i heart mud

Now that my semester has officially ended, the Friday morning trail runs have resumed. We meet at my house, at 6am sharp (yup, that's right--6am), and jog the mile or so to the DeDominicis trail, which the town opened up to the public about six years ago. Our run begins with a brutal wake-up: a steep climb up Old Lane Road to the trailhead. (It's less brutal for me, as I have my own personal rope tow in the form of my hyperactive Lab, Sasha.) A few minutes later, we are deep in the woods, ankle-deep in mud, and, if we've all had enough sleep (which was not the case this morning), deep in conversation. Despite the hour, it really is an invigorating start to the day.

I've always preferred trails to roads. People have often asked me, "Why do you run? Why would you do something so painfully boring?" I don't know. I've been running since I was ten or eleven; it's always been something I felt driven to do. But I see their point. When running begins to feel like work, it loses its purpose. On the trails, especially in the company of my witty and garrulous cohorts, I'm distracted from my task. Instead of muddling, I'm soaring. My brain is working furiously, calculating the best way around this rock or that root. My thighs are burning as I climb the hills, which always seem taller in the woods. Sasha stops to take a swim in a pool of fresh rainwater and we catch our breath, marveling at the dramatic change in the landscape now that spring is here. The ferns have sprouted up everywhere; the leaves are a deep, fertile green; the dead foliage has been reborn as rich brown soil. The woods are alive. Pete, our resident Audubon member, identifies birds by their songs. When we pause to tie a shoe or find the trail, the bugs remind us of their presence.

When we get back to my driveway, we're covered from thighs to soles in mud. Spring, our legs announce, has truly arrived. We don't hose off right away; we must first compare calves. Who has played the hardest? The mud is our elixir, our holy water, our badge of honor.

"Yuck!" my kids say when I enter the house, but I know they get it. There's a small hole in our sideyard that fills up with water when it rains, and they take great pleasure in dirtying themselves there. When they're done, their toes are grimy and black. They hold their hands up proudly, half-wondering if the muck will win them a smile or a reproach. I'll admit I'm not always thrilled (who wants to clean up that mess?), but inside, I am pleased. In a small way, they're in touch with nature, and in that moment, it's way better than toys!

for the love of cold

Time for the weather report. It's cold out folks. Bonecrushing cold. The kind of cold which will wrench the spirit out of a young man, or forge it into steel.

(Diane Frolov and Andrew Schneider, Northern Exposure: Lost and Found, 1992

There’s something exhilarating about cold, real cold, the kind of cold that freezes your nostrils and forms tiny icicles on your eyelids, that nips at your flesh, penetrating the layers of fleece and polyester and Smartwool. It is at once energizing and humbling: it reminds us that nature is both a blessing and a force.

Last weekend, my friend Pete and I set out for the DeDominicis trail in Cheshire at 8:00 am, when the thermometer said the temperature was minus-five. Before we had even reached the trailhead, which is about a mile and a quarter from my house, the wisps of hair that had made their way outside the balaclava I was sporting had become white and hard, and my teeth were so cold that conversation was nearly impossible. My feet, still warm thanks to the miracles of Gore-tex and merino wool, seemed to stick to the ground with each step, and my breath came in short, sharp gasps.

I admit that none of this sounds especially enjoyable or pleasurable. Yet, as we trudged up and down (mostly up, or so it felt!) the snow-covered hills, less packed down than we had hoped, our quads burning from the effort, I felt alive, really and truly alive. Having lived, albeit briefly, in the cold climes of Anchorage, Alaska and Burlington, Vermont, I had come to think of Connecticut as mild, disappointingly so. My heavy thermals rarely have occasion to leave the bin of cold weather clothing under my bed. My down jacket comes out two or three times a year. As a result, I felt my own spirit had become domesticated. I would shiver when the temperature dipped below forty. I would lament my “tame” geographic location (much to the irritation of friends and family, who have had more than enough of my complaining, and of my nostalgia). Now here was Mother Nature in her essence, showing us that she could flex her biceps even here in southern New England. And while I embraced the challenge of working my muscles in the arctic air, I also bowed to the power of Nature.

Such a deranged view of cold is probably a result of my obsession with Alaska, a place to which I still feel drawn. Alaska, for me, was a personal challenge, a test of physical and emotional will. While my time there was too short, I emerged a more complete person, more confident, more awake, more aware. This is the gift of adversity, be it in the form of weather, exercise, tragedy, distress, illness, or emotional duress.

Blow, blow thou winter wind;
Thou art not so unkind. . . .
(William Shakespeare)

on trail running

On weekend mornings, before the sun gets too hot and the air too heavy, I like to visit my personal temple, the trail. When I discovered trail running, back when I was living in Colorado, it was like a revelation: how wonderful to be able to marry my two favorite activities, running and hiking. It added to my running a spiritual dimension, as I have always felt closest to "God" in the woods and on the trail. There's something so invigorating about the feeling of mud on my calves, of leaves under my feet, and something rejuvenating about the mental challenge of negotiating roots and rocks and streams without any time to plan my next move.

The solitude of the trail is much like the solitude of the temple: it gives me time to breathe, to contemplate, to meditate. When my brother Michael died, I was very pregnant with Dylan, and so trail running was out of the question; however, I took long walks in the woods of Brooksvale Park, and often, during my rambles, I could feel Michael's presence beside me. Sometimes I would cry, sometimes I would smile, and sometimes I was simply complacent as I experienced this closeness, however real or imagined.

Since Dad died last month, I have muddled through my runs, forcing myself to put in the miles because I know I'll feel worse if I neglect my routines. But with the New Haven 20k on the horizon, this morning I awoke and said, "12 miles, baby, whether you want to or not." I fed Sasha and we headed to Brooksvale. Midway up the first hill, I thought of Dad, thought of how the woods will always bring me closer to Dad because he loved being in the forest, especially when it included sitting by a campfire with his family. Once, after we had quarrelled, he wrote me a long, beautiful letter in which he said that the crackle of a fire always brought him back to the camping trips we took in our younger days, and went on to say how overjoyed he was that his children had inherited his love of the woods.

Of course, thinking of Dad made me cry, but it was a cathartic cry (which made my nervous dog throw her ears back and look at me sideways), and in my grief I could really appreciate the time that I did have with my Dad. I was grateful that he had gotten to take at least one camping trip with my children (and two with Dylan), even if it is likely that Alexa's memories of him will be muddy at best. Such remembrances don't really make his passing any easier, but they are a welcome distraction from the sadness.

Lately, I've been reading Thich Nacht Hahn, the Buddhist philosopher, who says, to paraphrase, that if you accept that all things are impermanent, you will be able to fully appreciate them while they grace your lives. He adds that thinking deeply about this concept and embracing it as part of your consciousness will allow you to "smile through your grief." Now the last part feels a little farfetched to me, but I have been trying to focus on the memories rather than the loss.

Okay, so I've digressed a bit from my original topic--trail running--but it was the run on the trail this morning that brought me here.

I've also been re-reading Wordsworth, one of my old favorites, and I stumbled upon a poem I hadn't read before, one I found slightly amusing: "To a Young Lady, Who Had Been Reproached for Taking Long Walks in the Country." It called to mind 18th and 19th century novels, where women often "take ill" because they dared to walk a quarter-mile in the rain and their soaked layers of clothing (petticoats, bloomers, stockings) brought on a "deathly chill"(likely a pretty good case of hypothermia) . I considered how I would have appeared to a 19th century gentleman at the end of my run today: sweat-soaked shirt and bandana, socks and shins covered with mud, face red with effort and exhilaration. Surely I would have been reproached. Would Wordsworth have spoken up for me, or would the horror of such an image have caused him to faint?

In typical fashion, the poet lets his emotions overflow, and idealizes the daring young lady in his passionate pastoral:

Dear Child of Nature, let them rail!
--There is a nest in a green dale,
A harbour and a hold;
Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see
Thy own heart-stirring days, and be
A light to young and old.

There, healthy as a shepherd boy,
And treading among flowers of joy
Which at no season fade,
Thou, while thy babes around thee cling,
Shalt show us how divine a thing
A Woman may be made.
(excerpted)

Though I sometimes find Wordsworth a bit overdone, I've always felt a kinship with him for that very reason: in all honesty, I, too, am about as sappy as they come, especially when it comes to my emotional reactions to nature. When I first visited the Grand Canyon, I wept; same thing happened when I stood beside the Colorado River in Moab, Utah.

So, it makes sense that the trail is my temple. I'm thinking of becoming a "religious fanatic" and forsaking road races for trail runs, but I'm sure the racing bug will return, as it always does. And trail running doesn't always necessitate solitude: at least once a week, I'm joined by my running pals, most of them female, and the sense of community, too, is a wonderful thing. In fact, it seems as if more and more of my running friends are putting aside their fears of broken ankles and coming to appreciate the wonders of the trail.

In wildness is the preservation of the world.--Thoreau

nipmuck trail marathon: a gathering of friendly die-hards

Warning: It is possible to get a serious injury in this race. If you run recklessly you'll increase your chances but even if you are careful it's still possible to get tripped up or slip on something. This could result in an immobilizing injury that could put you a few hours away from medical attention. It could mean expensive medical care and an extended period of time away from work. To run this race you have to accept full responsibility for what happens to you. If you don't have health insurance don't do this race. No matter how careful you are plan on falling.

(excerpt from NipMuck Trail Marathon application)

On Sunday, June 1, I ran my first trail marathon: 26.4 miles on the NipMuck Trail in northeastern Connecticut. This year marked the race's 25th year anniversary, and some of the runners looked as though they had been running it since its inception: in the last third of the race, I caught up to a lean, muscular, grey-haired fellow who informed me that he had recently celebrated his 79th birthday. And it took me four hours to catch up to him. Hope I'm still dodging roots and rocks and landing softly in muck when I'm approaching my octogenarian age!
This photo of the inside of the port-a-potty, taken by running photographer Scott Livingston, really captures the spirit of the race. Race director "NipMuck Dave" brings an in-your-face humor to the event that keeps die-hard trail fanatics coming back. The application declares that "All complaints about getting lost will be laughed at." Fortunately, the trail is very clearly marked, and Dave manages to round up scores of volunteers who really make the event possible. Many, many times during the race I thought I was done; my legs would lock up in protest and insist they couldn't take me another step. A few minutes later, I would stumble upon an aid station, load up on Gatorade, potatoes, bananas, and chocolate, and somehow I would get through another hour.
A trail marathon has been an aspiration of mine ever since I discovered that such things existed, which I think was back when I was living in Anchorage and hiked Crow Pass, the site of the infamous Crow Pass Crossing, a trail marathon rife with black bears and bees and water crossings. I never did run that marathon, and at this point probably never will, but NipMuck was an incredibly exhilarating--if excruciating-- experience. Trail races are, in my experience, more informal affairs than road races: they have to be, as the measurements are inevitably imprecise, a runner's performance is subject to any number of obstacles, from twisted ankles to wildlife to slippery rocks, and it's even possible to lose your way, in spite of the bright blue blazes. After a few hours, you begin to hallucinate a bit, and it's easier than one might think to get turned around. But the genuine camaraderie that one encounters on the trail gives an exhausted runner a mental push. While it is a race, and folks are vying for position, the runners look out for one another, so you never feel as though you are out there alone.
The application states that if you add an hour to your slowest marathon time, you'll get a rough estimate of your NipMuck Marathon time. This was pretty true for me: I managed to finish in 4:54, which allowed me to meet my goal of running in under five hours. But holy hell! I was more tired and sore than I have ever been in any other marathon, including Boston, which always does me in. When I called Bryan to tell him I'd made it out alive, I was biting my lip to keep from crying. But when it was over I proudly carried my souvenir trophy--a piece of wood with a blue blaze painted on it and a laminated piece of paper that read "25th Annual NipMuck Trail Marathon--to the car and drove my aching body home.
When I ran my first marathon, my friend Amos said, when it was over, "Now you never have to do that again!" I felt that way immediately following NipMuck, but now I'm starting to think about shunning all road races and sticking exclusively to the trails. So maybe another NipMuck will make the race calendar. We'll see how I feel when I recover. . . .