Why the hell am I doing this?
The sun was beating down, as it always did in the brutal valley of the sun that is Phoenix, AZ. I was out on one of my favorite nearby trails – favorite because of its remoteness, steepness, and of course, its beauty.
But this wasn’t one of those pleasant nature hikes where we head out to nature to soak it all in, for I was out here doing something rather different. I had found a steep and fairly long section of trail. I had scoped it out and even ran the initial 5 miles out to it so that I could show up, run up it… and then down it, and then up it, and then down it.
Running hill repeats is never fun. It’s not anything that anyone in their right mind would go out to do for enjoyment.
But as trail runners, it’s something that we do for a very important reason.
–
It’s later that year and I’ve spent the entire day running. I mean it – I had woken up at 4:00 AM, left the starting line running at 5:00 AM, and then had spent the following 17 hours putting one foot in front of the other.
The sun had set around 8:00 PM and about that time I had left the mile 50 aid station.
From here, the course did something kinda funny. It took us off the trail, sent us across the creek (again!), and sent us directly up a steep mountain.
And by directly up… I mean directly – a line heading straight up the steep mountainside, forgetting any idea of a switchback – through mud, forest, and later past treeline and into the alpine tundra.
The trail from here was faint, if existent at all. All that marked it was an occasional flag, one that would reflect the light of my headlamp back to me and give me knowledge of where I was heading. The headlamp and reflected light was essential because, well, the sun had said its last goodbye for the day shortly before I hit treeline, and now all that remained was to move my head around until my headlamp hit its target and signaled the direction I would continue towards.
As for where I was heading?
It was upward, step after step after step for thousands of feet.
How many thousands – I couldn’t quite be sure. One? Maybe two? Please don’t let it be three or four.
I knew the ridgeline had to be up there somewhere, and I knew that, once I hit the highest point, I’d be able to begin the long descent back down the mountain, across and over into Silverton, and there I would find the finish line.
But I couldn’t think about the descent yet, and I certainly couldn’t get carried away by the idea of the finish line.
As for now, I was here, willing my hip flexor to engage so I could take the next step.
My hip flexor – it had started seizing up on me after leaving the last aid station.
My hip flexor – it screamed at me and forced me to willfully engage it for every single step.
And that’s how I moved upward, one step after another, me urging my muscles to contract so I could lift my leg and take one more step closer to the ridge, wherever it may be up ahead in the dark abyss.
It was here, in these moments, that I knew there was one thing that was important.
Climbing, one step after another, over and over again until I reached the top. It had to be there somewhere, and I would get there, if only I took one step after another.
Thank god for all those hill repeats.
–
After this race, it’s fair to say that I was done. I had chosen my big goal, I had trained for it, and when the time came I pulled upon my tenacity and my grit and I kept pushing forward.
I did it!
But once it was done, I think it’s fair to say that I was done.
There was no part of me that wanted to return to repeat the event. Perhaps it was time to reign things in. Maybe focus on some shorter 50Ks? That could be nice.
I was done with the longer distances.
That was… until a moment the following January when I was moved to put my name into the lottery for a new race that had caught my eye.
A new race. A BIG race. One that would once again put me in the majestic mountains of Colorado and test my limits.
The idea scared me, but if I was only putting my name into the lottery, that didn’t mean I was actually signing up, right?
That idea guided me until the names were pulled from the hat and my name was called.
My name was called, and I was in.
–
It’s several months later, and today I’m out here once again.
This time things look a little different – the ground is no longer dirt nor rock but, instead, a thick blanket of now. I’ve set aside my trail running shoes for backcountry snowboarding gear, and what is strapped to my feet is something that resembles two skis so that I can pick one foot up, move it up the hill, plant it, and proceed doing the same motion over and over until I reach the top.
Trail running season was on a pause in these winter months, but my drive to continue mountain adventures and train for the following trail running season still rested within my heart. Just as important, my logical mind kept reminding me of the insane elevation gains I would be making in the race later this year, and as conditions made the trails inaccessible, this was my option.
Conditions had changed and I had adjusted, yet here I was – out in the beautiful snow covered mountains making yet another climb.
To where, exactly? We weren’t quite sure. Avalanche danger was far from ideal so a full ascent of a fun line to ride wasn’t in the cards.
Yet, here we were, out in the mountains doing our thing: heading upward, step-by-step, looking forward to whatever ride awaited us on the way back down.
–
The scenery changes once more. The sun is rising in the distance, illuminating the dirt and rock beneath me. I’ve already come a ways today – dropping down 5,000 feet to greet the Colorado River at sunrise.
I look up, and once again my heart is immediately taken.
It’s taken as I find myself immersed in the deep beauty and power that lives here.
It’s taken with apprehension as I realize the long climb that awaits me – 6,000 feet all the way to the top of the North Rim – before turning around, dropping back down those 6,000 feet, and making the final ascent 5,000 feet back up to the South Rim where the whole adventure started earlier that day.
It’s my second rim to rim to rim adventure in The Grand Canyon. I had done my first trek the previous spring, and now I am back to accompany my partner as he takes on his own journey accomplishing his first big trail running event of this magnitude.
As for me, I am always happy to visit this natural wonder, and as the snow was melting and the days began to warm up, I was eager for my own version of a big event to officially kick off trail running season.
Trail running season – one that would take me forward down the south rim, up the north rim, and then back, only to continue onward to a small list of races.
A small list, yet one that contains one monster of an event.
That event ? The one for which I heard my name called just a few months earlier: My first 100 miler, one involving 23,000 feet of climbing across the Rocky Mountains.
100 miles of up and down and across expansive terrain.
And boy, was I scared.
As the occasional reminder of this upcoming event popped into mind, I moved through the Great Ditch once more staying focused – putting one foot in front of the other, over and over and over again, taking in the magic of the world around me while simultaneously taking in the hard lessons learned through another humbling experience that is any Grand Canyon double crossing.
Hard lessons – the Grand Canyon is always eager to offer them, if only one is willing to step foot down into her expansive terrain.
Hard lessons – almost always involving a deeper understanding of the commitment that is involved when stepping foot into this terrain, because the way back out is always up.
Over the years I’ve found myself drawn to the mountains and desert trails that continue to lead me forward on long and strenuous climbs, and as I’ve found myself increasing distance and intensity of these ultra events, I continue to ask myself why I do it.
Today I stand at the feet of the my most massive event yet: a 100 miler – 23,5000 feet of gain through the rugged mountains of Colorado.
And, I have to say, I. AM. TERRIFIED. I have yet to show up for an event that I don’t have complete faith that I will complete. I have yet to show up to an event with so much unknown.
This time around, things will be different.
Still, given the years I’ve accumulated chasing upward slopes in the variety of forms I’ve chosen, and given the experiences I’ve had chasing upward slopes in all different forms, I now know this:
What matters is not that I’ve chosen this specific goal and must accomplish it.
Accomplishment feels good, but it’s a flicker of feeling that arises and falls away quickly, leaving me left with… well, with what?
As it turns out, it is this very what that matters most:
What are you left with when you’ve put in the work and accomplished the goal? What is filling you up on the rest of the journey here as you continue to put one foot in front of the other?
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When people ask me (or, more importantly, when I ask myself) why a 100 miler – why this crazy 100 miler with 23,000+ feet of elevation gain, running all day and through the night into the next day… why does it have to be this?
Why couldn’t I have listened to my post 100K self and signed up for something shorter? Something with less impact on my body and less risk!
Something that doesn’t involve running an entire day, through the night, and into the next day!
In response, I’ve learned I can list off a simple answer: I love trail running and I want to continue pushing myself to see what I can do.
It seems like a reasonable answer, yet it’s not one that quite qualified my choosing to do something this crazy.
Therefore, there must be a better answer.
–
As we go through life, one important piece is that we set goals for ourselves.
Goals – they give us direction; they give us purpose.
But perhaps the big idea isn’t in the goal achieving, but in the chase – in the putting one foot in front of the other.
Perhaps what matters for me, here as I chase after a 100 miler, is not the specific goal I’ve set for myself, but the simple fact that I’ve chosen a new goal: one that excites me and scares me just enough, yet one that I know I am committed to achieving with every intention to take one right step after another.
And, as long as each step keeps taking me in a direction that is out of serious harm’s way and continues to fill me up, then all that’s left is a different sort of question:
Why not take that next step?
Why not set an even bigger goal and see if I can push myself a bit further to train harder?
Why not set an even bigger goal and see if I have it in me to accomplish it?
Why not show up on the starting line with every intention to finish, to put myself through one more incredible journey – however it may unfold?
Why not experience life in this new way?
I still have yet to come up with any answers to these latter questions, so here I go.
