In the first quarter of the run I look forward to it getting easier. Legs ache, knees throb, and my breath fades. A breath every fourteen steps becomes a breath every eight. When I warm up, I think, this will be easier.
Pollen from off the creekside grasses stings my eyes. The second fourth is the time of despair. The second wind is not coming. I fear my muscles will never thaw, the cramps and splints will just keep gaining. This is the time when in years past I would stop, defeated, my momentum a pallid joke.
I reach the halfway point and turn.
That turning is solace, and I corner on the gravel. The moon casts pale shadows beneath the acacias. My fears coalesce: this is not going to get any easier. I am halfway, and all to which I have to look forward is more of the same, and in fact a slow, a gradual decline in capability. But what is there to do but keep going? I am breathing every six steps still, and by the time I reach the bridge that will be four. This is not going to get any easier.
And again it comes to me: It doesn’t need to get any easier. This is what there is, and it will do to get me there. Each night my pace up that last hill is stronger, though it never feels any better. And again: It doesn’t need to feel any better.
Posted by: Chris Clarke
Categories:
Hiking
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