I don't know why I do it. My knees hurt, the water is freezing, and I don't train enough. But, I remind myself: The hoodie is a prize. The pint glass at the finish is the only participation trophy I've ever liked. I need the exercise.
It's the Sylamore 25K race right outside of Mountain View.
I don't know why I do it. The run involves a creek crossing that, depending on rainfall, could mean my shoes get a little wet or I'm practically swimming. In February. The terrain is rough, filled with ankle-breaker rocks, steep climbs, and hidden nubs. Those young, lithe runners with deer-like footsteps that barely touch the ground always move past me with ease. I can hear their lighthearted talk above my heavy breathing.
There was a time when I ran it fast(er). But that was more than 10 years ago. There was a time when I'd run five days a week, when my wife and I would tackle trails, preferring the concentration a dirt path requires over the sameness of an asphalt road. She was always better at trails than me, right up until she had ankle surgery.
I don't know why I do it. It rained and snowed a lot right before this year's event. It was Presidents Day weekend, so at least I could recover an extra day before climbing mountains of stairs at work, I told myself. The temperature was in the high 60s all week, then plunged to 24 degrees at race time. I stood in the kitchen of the cabin I'd rented, staring at the White River in front of me, wondering aloud why I'm doing this.
My wife overheard my musings as she walked by. "Because you enjoy it every year. All you have to do is remember why."
The week after the race, I was in Sewanee, Tenn., visiting my college son. Sewanee's campus is high on the Cumberland Plateau and has as many forested trails as paved roads. The Perimeter Trail stretches more than 20 miles, enshrining beautiful waterfalls, old-growth forests, and magnificent views down the mountain. I awoke Sunday morning to dense fog--the famed Sewanee Fog--and laced my shoes. The fog settled over the woods like an Edgar Allan Poe short story. A light rain fell. I don't know why I do it.
I left the gravel lot and decided to avoid the technical Shakerag Trail--a beautiful path that got its name from moonshiners who'd shake a rag to alert liquor-starved folks when their distilling was done. That trail had too many slippery rocks, so I opted for the Perimeter Trail heading west. Up and down I ran, a couple of stumbles caused by hidden nubs. Fleet feet barely sounded in front of me as a herd of deer padded through the trees, only their white tails visible in the fog. I tripped while focusing on them. My foot snagged a root that sent me wind-milling until I stopped at the base of a large oak. I don't know why I do it.
In some places, I climbed thin, muddy sections of trail with deep drop-offs on my right. In others, I sped up on soft pine needles, spooked by the dark trees materializing in the fog like Civil War soldiers.
At my turnaround, I stopped and breathed in the quiet. Another breath. Then another. I started to remember.
I thought about Sylamore. I mentioned that the Sylamore race is a 25K. That's supposed to be 15.5 miles, but the route takes 17 miles according to my Garmin. That's more than the advertised up and down for sure, and once again makes me wonder why I do it.
A few miles in, the pack separates and I often find myself alone. This year, I ran along a ridge, stealing glances at the deep and pure parts of Sylamore Creek below. Pools the color of sapphire reflected the flirting sunlight that occasionally glanced through clouds. I found myself alongside the creek, then climbing again, then heading down a mud-soaked hill into a valley with more stream water murmuring like a perfectly tuned motor. I hit the turnaround and breathed in the quiet.
I was alone for much of the way back. When I did see someone, there was light conversation. Then, nothing but the incredible view of grottoes, the deep gorges, and the path ahead. That's what I remembered the week after the race while on the Perimeter Trail at Sewanee.
I'm not a gifted runner. I think I run out of fear--the fear that if I ever stop I'll never start again. And if I stopped, I'd never have that moment with white tails, fog soldiers, and muddy climbs. I'd never wade a creek in winter or drink a beer at a finish line again. I'd miss out on the quiet of the turnaround, the deep breaths that center, and the memories of how they're made.
Life's greatest enjoyments come with a bit of challenge--often with a bit of pain--but the temptation of scenery and quiet breaths and centering moments make them worthwhile.
And that's why I do it.
Steve Straessle is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at sstraessle@lrchs.org. Find him on Twitter @steve_straessle. "The Strenuous Life" appears every other Saturday.