All The Way

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Yesterday, I was back on Wildwood in Forest Park with the goal for the day being a four hour run. At the Thurman trail head, I had laced up my shoes and strapped my hydration pack to my waist. Shortly after the quarter mile mark, I had banged a left at the port-a-johns and started climbing Wild Cherry to where it meets Wildwood. Although my legs felt great, I walked most of this section of trail. One of the goals for the day was to not run the hills, and although it may have seemed silly to do so, I was already walking three minutes into a 26 mile run. However I was alone and was running my own itinerary today, at my own pace, with my own objectives. No one was there to pass judgment on me or to whom I had to justify my actions.

Somewhere between mile marker eighteen and nineteen, a pack of about seven or eight women coming south along the trail approached me. Seemingly spontaneously they stepped to the sides of the dirt path and formed a bridge for me to pass through. With shouts and cheers and warm hoorays on their part, I ducked through the tunnel and emerged on the other side. Several strides down the trail, I turned and called back asking, “How far are you guys going today?” In unison they enthusiastically hollered back to me, “All the way!” I took this to mean that they were through-running the trail, a total of about thirty miles. I kept going my way, and they kept going theirs.

My turn around point, mile marker 20, was still at least ten minutes farther along. A small part of me hoped to catch them along the return trip. Their energy had lifted mine considerably, and I wished to surf their effervescence back to the trailhead. It seemed highly unlikely though. They would be more than twenty minutes ahead of me by the time I had simply returned to the spot where we crossed paths. They would most likely be miles ahead of me, unreachable. And there was the splinter in my sock.

At first it felt like a pine needle had slipped into my shoe and migrated downstream to lodge beneath my toes. With every stride, it pressed into my flesh. Stopping to fish it out would mean that that group of ladies would simply have more time to put an even greater distance between myself and them, so I doggedly pushed on. At my turn around point, I stopped to remove my shoe. The splinter was aggravating my foot, and it seemed stupid to end up with a blister with 13 more miles to go. Balanced on one leg on the side of the trail, I pawed through my empty shoe hoping to turn up the offending item, but nothing appeared. I laced back up and started south towards home. Within a few minutes, the phantom sliver reappeared, and I stopped again. However, again I found nothing. Twice more I laced up, started running, and stopped to remove both my shoe and sock. Twice more I found nothing. Twice more I allowed my wave to roll farther and farther away from me. Looking at my watch, it occurred to me that the chances of catching up with them had all but evaporated. As for the splinter, at last it too seemed to have vanished, and I was able to continue on uninterrupted.

I came to realize, though, that I didn’t actually need to run with them. I didn’t so much require their company but the idea of them. They were going “all the way”. Whether that meant thirty miles or five, it didn’t really matter. They were going to finish, and not only were they going to finish but it seemed that they were going to do so joyously. That is exactly what I needed: joy with every stride; joy with every mile.

Eventually I gave up trying to catch them, and instead I focused on just running my own route. On the hills, I walked briskly as I had planned. Along the flat sections between towering Douglas firs, I cruised; my mind was empty and calm. My footfalls filled that empty space between. Strangely though, after I came to grips with the fact that I no longer needed them, I caught up to them. The technicolor, sixteen legged caterpillar that they formed appeared on the opposite side of the ravine from me. Their singular pulsing form marched slowly but confidently southward along the trail.

When I met up with them, again they stepped aside. Again they cheered. Again my spirits were lifted. This time I just said, “Thank you” as I passed them by. Perhaps, they just thought me being polite in response for their considerate actions. With an hour to go on my run, however, they served up another wave for me to ride all the way back to the car.

Perhaps the point of all this is to illustrate the very simple notion that we often need the idea of something more than we need the thing itself. I did not need to run with these amazing people. Instead I needed the idea that running could be an act of joy. An idea is entirely portable; I can carry it with me, even as I run my own race wherever that race may be. As well I needed the idea that I should go “all the way” to the full completion of the plan. In anything that requires extra commitment or uncommon discipline, it is good to be resolved to do whatever it takes to carry through to the end… even if we need to walk the hills.

Lastly it is worth noting that the goal had changed. For me, all the way once meant completing a marathon. For my students, all the way means—for now—graduating high school. Four hours or four years, the distance can seem insurmountable. However now, for myself and for many of my students, all the way has come to mean something different—something grander. For some, all the way means college. As for me, 26.2 was just the warm up for something bigger than I ever imagined possible when I took the first step towards the finish line.