One Run, Up and Down

Dave said there’d be no long hills. I’m pushing upwards on just the balls of my feet – think of Flashdance. That’s the problem with long hills, the thinking. There’s no sharp turns, no logs to duck under, nothing dynamic. All you can do is grind and grind and grind. And think. Think of walking. Think of finishing. Think of punching that farmer who didn’t want you going through. Think of flying. Off the side of this fucking mountain. Think of who’s ahead. Think of who’s behind. Think of pushing harder. Think of walking. Think of walking. I come over the top of the hill and battle against the urge to walk in celebration of my victory over the climb. I run on.

I turn onto a shady trail, my vision sharpens, my feet fall naturally one after the other. If I showed you a picture of the path you’d see branches and rocks, roots and leaves, small boulders and bamboo pikes. But that photo would be a lie. None of those things are on my trail. My feet don’t slip on leaves, don’t trip on roots. I don’t slow down for branches, boulders, or bamboo. I slide on through.
It’s natural.

Now the downhill. It’s natural to be careful. It’s natural to take it slow. It’s natural to be nervous. But there’s nothing natural here. I’ve learned that my ankles are tough and my eyes will find a way down. They’ll tell my legs first. I’m just the last to know. It’s like having the front car on a roller-coaster on the first test-run. Can’t wait to find out how it ends.

I hit the ON-IN and finish a minute later. Toothpick hands me a beer.