The goal was two in one day. I had done some tough hikes but hadn’t yet attempted two trails in a 24 hour span. Early on in the 48 endeavor I had flagged on my map that the Osceolas and Moosilauke trail heads were a short drive apart. I decided to tackle them back to back.
Both trails sprouted from Tripoli road, a seasonal mostly dirt obstacle course of punishing potholes that could wreck a lesser car. Luckily, I drive a Subaru.
I made my usual late start and arrived to a packed Osceola parking lot. Finding a spot on the side of the road, I began my ascent. The pre-hike details were beginning to feel more automatic, and the mental checklist wasn’t such a chore. A routine was developing and bringing with it confidence. Food, check, poles, check, coat, check, etc.
The climb up Osceola was a pleasant one. The usual roots and rocks, but my body was beginning to respond. My legs had no trouble winding their way around the traps that came up in the trail. There was a new bendiness to them as they contorted and chopped their way up the trail.
At the summit I was greeted with the reason for the full parking lot. A crowd of people was milling at the top, a mix of larger and smaller groups. A crowd of teenage boys postured and joked, flexing for photos. Some more reflective hikers chewed granola bars with pensive looks into the distance. The reason for the popularity was apparent–some of the more panoramic and stunning views enveloped the summit. But the crowd wasn’t my scene so I quickly moved onto the east peak.
A hundred feet down the trail I regained solitude and took in more amazing views. Breathing a sigh of relief, I embarked onto a mile-long torture-fest to the east peak.
After some of the more gnarly scrambles that I had encountered, I arrived at an underwhelming pile of rocks that marked the peak. I sucked down a gel and turned around, making my way back to the main summit.
The Osceola descent was a nice one. By the time I got back to the main peak, the crowds had dispersed and I paused to take it in. But I had another mountain to climb so pried myself away and hurried down the trail. I regained an old speed on the descent that I hadn’t felt for a few years. With a mile to go, I caught up with the teenagers. Their pubescent competition kicked in as I caught them and one tried to race. I turned on the jets and coasted back to my trusty Subaru steed, climbed in, and made the quick drive to the Tecumseh trailhead.
I began the second ascent around 3:00. A few hikers debriefed in the empty lot about the trail. They exchanged stories about a man that they had encountered dressed in green on the trail. I pocketed the soundbites away and quickly hit the trail before my muscles had time to cool.
The ascent was a buttery one. Beautiful soft trails with only a minor challenge towards the top. Arriving at a ridge, I began to trot. Cooler late-day temperatures. The idyllic scent of pines. This was what it was all about. I coasted around curves and soaked it in. And then I almost tripped on him.
Sitting on a random patch of moss by the trail was a man in head-to-toe green with camouflage accents. He was just sitting there, looking at the trees. It wasn’t a spot with a view. It was a dark patch of trail. He didn’t look up or acknowledge me. This was the Green Man’s domain. I ran faster than I had all day.
I made it to the quiet summit and took a long rest.
The descent was just as buttery. Of course, there was the gnawing idea of the Green Man in the back of my mind. He wasn’t in the same spot as I came down. There was just a nondescript indent in the moss where he had been sitting. Had he taken to the woods? Was he watching me from some carefully selected perch? I checked behind me more than once as I came down the mountain.
I caught up with the Green Man about a mile from the parking lot. He was sauntering in the early evening light, his outfit miraging with the woods. He gave me a brief glance and a hint of a nod as I went by this time. Nothing threatening.
The parking lot was a welcome sight. Only one car was left, another Subaru with veteran plates. I set up my camping chair and peeled off my shoes. The Green Man emerged shortly thereafter and meticulously began to de-hike. There was a military efficiency as he hit his boots together, changed into shoes, placed his gear in the back. We all find something different on the trails.
Distance: 21.5km
Time: 4 hours 30 minutes
Music: LCD Soundsystem, The Long Goodbye (Live at Madison Square Garden)
Reading about Moosilauke, it was clear that it would be one of the more popular hikes on this endeavor. The main route is composed of carriage trails and relatively easy trail which pay off with one of the most stunning views of any mountain in the state. I envisioned a day of parking lot jostling and crowded trails and craved a more solitary experience. And so I decided to try a different route.
Not to go all Robert Frost, but there was a road less traveled–the Benton Trail via Tunnel Brook. This offered a back door to Moosilauke that would be a bit more rustic and remote. I mapped my route and started doing a little research. There was a brook crossing involved which might be a challenge after a few days of heavy rain, but overall it seemed like the trail for me.
Arriving at the trailhead, I knew that I had picked well. There were only two cars in the small lot and I could instantly hear the rush of flowing water nearby. This was going to do just fine.
It was instantly clear that the heavy rain was going to have an effect on this hike. The water was straight up running through the woods at points. I soon came upon a part of the road/trail that had been eaten in one big bite by a raging flood at some point in the last few years.
The next challenge was the brook that I had read about. It was indeed flowing mighty. After a few minutes exploring for an easy crossing, I resigned myself to wet shoes and waded through the crystal cold water.
After the brook, the trail took the familiar mix of rock and roots that the Whites have to offer. Some sections of trail were pure stream. I didn’t see another person on the ascent or descent.
The summit lived up to the hype. I heard a guide who was stationed at the top explaining that Moosilauke translates in Abenaki to “bald place.” The top was indeed as bald as Vin Diesel, offering panoramic views that I hadn’t been treated to on any of my peaks so far. Five or six other groups of hikers relaxed and chatted, some with dogs. It wasn’t the insane gold rush for views that I had read about in my research, but still relatively busy compared to other hikes I’d done thus far.
Making my way to the South Peak for some additional views, a hiker passed by. There was a thunderclap moment where I thought it was my close friend who had passed away years ago. He was a dead ringer. We gave each other a grin–the same one that he used to give and then continued our separate paths. It was nice to know that he was still out there enjoying it all.
Coming down I anticipated the brook crossing the entire time, but this time with relish. I couldn’t wait to soothe my sore feet and calves in a cold bath. I tromped through the crossing without a second thought, made it back to my car and bathed completely in the fast-flowing water before making the long drive home.
Distance: 18.96km
Time: 4 hours 44 minutes
Music: Bob Dylan The Rolling Thunder Review: The 1975 Live Recordings
The summer started with a stumble. Midori fell sick and our plans for leading a student trip to South Africa along with taking in the sights and sounds of the Paris Olympics with her family were put on hold. She is fine, but travel was impossible.
And so a packed summer evaporated and left behind a formless mist of time so large that it was simultaneously daunting and fleeting. I began to fill the days with a routine of reading and running that in the midst of the school year would have been the ideal, but this soon formed the grooves of the mundane. The days took on the low-key saccharine buzz of a sugar high. All of the promises we make ourselves when busy, the “When I have the time I will…’s” had become anxiety clouds that hung in the air. Structure was needed, a goal was ached for.
At some point in those formless days I began to dwell on my time in Jeju. How I had managed day-long hikes up Mt. Halla and daily morning runs. How I had felt a sincere connection to the hard pumice earth there that Massachusetts hasn’t offered. I had the cliche moment of running my hand over the excess flab that had accumulated in my midsection–the remnants of a challenging year that had resulted in self-leniency. The hurdles of life that had served as excuses for escaping into nature. It dawned on me: I needed to pound my feet into some trails.
Two hours to the north of me is a veritable playground of peaks, streams and forests. It’s some of the most gnarly land you’ll find in the country, notorious to the initiated for its poking, tripping, plodding trails that strong-arm you into slow-motion. From the back of my mind the idea of the New Hampshire 4000 footers began to drift into the forefront, a 48 peak challenge that scatters the state. I soon found myself paying for overnight shipping of the White Mountains Guide and digging out gear. I moved aside the bulk paper towels and bags of dog food and reached back to grab my trusty red running pack, my hiking poles and a water filter. A wave of equal parts nostalgia and anticipation glowed in my chest. I had a goal: I was going to do the 48 4000 footers of New Hampshire before I turned 40.
This was one of the closest hikes to me and is on the eastern edge of the Sandwich Range wilderness. The parking lot is on the edge of a gorgeous farm field and I was initiated into a familiar trend in the Whites: enjoyable gradual trail early on that leads to dramatic scrambling and bouldering near the summit. Getting to the top of Whiteface was a quick reminder of how out of shape I was. Halfway through the final push the strong impulse to turn around and call the whole thing off slipped into my brain then magnified into an incredibly tempting fixation. I slurped down an energy gel and pushed on.
Atop Passaconway, the second peak, I met another enthusiast named Keenan. We chatted from the stunning lookout. When I complained about the two hour drive he put things into perspective. “Tell me about it. It was three and a half hours from Connecticut. But how nice was that scramble up Whiteface? You need to check out the Tripyramids, I did them last week!” Keenan had been racking up mountains with an enthusiastic ferocity that I took with me down the mountain.
Two peaks done.
Distance: 19.07km
Time: 5 hours 20 minutes
Music: Phish Clifford Ball ‘96
Post-run Food: Trader Joe’s Orange Chicken and white rice
Emboldened by my successful first hike, I mapped out a route that would check off three more peaks. Starting with a quick ascent up Mount Cannon, I could then work my way over to the Kinsmans. Cannon proved to be a maw of granite teeth that took bites of me going up and down. Below was a stunning view of Lonesome Lake. As I staggered to the wooden lookout, I began to realize that something was off. The top was flooded with refreshed-looking tourists and summer camp kids. Three elementary-aged boys ran up to me and bragged about how they could easily have done the same hike. Confused, I looked to my left to see a gondola lift cruising care-free tourists to the top. I chatted with a couple from Montreal, refilled water, then moved on.
The rest of the day took me to the Kinsmans which was my first contact with the Appalachian Trail. I spent some time with a thru hiker named “Offgrid” and daydreamed about the simplicity of his existence. We parted ways at South Kinsman as he floated south on the trail, Georgia-bound. The descent was more than I bargained for, partly because I decided to take the “scenic route” to Cascade Brook Trail. This proved to be more brook than trail and had me meandering around intricate root systems while finding footing on slippery rocks. I stopped and greedily drank the clear filtered water from the brook. By the time I hit Lonesome Lake and made my way through Lafayette Campground, I had a hollow look in my eye. I knew because as I walked by a campsite with a family of four, a little girl stared in curious horror.
I was cruising now. My body was responding to the trails and I could feel strength returning. I decided to give the Tripyramids a…try. It was the usual gradual trail to begin with through some well-maintained biking trails. The trickle of water accompanied my early steps. Birds sang. It was great, until it wasn’t.
An hour later I found myself clinging to the side of a boulder, exhausted, trusting the grip on my bulky trail-running shoes. The sun searched for open skin to inflict its rays upon. I didn’t want to look up because every time I did it was another demoralizing slant of steep granite.
The Tripyramids are notorious for the chute of rocks that lead to its peak. The reality met reputation as I slogged to the top step by step, every few minutes leaning on my poles for a break and sucking water. I had a mantra to just keep going up. This mantra eventually took me to a final large boulder where I slumped down and took in the stunning views. I was so intent on going up at that point that I missed the official trail to the left and bushwhacked through profanity-inducing brush for the last bit to the top.
Coming down was some of the best trail to date. A pristine brook to the left offered constant temptation to stop for a swim. A trailrunner zoomed by in the final miles and we talked about the difficult trail while making plans to get a run in together at a future date. I took a dip in the Mad River then began the long drive home.
Distance: 20.51km
Time: 5 hours 35 minutes
Music: Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros Essentials
This was the simplest of my ascents so far. A loop that would hit the two Hancock Peaks. The first section of the trail was deliciously runnable and the mile leading to the summit offered a challenge that I was starting to relish by now. Something had turned after the Tripyramids and I found that I was actually starting to enjoy the scrambles. I chatted with a couple at the summit who were on high bird alert after seeing a family of Ruffed grouse. The parking lot has a quintessential White Mountain view which attracts tourists like ants to peanut butter. After a relatively quick hike, I spread out my sweaty gear on a picnic table. “Nice hike, eh?” Said a biker who had stopped with his wife to take in the view. I nodded and grinned. “I love this area. Take it easy brother,” he said before getting onto his hog and cruising on down the road.
Distance: 14.87km
Time: 2 hours 48 minutes
Music: The Grateful Dead 8/7/71 Golden Hall, San Diego, CA
Every mountain has its own character. Some are stoic, plainly presenting themselves in dramatic stone glory. Some are playful, offering surprises around their circumference–streams, small waterfalls, meadows and groves. Some are just kind. My hometown hill is called Pleasant Mountain, and the name says it all. The 2,000 foot hump on the outskirts of downtown overlooks a large pond. It’s a walk to the mailbox compared to some of the mountains on the west coast or even in the White Mountains. During winter it morphs into a low-key ski resort. It’s the Tom Hanks of mountains–giving a smile a wink, and a wave to tourists who drive over the causeway at its base.
And then there’s Hallasan (한라산) here on Jeju (제주). This is a mountain that dwarfs Pleasant. It dramatically bears its chest–a stunning peak that, on a clear day, you can see from anywhere on the island.In my eight years on Jeju, I’ve run over and hiked it countless times through seasons, ages, different levels of shape. I became versed in the landmarks of its trails.
During my two year stay in Shanghai, I started to get nostalgic about the peak. The city crowds and dubious air quality of the city ground me down until the Jeju life I’d left behind began to feel idyllic. There was free entry to an 80km race I had done before so I naturally decided to venture over for the weekend. I had been training on the flat boulevards of Shanghai, and was surprised at how quickly my legs had forgotten elevation. The race started out well enough. We began at sea level at 6am, plodding up the road to the island’s center where Halla awaited. On the first real ascent I knew something was up. Muscles collapsed into painful knots as my legs kept churning. I cursed the flat streets of Shanghai that had allowed my uphill and downhill muscles to atrophy. And then another surprise: snow on the summit in late march. I had foregone crampons and had some near misses gliding down Gwaneumsa (관음사) trail to the snow-free terrain.
Before beginning the race’s last big ascent around the 50km mark a storm hit. This was no problem, a little sprinkle of rain never hurt anyone. I trotted up the trail and began the grinding climb. But, as I neared the summit of Yeongsil Oreum, I noticed something. The rain had turned to snow…and it was picking up. By the time the Eorimok trail spit me out into a clearing near the summit, it was white-out conditions. My thin jacket which was soaked with rain and sweat began to feel icy against the skin underneath. I didn’t quite know what to do. I could turn around and book it down the mountain, or push on the few kilometers to the descent on the other side. I knew there was some sort of shelter coming soon, but it was hard to say how soon in the white out conditions. I didn’t even know if it would be open. Turning around, on the other hand, would end the race that I had traveled and trained for. I kept going.
My hands continued to get colder. Gloves might have been a good idea. I did the old hand tuck in the jacket but it didn’t help. I blew into my icy paws. I pinwheeled my arms wildly to keep blood flowing. A mad man in a red jacket on the top of a mountain in a blizzard. The image of Jack Nicholson at the end of The Shining popped into my head. They were going to chisel me out of a snow bank tomorrow. Why hadn’t I packed gloves or a warm layer? Was the extra weight that much of a liability. I knew there was a waypoint coming up and I pushed through, the aching in my hands growing increasingly worrisome.
And then, like an Elysian hallucination, a hut appeared. A few friendly race volunteers ushered me inside where there were other racers in similar shape. We huddled around a gas stove with cups of instant coffee in our hands in silence. I regained feeling, procured some cheap gloves and a plastic poncho from the volunteers, took a deep breath and a long look at the side-winding wall of white snow moving past the door, and then set out into the storm again. I booked it down the mountain and managed the final stretch of road to the finish line as nighttime descended. Turns out my hands would have stabbing and painful chilblains, the initial signs of frostbite, for about a week. I had a few things to consider when I arrived back in Shanghai. A few lessons to learn.
It was with this humbling experience in mind that I planned my trip to Jirisan (지리산). I was in the mood for a challenge and had my eyes on the Jirisan Traverse (화대종주), a 40km route through the heart of Jirisan National Park. Most of what I knew about the trail I took from a helpful running expat blog that I stumbled across in my research. There were a few logistics to work out, but it seemed doable. I would go and stay in a small hotel near the trailhead, get up early, and arrive at the other side in mid-afternoon with enough daylight to meander back to the hotel in time for dinner.
I picked up my friend, another Tim, at 6am and we made our way to Jeju airport. It was in full frenzy for Chuseok holiday (추석), the parking lot full to the point that makeshift spots were being invented. Tim also realized at the end of our car ride that he had somehow ended up with his wife’s phone. While he negotiated with a cab driver to deliver the phone to his house, I circled the lot a few times. 15 minutes passed and nothing was appearing. I tried the art of inventing my own spot only to end up in a minor yelling match with a bus driver. Panic was setting in. We were going to miss our flight. And then, like the hut atop Halla, a van pulled out and a dream spot appeared.
We flew into Gwangju and grabbed a cab to the bus station. Time for breakfast. But nothing was open aside from the chains. There was one curry place that gave us some hope. One lady motioned us in, and then as we entered another lady decided differently and told us “no” holding up her arms in the unmistakable Korean “X.” We sulked off in confusion and disappointment. This is how on the first day of vacation and ready to tuck into local cuisine we found ourselves walking into a Subway. They hadn’t even made the bread for the day. Flatbread it was. A poster for the new “Sub Dog” mocked us from the wall. One of Tim’s best qualities is his unadorned honesty. “This tastes like ass,” he said.
From there, a two hour bus ride to the park. Despite the Subway flatbread-shaped bricks in our abdomens, we were feeling slightly better now that we had made it to the home stretch and were ready to chat a bit during the ride. We found our seats and began to ease into conversation, only to be silenced by a small gust of loud air. What the hell? It was a shush.
“No talking,” said the driver from his throne four seats ahead of us. His sunglasses peered at me in the mirror. This guy wasn’t fooling around. We looked at each other in confusion, soaking in the absurd scenario. We began texting each other about the ridiculousness of the situation. Every fiber of our being wanted to break the silence. It was like trying not to fart in church.
The Tims arrived in mid-afternoon and scoped the terrain of our mountain hamlet. It was on the outskirts of Gurye (구례), a small town to the southwest of Jirisan. We found an acceptable cafe and an exceptional lunch of mountain food. The banchan (반잔)were small courses unto themselves. Marinated black beans and mountain greens. The flower root deodeok (더덕) which tasted like an earthy ginseng.
That night we hiked up to Hwaeomsa Temple (화엄사)where silence descended along with dusk. We meandered up through three gates that travelers were meant to pass through as a series of cleanses. As we reached the top, the dull throb of a monk hitting a drum began. Another monk chanted from an unknown location. The noises pirouetted with the crickets and the breeze and built until a giant gong was rung. Small shockwaves to end the day.
We spent half the next day waiting out a torrential but expected thunderstorm. The small stream behind our hotel became an enraged river. The ionized air danced through the screen. When the storm cleared I strolled into the visitor center and used my shoddy Korean to inquire about the trail. The park ranger made the same “X” when I said I wanted to do it in one day.
“Impossible,” was her general message.
“Agree to disagree,” I thought to myself.
As I began to get my supplies ready, I glanced at a few final logistics. It was then that I found the one detail that I had invariably overlooked: the return trip. I had assumed that, at most, I was dealing with a 50,000 won return cab ride from the other side of the park. I also knew that there were some buses that I had assumed could lead me back this way. However, the buses were looking to be a seven hour odyssey that I wasn’t going to be able to navigate in sweaty running clothes. The cab ride was going to be 150,000 won that I wasn’t willing to spend. Anxiety rose in my chest. This needed to work. I had come all this way. I looked at different routes, different apps, different websites. There seemed to be no feasible options. Impossible was right, but not for the park ranger’s reasons.
I talked it over with Tim over a dinner of grilled deodeok in red sauce. It was simple but delicious. Perfectly browned on the bottom. Crunchy and chewy both at once. The quiet night outside our bright hospital lighting restaurant. By the end of the meal I had made peace with an out-and-back. I would run 21km into the heart of the park then turn around and retrace my steps. The anxiety of post-run transportation logistics dissolved but traces of disappointment remained.
I plodded out into the early morning, making my way up the initial ascent. The first climb traced the small stream that flowed behind my hotel straight up the mountain. It was a quiet warm-up to the day. The trail passed a few waterfalls here and there, making its way through flat riverbed rocks. I hit the first hut in the beginnings of morning. A few other hikers quietly moved in the morning fog. One snapped a photo for me before I moved on down the trail.
As the trail continued in the foggy morning, I started to focus on the gnarly roots and rocks. My legs moved at strange angles and my hiking poles extended like feelers to find a way forward. In the woozy fog, a hypnosis took over and the roots and rocks were the White Mountains of New Hampshire thirty minutes from Pleasant Mountain where I grew up. In short bursts it felt like home.
A few more peaks. A stop at a natural spring to fill up my water bottles. A chat with another hiker in my rough Korean. We were at least able to communicate where we were going before we reached the turn-off where we parted ways. Eventually I had stopped checking the GPS, confident of where I was headed. My legs started to adjust to the trail’s contours and I no longer had to concentrate so hard on every puzzle that the roots presented. A rhythm was forming. And then the sky’s stomach grumbled.
I ignored the first few rolls of thunder, passing them off as sonic anomalies in the valley, but then there was another, and another. Eventually it started to sound like I was standing in the parking lot of a bowling alley. The thunder was frequent. I began an inner monologue.
“Come on, I had planned this so well. The storm was yesterday, not today. Today was supposed to be cloudy but clear. I did the research, I brought the right gear, I had learned my lessons from Halla.”
Jirisan didn’t care about my mental complaining, it threw a few more strikes at me. I had moved from the bowling parking lot into the waiting area by the lanes.
“Maybe the storm is passing north? This is a big area, there’s no way this sucker is going to land right on top of me.”
And then the leaves started chattering with rain drops. The next words I spoke out loud.
“Fuck, this is going to land right on my head.”
I whipped out my raincoat, threw up the hood, and started booking it as the few initial droplets out of the spout turned into a steadier drip and then a full-on geyser. I could see the lightning now. It would burst and then 1…2…3…boom, the applause of thunder. This was getting dangerous. All that I knew from my wilderness experience was to form three points of contact with the ground. I pictured myself huddled on the trail hugging my knees and discarded this mental image. Something told me I needed to keep moving.
CREAACKK. A particularly loud thunder roll. I could practically feel that one grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me. I decided to consult the GPS for answers. My hand reached into my vest, the glow of the screen, and a look at the map, “holly jolly Christmas, there’s a hut right around the corner!” I sprinted that last half a kilometer with every bit of concentration I had. Roots and rocks flew by before I was spit out into a clearing. The dark mouth of the empty hut was calling my name. I had found shelter.
A fellow hiker appeared from the trail, an older lady who seemed much more nonplussed than I. Five minutes later, her friend emerged from the woods. They argued in quick Korean between the thunder strikes in our small space as I played out scenarios for the spat.
As the storm sputtered its final droplets, I tentatively jogged from the hut and down the path. The fog of the morning had been completely brushed away by the violent storm. I hit a more technical section of the trail–gnarly roots and high boulders–but paid them no mind. My attention was focused on the approaching turnaround that I had chosen based upon the label “Viewpoint.” It didn’t disappoint. I found myself on a bald rock with a full view from the heart of the park. The peaks licked the last bit of fog off their lips. The trees turned from opaque to vibrant as they greeted the sun. I whooped across the valley.
Returning felt quick. Maybe it was knowing that instead of a five hour bus ride at the end I had a hot shower. Maybe it was the transformation of the storm. My feet felt sure and focused, finding quick footing. By the time I reached that first hut, it was buzzing with tourists. I charged through in a hurry to find my way back to quiet trail, and descended down my rocky ravine.
The next morning, Tim and I took another hike to the temple and then jumped into the stream behind our hotel. On our return trip, we knew to sit in the back of the bus out of bus driver earshot. We talked about aspirations, writing and business ideas. We shared some of our stories with each other. The couple of other passengers didn’t seem to mind the chatter. Jeju airport was asleep when we arrived. Lots of parking spots. Mount Halla looked down from its dark perch as I drove in the fresh evening to drop him off.
Mountains aren’t your friend or even your teacher. They’re a collection of enchanted mirrors. You can spend time in the mountains and come out with a pleasant experience, emerging unscathed. Or you can come out with some tiny transformation. It’s those discoveries that keep you making the trip, tracing an initial path that will inevitably require a return journey back to wherever you came from.
Spend enough time running and you’ll eventually come across the concept of “kick.” Traditionally I perceive kick to be like NOS in Fast and Furious. A switch that turns on. You’ve probably witnessed it in the Olympics. A runner will be a little set back from the leader, desperation creeping into their features as the finish line nears. And then a new look of determination washes over them. Legs move faster. The windmill speeds up. And before they know it the leader is watching someone zoom by on the right to overtake them and steal the race.
I first heard about kick in one of the Prefontaine movies–maybe the Jared Leto one (both were pretty subpar if we’re being honest). Prefontaine had notorious kick. His strategy was a bit different though. He’d turn on the NOS from the beginning, burning through seemingly limitless rocket fuel the whole damn race.
As I began to transition to longer distances, kick began to mean something different to me. It wasn’t just zip on the track or a local 5k. It began to signify a general furnace for running in general.
Ultra running has a way of spacing things out and sometimes reorganizing the sequence of normal events. In an ultra, runners can hit a wall, fall into a pit of despair, puke up whatever is left in their stomach, keel over, be unable to move their hamstrings, hopes dashed. And then some magic washes over them. Suddenly things seems fresh. They bounce back up and, instead of just cranking out the homestretch of a length of track, they run up and down an entire mountain with fresh legs. This process can repeat a few times in the course of a race. In ultra running, kick doesn’t just last the stretch of a track in a 10k. It lasts the entire 10k.
Beyond races, I think that there are longer cycles that we go through. Cycles even beyond seasons. That there are some thing that require more than a little patience. Urges and inspiration come and go through the turnstiles.
I’m not sure where my kick comes from. In a word, it’s elusive. There are weekends where I can barely pry myself out of bed. A tight ball of anxiety, ideas, regrets, plans. The wheels spin in uncontrolled frustration. This is a state of mind that has had a habit of washing over me since my teenage years. A paralyzing tincture that my brain seems to have in limitless supply. Other times, I’m ready to get out there. Nature practically pulls me out of the door and I bound off down my running route.
There are sluggish days and springy days. Legs one day will be generous and the next make you want to crumple up into a roadside ball. Part of running is exploring how this works for your body. Trying out diet, sleep, and mileage (often with the help of a coach) until you get the cocktail that works for you. Unfortunately, often once you figure out what suits your taste, things will shift. What works one week leaves you a wreck the next. You’re left again completely depleted kneeling at the altar of kick, hoping for more energy the next day.
Last year was a hard one for training. No races. A gridlocked world. What’s there to work toward with no concrete goal? I dutifully ticked away 80km a week, but it felt like a chore. Run was a routine not a privilege. I found it increasingly hard to get out there. The days became oppressive. They boogeyman was at the door. So I opted for a change of scenery, fleeing Jeju for a summer in the USA.
After a few weeks running the backroads of Maine, I took my legs to the west coast where my brother and I attempted the Timberline trail around Mount Hood in Oregon. This 41.4 mile loop was ambitious for two guys who had just spent a week drinking beer in a little motorboat with fishing poles. We had done some haphazard hiking, but nothing on the scale of what we were about to attempt.
In the frigid 5am alpine air we started plugging away. The first few rays of the day projected onto Hood’s snowy peak. We ticked off sections of Timberline like hours on a clock. Our circular journey going up and down through the mountain’s ravines. Two brothers in lock-step with the day making our way around the mountain.
The run had highs and lows. A section of downed trees that presented a labyrinth to progress. Encouraging strangers. A section where an army of bugs descended and didn’t let up for 10km. Expansive vistas and lush meadows. Many hours past our desired finish time as the sun descended, my brother’s truck came into view. We had arrived back at the beginning of the Mt. Hood clock at the other bookend of daylight. We tailgated with some Pringles and a few sips of Rainier before the frigid alpine twilight drove us into the truck.
At a certain point I noticed it was back. The desire to run for the fun of it. Mileage and routine lost much of their importance. It’s like you look over to your right and the copilot is suddenly there again. I returned to Jeju with a newfound direction for my running. Fitting that I found it again in Prefontaine’s Pacific Northwest.
There have been a few setbacks. A race that I was planning for turned out to be on Parent’s Day so I had to scratch that plan. A shooting pain down my right arm that turned out to be a pinched nerve caused by a crooked neck laid me up for a week. With each setback I kicked back. Last weekend I found myself at the base of one of the Mount Halla trails. The familiar trailhead was fairly quiet in the 6am light. The morning felt fresh and my legs felt fresher. I grinned and started my watch before flying up into the forest, arms and hands playfully swaying as if they were painting the very trees into existence.
When I Get Home 