To Wander and Wonder
The Unhappiness and Wonder of Trail Running
I wake before my alarm. Sunshine peeks through my window blinds. Today, I have things to do, people to meet, and miles to run. Literally.
I pray the Lord’s Prayer, slip into a pair of running shoes, and fill my backpack with Propel, an Ace-style bandage, and a tactical pen. It’s a warm day and I’ll need the electrolytes. God only knows what I’ll need the other things for. I start walking and soon break into a jog.
In my running studies, I am learning how to train the body to use its aerobic metabolism and increase the aerobic threshold. The goal is to increase endurance. To train, I must run slowly for a long time. If I do this in a fasting state, even better. This means no breakfast.
Soon, I enter the forest, dark and cool, with tangled branches and brush and briars. Sweat begins to pour off my face. My body heat cools the air around me. Actually, the surrounding air is not quite that hot, but it’s getting there.
I run through the pool of water that has long dried up. Past the house with three large boxers that are nowhere in sight. Thankfully I don’t need my tactical pen. Down the big hill. Through the brambles that threaten to rip snags out of my running pants that cost more than they should. Past the Amish farm with the pony that looks like an oversized white dog from a distance and the goats that normally stare at me as if I were the oddest thing around. Through the bamboo grove that nearly makes me think I’m in Asia. Through the sea of ferns, waist deep. Last time I ran through, the sea was a field of fiddleheads. Onto the road. When I reach the huge wooden statue of Jesus—the four mile mark—I turn around.
I wade back through the sea of ferns. A rustle turns my head. There, clinging to the side of tree, the fattest raccoon I have ever seen stares at me. I stare back. My mouth drops open. He scrambles onto the far side of the tree.
Soon, I come to the hill. The big hill. The dreaded hill. But long and slow has preserved my energy, and I look forward to the hill. Soon, I reach the top, still breathing easily. The rest of my run will be easy.
People say, “Be happy.” But I don’t know if I am, and I don’t really care. Instead, I’m interested; I’m intrigued; I’m fascinated. I’m busy with things I find meaningful, [1] whether that’s drafting proposals or writing a book or running or talking about how running is a way to slow down in life, to take a posture of defiance against the rush of trucks and trains and planes, a way to wander and wonder at the little things in life.
[1] For further development of this idea, see the comic book How to Be Perfectly Unhappy by “The Oatmeal.”
Disclaimer: While I resonate with the message of this book, I do not endorse all language and content.