seemed to be no other option.
She showed me her GPS. “We have to go in that direction somehow, and I don’t know how else we’ll get through.”
I glanced up at the sky, which had grown a little darker in the past few hours. It was around 6 p.m. in late September, which meant sundown was fast-approaching.
Into the bushes we went.
We shoved our way through the bent branches. After nearly slipping on a stone, I decided to crab-crawl/sit and scoot down the streambed. This method proved helpful since some of the branches were bent so low I would have had to keep ducking under them, expending excess energy, if I were standing.
I don’t know how long I sat scooting down that streambed, but it felt like forever. As the sun sank lower and lower, I began to wonder if the streambed had an end to it.
But, eventually, we made it through. About a mile later, we arrived at camp, where the others who took off ahead of us had pitched their tents. Freezing and wet, I set up my tent, got inside and changed my clothes, then scarfed down the camp-stove mashed potatoes someone offered me. I still felt constipated, and somehow wasn’t hungry at all, but forced myself to ingest some food.
I tried sleeping but didn’t know that I was supposed to tuck the light-weight sleeping bag I had borrowed beneath my sleeping pad, and spent the entire night wide awake, shivering.
People who don’t run often ask me why I love running. The answer isn’t always easy to explain. It’s like when someone asks why you love the person you’re dating. When you love something, you just love it. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly where your feelings stem from. But of course, there are things that initially drew me to running the way a person is drawn to their partner. For one, I was good at it and appreciated the validation that came with being good at something. Second, running served as an outlet for my bubbling, emo-esque teenage angst. Lastly, it is one of the most liberating feelings the human body can experience on its own. Our bodies have their limitations. But running pushes the boundaries of those limitations in a way that brings us nearer to freedom. Running is as close as we can get to flying, and our feet can take us places where no human invention can. It also liberates our minds the way it does our bodies. When we run for long enough, we access another dimension, entering into a meditative trance that numbs and quiets even our most intrusive thoughts. Some might call this nirvana. Whatever it is, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world.
So yeah, I guess that’s why I love running.
But when I got out of my tent, stiff and shivering at 5:30AM the next day after a cold, restless night, I kind of hated running, and started to hate it more and more the further we trekked.
Abby, Christian, Elliot and I started off together while everyone else was still eating breakfast or yawning in their tents. Day two began with some steep climbs and a little bit of schwacking that added a lot of time; I think it took us about half an hour to go one mile. Thankfully the trail wasn’t as crazy as it had been at the end of day one, but parts of it were still pretty overgrown.
Then we got to this burnt out area where the trail disappeared and we had to navigate down a field of ashy debris and blackened, tarred tree remnants. I’m a bit clumsy and cautious on downhills, so I spent a lot of this section grabbing onto burnt wood while slipping and sliding. My hands were covered in ash by the end, and so was my nose because I had been touching it a bunch since I felt pretty congested that morning. Christian noticed that my heel, which had been rubbing up against the back of my shoe, was bleeding. But I didn’t feel anything and didn’t want to stop, so we kept going.
Pretty soon, the rest of the group caught up to us and we found the trail again, which grew narrow and had about a twenty-thirty-foot dropoff. I was far too tired to feel scared, and just focused on putting one foot in front of the other until we came to this stream where we replenished our water supply, ate, and rested a bit.
I took off my shoes to examine my feet. My soles were torn with flappy, oozing blisters and my heel had a pretty deep cut. Someone gave me a few bandages and tape to wrap it all up, which helped a bit.
At this point, I entered a lucid state. My exhaustion made everything feel numb, and I just wanted to sleep. I fell into deep zombie mode. The next several miles were a blur as Abby and I fell behind the rest of the group. I remember hopping back onto the PCT at some point, the sun coming out, and running into this older PCT hiker lady who introduced herself as Boss Lady and asked us to fill her water filter. I remember getting hotter and more tired and really, really wanting to just lie down and sleep. I remember my mouth going dry. I remember eeking out a hello to another PCT hiker who appeared like a mirage with his long, wild, frizzy hair, twiggish, thin arms sticking out of a withered and dirty t-shirt, and giant, unkempt beard.
I remember finally making it to Ross Lake, which meant that we were in the home stretch with about twelve miles left (theoretically). The lake was a shining crystal blue. I noticed what looked like a rescue pontoon docked at its edge.
On our way down to the lake, we passed two park rangers, an older man and a young, pretty woman about my age. We greeted them and exchanged a few words. They told us they had run into the rest of our pack a little earlier on.
I glanced back at the docked pontoon.
“Do you know whose boat that is?” I asked the rangers.
“That’s our boat,” the older man responded.
“Oh, cool,” I muttered.
“Well, good luck with the rest of your run,” he said.
“Thanks.”
The rangers nodded goodbye and started hiking in the direction we had come.
As the distance between us grew, I kept glancing back, shifting my gaze between the rangers and the boat.
Just twelve miles left, I told myself.
Oh god, I have a whole twelve miles left. Fuck.
“Hey Abby,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“I’m really, super sorry about this, but I’m just so tired and I might actually try to see if I can get a ride back with those rangers on their boat.”
“Oh, okay,” she said, looking back at the rangers. “Try and catch them now though before they get too far.”
I looked back at the rangers. They had gained a lot of distance in the time that we had been talking.
“Okay, you can stay here,” I told Abby. “I’ll try and catch them real quick and report back to you.”
I turned and ran as fast as I could. The rangers must have been moving pretty fast, because I kept running for far longer than I expected to run. Eventually, probably after a couple of minutes, I caught up to them.
“Excuse me,” I gasped.
They turned.
“I was wondering, would it be at all possible for you guys to give me a ride on your boat? I’m really sorry, I don’t want to waste any of your resources or anything, but I’m very tired right now. It’s all good if not, I think I’ll be okay regardless, but I was just wondering if it was a possibility.”
“Well,” the older ranger paused. “It’s a possibility . . . but we typically only give rides to people who are hurt or injured —”
“Oh, okay, yeah that makes sense. I’m fine, I’m not hurt or injured or anything, just tired,” I explained.
“Yeah, we typically don’t give rides just because someone is tired, but we could make an exception if you really feel like you need it.”
I nodded and began to realize how ridiculous my question must have seemed to him. I was tired. So what? Trekking is tiring, and we were on a trail where tons of very exhausted PCT hikers who had been hiking for thousands of miles had traversed. I was tired after fifty miles. So what? So was everyone else that ranger had interacted with that day. And hadn’t I just been sprinting with all my gear on my back? Surely, if I could still run, I couldn’t have been that tired.
It dawned on me that I was being kind of dumb and wasting everyone’s time. “Actually, nevermind! Sorry to bother you. I’m all good!”
I turned and started re-covering the ground I had lost to find that Abby had begun following me. At that moment, I felt pretty bad that she was stuck with me. I knew she was likely irritated, as anyone in her position would have been, but her naturally calm and cool demeanor showed no signs of frustration, which made me feel even worse about burdening her with my dumb choices.
When I’m drowning in schoolwork or overwhelmed with life in general, I look back on this moment to remind myself that I am more capable of survival than I sometimes think I am. Just as I can run even when I am really, really exhausted, I can finish an assignment, I can clean my room, I can get groceries, I can cook, and I can go to bed at a reasonable hour even when it’s hard to do those things, and even when I really, really don’t want to. It’s also a reminder that choices aren’t always easy, and that I have to do some things on my own. I could have gotten on that boat, but then that would have left Abby alone for the last stretch, burdened the rangers, potentially taken resources away from someone else who would have needed actual rescuing, and failed to finish what I set out to do. Though I (sort of) had a choice, neither option presented a clean, perfect solution.
This winter was one of my most challenging winters to date. Law school got a lot harder, I started questioning my career choice, fell into a bit of an existential crisis, and became very unhappy. After failing an evidence quiz I spent nearly every waking hour studying for during the preceding weeks, I almost decided to drop out. But then I considered my options, and the futures each of them would lead to. I knew that, no matter which decision I chose, I would survive. But, regardless of my choice, survival would not be easy. I would either have to struggle through another year and a half of law school, then several more months of studying for the bar, or erase all the work I had done in the previous year and re-build my career from scratch. I thought about the position I had been in several months earlier, exhausted, bleeding, and dehydrated to the point where I considered getting on a boat to cut my trip short. I remembered how, in the end, I kept running. That pain was far greater than any kind of pain I would experience in law school. If I endured it then, I could endure it again. So now, whenever I’m feeling miserable or in pain, I remind myself that I’ve been in a tougher spot, and I got through it.
After speaking with the rangers, Abby and I climbed down to the lake to rest a bit and munch on some snacks. I forced myself to eat part of a cliff bar, which felt painful to swallow because my mouth had become very dry. I took off my shoes again to look at my feet. Some of the bandages had fallen off and I was bleeding again.
I gazed out at the water and wished I could somehow teleport. I really didn’t want to run another twelve miles. A young couple in a boat drove by and waved. They looked like they were having a good time.
Man would it be nice to be on a boat, I thought as I watched them disappear.
Fortunately, the rest of the run was on flat trails. I wanted so badly to be done that I just started running as fast as I could. After about six miles, I stopped to fill my water at a stream, and told Abby to keep going.
“Are you sure?” she asked, looking a bit concerned.
“Yeah, I’ll catch up,” I told her.
“Okay. I’ll walk until you’ve caught up to me,” she said.
“Sure.”
I filled my filter, swallowed a few big gulps, then started up again.
The air had grown cooler in the woods, and daylight began to waiver.
I felt a bit lightheaded, and was running slower and slower until my running turned to a shuffle. I started shivering a bit but didn’t want to stop so I kept going without adding any layers, figuring I’d warm up again eventually.
At four miles to go, I felt triumphant despite my delirium. I knew I was going to make it.
But then Abby informed me that, according to her GPS, we actually had nine more miles left. As it turns out, the run wasn’t an exact 100K, but a little longer.
At that moment, a little longer felt like a lot longer. My legs turned to bricks, light rain began to pour, and the air turned cooler and darker. My heart sank.
But my only option was to keep moving forward.
I tried running, but could only manage a slow shuffle. Abby didn’t seem tired at all, and offered me her poles. I took them and leaned on them for support, taking as much weight off my legs as possible. My stomach grumbled, reminding me that I had eaten very little the past day and a half.
Nine more miles. Fuck.
I hobbled along, trying to go as fast as I could. My fatigue grew like an invasive plant in my body.
Abby offered me some of her candy, which I scarfed down. She then asked if I needed any electrolytes.
This entire trip, I hadn’t thought about electrolytes once. Due to my inexperience and ignorance, I didn’t think to pack any. I wondered if the lack of electrolytes was the reason my mouth had turned so dry.
I accepted Abby’s berry-flavored Tailwind, which tasted delicious and filled my empty stomach just enough to make it stop grumbling.
We shuffled along for what felt like ages. But slowly and surely, we made progress.
Just keep going, just keep going, just keep going . . . I told myself over and over again.
At about a mile to go, the sun receded and I took out my headlamp. I tried my best to run, but couldn’t lift my feet any higher than about an inch off the ground.
At about four hundred meters to the end, we heard a “coo-ie,” my running club’s calling signal.
At last, we made it out of the woods and into the parking lot, where Elliot and Christian were kindly waiting for us.
Christian offered us some swiss chocolate while I plopped myself down on the ground and took off my shoes.
Abby drove us back home in the dark.
We made it. I made it.
I slept for thirteen hours that night. I knew then that there was much more to come in terms of running, but that’s a whole other chapter. I will say that I think running might be the love of my life, even when I really hate it sometimes.
And I’ll end with a poem.
Dreamers are more awake than those who slumber through reverie to chase the monotony of fettered fate & ordinary days. To live reality without fantasy is a heavy, burdensome gravity. So douse your head in the clouds & be free, & dream all you can, for there is no eternity.
To be continued . . .
P.S. good luck to Abby, who will be thru-hiking the Continental Divide Trail beginning at the end of this month!
