Always the Same Birthday Present: Resilience - Part 2
I know there has to be something other than just doing hard things to build resilience.
Day 1 is the day we laugh together, take selfies together, and drink from the fountain of adrenaline together to fuel community energy. The vibe is positive as we envision the journey ahead. Once again we venture together to a place that isn’t completely unknown, but we remember, and we remember together who we are and why we do this. This day is 21 miles of climbing and descending, climbing and descending together with a familiar presence we feel, we recognize, we acknowledge. Before the first step, we hug, fist bump, slap palms touchdown high, knowing we got this, yeah we got this.
I adjust my sunglasses on my face, checking the fit on my nose and ears. I look around me, look at the familiar faces, the same faces that have struggled, journeyed, triumphed with me before. I feel it in my throat, the welling in my eyes, my heart filling and filling and filling because this is who we are, this is what we do, this is what we’ve done for miles upon miles, year after year, and especially for today. I look deeply into each face, remembering, remembering last year, and the year before that, and the year before that. The familiar cliché is true: runners wear dark shades so that no one else can see our tears. I wear mirrored lenses because no one else can see the spillover happening because this is love and I know it.
Some of us turn back early but the rest of us get the full experience, the maximum pain and suffering that comes with this journey. Those who return early will greet those that chose the whole route. There’s the reminiscing, recounting the strength needed to overcome difficult moments, moments of doubt, moments of resolve, moments of triumph. We sit, we bask, we relax, we who are warriors-lite, will do this again, again, and again, repeatedly until the day comes when we can’t. I enjoy the moment with my friends, but I can’t be totally in the moment with them. I’m distracted. It’s not fear and it’s not anxiousness, but it is a concern and a concern never to be minimized. For as much as I want to celebrate fully with my friends at the end of Day 1, there’s another challenge to be confronted tomorrow at dawn.
Day 2 begins with sound and fury, literally. Freak weather conditions bring on 5am lightning and thunder, echoing through the mountains, cracking overhead, stinging ear drums, and shaking window panes. Mixing mountain trail running with lightning is a horrible idea, so I make the call to delay the start of the run by 45 minutes. And while I wait for the rare summer storm to pass, I have time to reflect, time to savor the moment, time to repeat the mantra over and over and over again: “I can do hard things.”
Less than 24 hours ago, I ran 21 miles up and down the mountain, and here I am preparing to do the same thing over again. Why am I doing this? Because I am 67 years old and I can do hard things. My body is feeling the effects of 21 miles and over 3000 feet of elevation gain. But it’s a manageable tired, a familiar tired, the kind of tired that speaks of a worthy outcome from a decent amount of work. While I reminisce about yesterday’s adventure with my friends, these thoughts make me confident with anticipation.
“That was almost easy.”
“I really didn’t over exert myself at all.”
“I totally got this.”
“I can do hard things.”
The light rain has kept the temperature down as we finally get started. The clouds have dissipated and blue sky signals the path is safe. The biggest confidence boost will be getting to the gate at the upper parking lot. It ends the first mile up the Mt Lowe Road, the steepest and toughest. Anyone who has made the climb knows you just conquered the most challenging incline when you reach the gate. With all the confidence I can muster, I don’t slow down to power walk anywhere along the first mile; in fact, I pump my arms harder, faster, sending energy to my legs to run with quicker steps, to keep the cadence going.
Today’s group is not the same as yesterday’s. No one I’ve started with is going the full nine miles to the Mueller Tunnel. The younger, fitter athletes ran yesterday, causing me to be patient with mind over body management. The older I get, running vertical distance becomes more and more like a chess match, figuring the body resources required for each stretch of the route, rather than a continuous test of physical endurance. While I manifested the total journey yesterday, I also anticipated how much gas I needed in my body’s engine to get the job done the next day. So, I let the faster, fitter ones go on ahead, while I patiently maintained my “I-can-run-forever” pace. I know this route, I’ve run it several times before, I know where I need to hold back, and I know where and when I can cut loose.
By mile three, I’ve separated myself from the rest, moving solo, continuing to hold a steady, relentless pace upward. But now I’m alone for the remaining six miles. There’s the slightest hint of tiredness in my body. My mind can tell me whatever I want to believe, but my body feels the effort from yesterday. Three friends have driven to the top of the ascent, just a few hundred yards away from the tunnel. They didn’t make the climb up, but they’re going to run the nine miles down with me. I had given them an approximate estimated time of arrival, so I glance at my watch, calculating my pace, making sure I arrive on time. The distraction of calculating pace protects me from falling into a spiral of dread, that place where runners go when the strain of effort is all you can think about.
But my pace is good, I’m not fast but running steady and I’m slightly ahead of schedule. I’m passing familiar landmarks, feeling optimistic about my level of energy. I passed Five Corners and made the turn upwards toward Mt Wilson. This is my favorite part of the route. I look across the valley I have just traversed and I see the Granite Gate now more than two miles across from me. I have less than two miles to go.
When I make the final turn, with just over a mile left to the tunnel, I am now on the trail cutting through the junction of the four peaks ahead of me: Mt Lowe, Mt Markham, San Gabriel Peak, and Mt Disappointment. I always look up in awe at this point. It’s always a feeling of being oh so small amongst the ancient giants. The chunky granite of various sizes and ankle twisting shapes slows my progress, but I don’t care. The ancients were here long before me and they will be here long after me. Their prominence, their quiet splendor of granite power, seemingly never changes and perhaps never will. Somehow, always when I am in their presence, I am invigorated by their stoic gaze, so solid, so unmoving.
I am concentrating on my footing as I near the tunnel. It’s slightly downhill but a very treacherous path filled with granite ankle-breakers. And while I’m tip-toeing my way through the rocky minefield, I’m startled by the sound of cheering.
My three friends have arrived ahead of me and all three are standing at the entrance to the tunnel, whooping, hollering, clapping, cheering, loving me in. Still in awe from being in the presence of the ancient ones, I’m feeling almost giddy so I break into a few Lebron James’ shoulder shrugs, struts and waving my arms in the air like I just don’t care.
The hysterical laughter echoing from the tunnel spurs me on into the happy arms of loving hugs. True runners know what true runners want, so I’m gifted with a box of mini Krispy Kreme donuts and a couple of strawberry Uncrustables (mini peanut butter/jelly pocket sandwiches). I almost cry. We walk through the tunnel, eating donuts and Uncrustables, basking in the vibe, feeling the glow of our presence.
Buzzing off the sugar rush from the donuts and the Uncrustables, I can feel a definite pop in my step as we make our way down the mountain. Gravity becomes my closest friend as I just point my body downward and let my legs just keep me upright and moving forward. My friends and I continue to joke and laugh down the trail as we fill our heads with only happy thoughts. We’re in the home stretch, it’s just a matter of finishing now.
Back home under the shade tent, as I sit back in my outdoor chair, I watch my friends who started with me this morning exchanging stories and laughs with the crew who met me at the top of the mountain to run down. The cold bottles of electrolyte drinks are starting to disappear from the cooler and everyone appreciates how that cold one just hits you differently after 18 miles. It’s always during the aftermath when I become reflective.
Is it the fact that we all just enjoy doing hard things? Or does it have something to do with the fact that when we do a particularly challenging run together, it just doesn’t seem that hard because we’re doing it together? When I was coming down the mountain, listening to the distinctive sound of footsteps on gravel, the thought never occurred to me that I was building up my resilience. But I was, and so was everyone else who ventured to tackle a mountain that day. Once again, with the help of my friends, I have successfully completed a birthday challenge. And as I think more about the weekend adventure, I know there has to be something other than just doing hard things to build resilience. There has to be something else.
I swear I got a rush of endorphins just reading your words!
I love this so much Steve, for so many reasons. There is beautiful writing here for sure. This, "because this is love and I know it." and this, " My three friends have arrived ahead of me...whooping, hollering, clapping, cheering, loving me in." and this, "I know there has to be something other than just doing hard things to build resilience. There has to be something else." As always, I am inspired by your running, by your resilience (not just in running) and by your grace, the love with which you greet challenges and people and how you deeply cherish the people who do these hard things with you. I think that's really what I feel in this piece, there is obviously love, that spills over, and there is this thing that you've done in your life that you manage to capture in your writing, without saying it: you have let people in. You have let people love you and help you and support you. That, to me, is the aboutness of this piece, the resilience if you will. It's that you allow. Allow the love in as well as give it out. Such a beautiful thing and I'm not sure I'm very good at the letting of it in part. Thank you so much for sharing this. .✨❤️