After my ten-hour workday I head out to Elena Gallegos Open Space in the foothills of the Sandia Mountains. I’m not an expert on motivation, but I know when I don’t feel it. Today is that day, but every day is a day where discipline can replace motivation. Simply beginning is often more than half the mental battle for me.
While changing into my running clothes in my car, I find myself being sucked into social media reels that I try so hard to avoid the insidiously powerful grip of. After five or so minutes I finally pop open my car door and step out into the late afternoon sunshine. The wind is gusting powerfully, bending over the taller cacti, and kicking up some fine pieces of sand into my face. Power. It’s a word that often comes to my mind when I feel the elements doing their work in the mountains. Five-thousand feet above me the ridgeline glistens in the sunlight.
After a quick turnaround to put my sunglasses back in my car after I decide it’s late enough in the day they won’t be necessary, I start the tracker on my watch and trot up towards the mountains. The path below my feet is hard packed, dry, high-desert sand. Think more gravel, less beach-sand. On the first mile or so of most runs I have enough energy and focus to multitask: running and keeping a good eye out for snakes and rocks on the path ahead of me. As the miles go by, my legs fall into a rhythmic pattern, and my mind goes into preservation mode where caution sometimes goes by the wayside.
I work my way deeper into the foothills. The landscape changes. Larger trees are able to grow here. The wind picks up more, seemingly shooting out of a funnel created by the mountains. Each stride leaves society and worries further behind me. One mile in I’ve gained around three-hundred feet of elevation. My legs feel weak and my heart is pounding. Different people have varying perspectives on the incorporation of walking into a distance run. I grant myself permission and walk the next tenth of a mile. Walking mid-run is both pleasant and worrisome. It feels great to let my legs and lungs rest, but it’s a mental toll knowing the peace is temporary. Maybe running really is an active metaphor for life?
Quickly, my short respite expires. I want to quit. Turn around. Who would know? I don’t owe anyone anything. There’s no cheering crowd, no friends watching, no coach yelling. Growing up, I had these things to motivate me. Now, as a twenty-four-year-old, I’m faced with reality. The only one who can truly push me is me. In anything I do, physical or mental, the choice to persist or quit is mine and mine alone. The soft voice that loves giving into the easy way is always with me. If I give into it, I’m left unguarded against my conscience that knows I’m capable of more.
I’m finishing this run.
Four miles. Two up and two back down. I’m not familiar with this trail. It’s at my limit. The elevation gain of the first mile caught me off guard. The gain of the second is much, much more than I bargained for. “I don’t care how slowly your feet move, you don’t stop them,” I think to myself. Or maybe I say out loud to myself? I certainly hit points on harder runs where I talk to myself, sometimes yell to myself, to push through. This is one of the many reasons I like running in secluded areas. People who get to know me figure out that I’m a little crazy, but I don’t need to advertise this fact to the general public trying to enjoy family time in a park.
Two miles in. Eight-hundred-fifty-feet of elevation gain. Every inch was a battle, but I made it. There are a few seconds of bliss as I turn around to begin the descent. Each step brings me closer to being done now. I feel like I’m flying. Down hill is a miracle after the climb.
Now that my lungs feel less at risk of exploding, I take time to look around at the scenery as I pass by it. Blue, open sky cheers up the valley. Cacti and small trees cling to the hard-packed earth like no one told them it is okay to let go. The city in the valley below seems insignificant, small, and temporary. The cliff faces of the mountains stare down at the city with wise, old eyes. A great-grandmother looking at three generations below her playing in the yard. So sure of their youth, their dreams, and their importance. “You won’t last like this forever, but you sure are beautiful today,” she says smiling. All I have is time.
Just before I arrive back at my car, I pass by a group of twenty or so cub scouts. “Enjoy the hike buddy,” I say, offering this little blonde kid a fist-bump. He looks up at me intrigued and confused – just like I used to see adults.