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Falling

January 16, 2023


Greetings from the sudden stop,


I have a tiny pleasure that is a rare thing, but still something I delight in. I will be out on a run, perhaps a sunny day, on my long routes into the farmland. The roads are predictable, familiar, an intimate friend, and often I have the pavement to myself. I will find a groove in the running, and for a moment, a few seconds, I will close my eyes and simply feel the run without looking at the world.


Running is a peculiar pastime, not common among the majority, and even my running friends would probably look a little sideways at this strange behavior. I won’t suggest it, but it is a unique feeling, floating along the pavement, my body doing what it needs to, almost separate from me, and feel the world on my skin, through my other senses.


Two weeks ago, I invited myself on a run with my sister Dawn and her friends. They are a special group, one I admire for their commitment and comradery. They are all veterans of ultra running on trails, and every week I marveled at their exploits shared on social media. For a little while I have been dabbling in trail running, and I thought it would be good to spend some time with these experts. Ah, such innocent times.


We met on a rainy morning, in the dark-dark before sunup. I followed our lights along the trail, listening to their conversation, feeling my way, almost literally, on the winding trail. After a few miles, I had a false sense of competence, which was shattered when I rolled my ankle on a root and fell. Hard.


Not stumbled. Fell. You know, where you are in the air for a short time and then your whole body lands on the ground like a wet bag of mulch on the lawn. Whuumph.


“That was an ugly fall,” Dawn said after I got up. Since this was a brand-new experience, I wasn’t sure what the expected response should be, so I focused on trying not to cry. The rest of the group gathered around and made sure I was not damaged and shared all of their injuries from their own falls. This broken thing, this twisted limb, these bruises. In truth, I felt like I was surrounded by insane people.


“Was that your first fall?” they asked, with this prurient delight, as if I had just come home from a teenage date.


Trail running is a different thing, not the same as road running, I knew that intuitively. I mean there are trees and rocks and creeks and a path, instead of a long, straight, sensible paved road. There are holes and roots and the terrain is unpredictable. Of course it’s different. I hobbled a little and began running again, cheered by my companions. I felt the pain in my foot lessen and soon I was running, now initiated in the dirt dance. And less than a mile later, I went down again.


You might guess that the second time would be easier somehow, less shocking, perhaps less humiliating. Guess all you want. I ended up doing a sort of walk/hop back to my car, about four miles through the woods, which gave me plenty of time to fully experience being humbled.


I have spent this last week in California, daily testing my weight on my right ankle, already assured it’s not broken by medical professionals, who only obliquely intimated I take up an activity more conducive to my delicate physique.


My brother Doug and I went for a hike on a sunny morning, a rigorous but not treacherous climb up Iron Mountain. We were passed by all manner of other hikers, while I timidly teetered from step to step like a new fawn still learning to operate its spindly legs. I had already absorbed not to take my mobility for granted. I have been running for more than four decades, and the number of times I’ve been sidelined from injury can be counted on one hand, and have fingers left over for holding a beer. So I felt the lesson.


As we climbed we heard the sound of a little bell clanking on the trail ahead of us. A man came into view, leading a group of blind hikers over the craggy terrain. He held the little shepherd’s bell, and gave gentle direction to the hikers. Step down here, left now, a little loose rock, coming to a bigger drop, careful of the round rock. The hikers felt their way along with poles, tentative, their shoes exploring every single step, searching for stable purchase, always balancing on the feel of the world under them. I felt humbled again.


Later, sitting at the peak, looking out over the landscape that stretched to the ocean, I thought about the mix of events in these last weeks. I move through the world with near impunity, with the luxury of all my senses. So confident in my powers I can close my eyes and create a new experience, like some tightrope walker who walks around on the back of the furniture just because he can.


Then I am shown how fragile I am, doing what I take for granted with such hubris, such confidence. Running is my superpower. Suddenly gravity asserts itself and reminds me I am not a god, I am a dufus. Here, feel the solidness of the wet path as your body slams into it. Feel the little pang of fear that is “Is this the last day I run?”


And then watching the blind hikers, imperfect, unsure, dependent, and still filled with the delight of being in nature, feeling the challenge and the beauty in their way. All of this forms a new impression in my mind, not just an appreciation of what I have, but a respect, and awe, of what awaits.


The beautiful message gifted by trail running is to pay attention to everything.


Hope this finds you being taught a lesson,




David






Copyright © 2023 David Smith


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