How Did I Get Here?
How did I get here?
Here. The end of the line on a remote trail, winding high through slickrock to a lone natural arch, with an expansive, breathtaking view beyond. Other days, “Here” has been a winter wonderland, my footsteps blazing fresh tracks in snow that newly frosts the evergreens above, creating a magical, quiet softness and all I can hear is the crunch of each step. “Here” is also the back trails of Sabino Canyon, twisting up the canyon wall through saguaros and prickly bushes, entirely, utterly alone. It’s the bustling path along the Siene; dunes above a bay in Kauai; muddy, sloppy trails around Lake Sonoma; a literal breathtaking 13,000 feet up a mountain pass; just another sunrise at the top of Mount Sanitas overlooking my home. It is everywhere I have gone on just my two feet, and four years into this urge to run, everywhere, I still find myself asking
How did I get here?
Relaxing at the end of Pothole Arch Trail (the view here was better than the arch)
On the outside, I’m an easy candidate for trail and ultra running. I live in a vibrant running community with ample access to trails. I’m white, affluent, and healthy with enough disposable income to hire a running coach even though I will, at best, finish middle of the pack. But I still surprise myself, nearly every week. Sometimes I just can’t believe how lucky I am to be able to experience this life. That is not available to everyone. I do not take my opportunities for granted. It’s more than gratitude that leaves me in awe, though. I never thought I’d be the kind of person to do these kinds of things and yet…here I am.
I grew up with a fear of discomfort, the kind only people with no real problems can have. Sure, I had conflict, loss, unexplained health issues, sometimes crippling anxiety, but I’ve lived a very good and very comfortable life all things considered. The thought of going on a 15 mile trail run, largely alone to somewhere completely unknown, would have baffled me beyond belief. I didn’t even know that was a thing people did until my 20’s. I said that I would never run a marathon (now I’ve run several to date, and forgot to even tell my family about the last one because it was “just” a training run. Perspective is…odd). I remember in college, struggling to slowly hike a mountain, clearly the weakest link in my group. I was ashamed that I couldn’t push myself the way the others could. When I finally decided that I was not going to be that person anymore, fed up with who I was, I took on a new resolve to push a little bit more, every year. And so I did! Slow, painful, steady progress.
So that’s one way I got here. Incremental steps. Relentless forward progress. Consistency. Vacations, new scary places, and early mornings are all times when I may not feel like lacing up my shoes, but I am (almost) always glad that I did.
Rainy Run! So fun!
High up in Sabino Canyon
Shut In Trail in Asheville
It’s not really the physical effort that is the challenge, though. Sure, you have to get comfortable with discomfort, but that’s easy to tune out. For someone like me, the real challenge is the anxiety, the fear of the unknown and the horror that rushes through me every time I embark on a new adventure as I imagine all of the things that could go wrong. It is hard to will myself forward at times, hard to get into a flow, and the miles slowly tick by. It’s on those runs that I’m most surprised that I’m doing this. Maybe the more important question is WHY did I get here?
I say that what I love about running is that it gets me out the door, and I mean it. There are a lot of choices I’ve made over the last four years that were heavily influenced by running. Not just participating in a race, or joining local running groups, but big things, too. The desert trails of Arizona looked so appealing to me that my husband and I decided to spend a month there this winter, working remotely during the day and zooming through the cactus on the weekends. The experience was valuable beyond training miles. Or as another example, the fear of running alone in the high country but also really wanting to do it led me to reach out through any community I had to find running partners, putting myself in social situations I generally avoided. I’m so grateful for the connections I’ve made because of that.
The best runs really are with friends who distract me from both the mental and physical discomfort, and who make it safer, too. Community is definitely a big part of the “why” and the “how”. It IS inherently a little dangerous to run alone, especially to the end of the line on a remote trail. But the moments alone are the ones where I feel the most growth, where I’m really pushing my boundaries. I feel so alive. Maybe it’s that simple. With the right precautions (such as a satellite phone, route planning, and lots of water and snacks) it’s worth it for the knowledge that I can do hard things, that I can grow and change. And for the expansive, breathtaking view beyond.
Nice butte.
So, “here” is where I eat a few more bites of my snack, take another sip of water, and stand up from my perch ready for 6 more miles back to the trailhead. New miles, on new trails with who knows what in front of me. I got myself here, so now I have to get myself OUT of here.
Love,
April
Song of the Day: How Did I Get Here? by ODESZA (too on the nose??)