I glance down at my watch for the third time over the course of just a mile. It’s still running, so I am reassured for the moment.
The morning light is soft, but already I can feel the weight of the heat in the air. We were here before sunrise to escape the inevitable humidity and record temperatures the day promised. My husband is with me today—though he’s already ahead of me on the trail. I catch glimpses of him in the trees from time to time and at some points, catch up to him briefly when he stops to refuel. I know we will leapfrog like this all morning, yet I am comforted by the thought of him, and it feels good to know I am not out here alone—as I usually am.
I glance at my watch again. It has failed me the last three runs, and I am hopeful but not confident it can hang with me during these 16 miles. There is not much which frustrates me more than a GPS who cannot keep up. Battery life is the typical culprit, but not with this guy. We have a long beautiful history together - I used it on many 12+ hour runs, and even multiday backpacking trips, and it kept up without issue. But, I have a fault of holding on to things too long. I should have traded in my watch last year, yet I could not bring myself to do it.
I know in my heart this is all my fault. A few weeks back, I got busy and left the dang thing plugged into the charger for almost a week. These old watches can’t handle being left in charging mode for extended amounts of time. I’m sure I fried something internal I am not smart enough to explain. It is dangerous, you know, staying connected to the source so long you lose functionality… I can identify.
The miles tick by steadily, and we are covering ground at a consistent pace. We are finally running on dry rock, and honestly, I am thankful. The wet moss-covered stones are difficult to navigate. I am not proud to admit, but during last week’s run, I fell four times to the ground.
I catch sight of my husband again at the third water crossing. The water has receded with the heat and lack of rain. This crossing is most often to my waist with clear water which flows gently. When the weather is below freezing, it gets interesting, but during the summertime, it is almost always my favorite part of the run. This time I can smell the stagnant water. I barely get my feet wet as I slow to a cautious walk over the slimy green moss. I’m more than disappointed and make a mental note of the heat rash developing on my chest.
We are 12 miles in before I see it. LOST SATELLITE CONNECTION. Dammit.
I run what I think is another half-mile in hope, but I know it’s a lost cause. Still no connection. Now I am confident I am going it alone.
First, the missing water, and now this. I cannot suppress my anger, and I begin to become emotional. The humidity wraps itself around me, and I stop to a dead halt. I think about quitting—though that would be impossible since there would be no other way back to the trailhead. Any runner these days know if your GPS didn’t log it—then it didn’t happen. I might as well get into an airconditioned car and head to a Sonic.
Then as I’m standing there feeling sorry for myself, I notice the light filtering through the trees. It is so beautiful, and I find myself wondering why it took me so long to notice. I look in front of me, and behind, the same light is falling everywhere. I take a few pictures and a few deep breaths.
Suddenly I am mad at myself for ever being upset at all. How did it come to this? I used to run because I loved to, because I loved to breathe hard and sweat in the sun, because it made me a better person. Thanks to my beloved watch - now, I can finish my runs then promptly drowned in the sea of data. Now I have the option to know precisely how quickly my heart beat, how fast I ran, how far, how high I climbed, as well as a lengthy list of other information which details my run every step of the way. Instead of feeling pride, I manipulate the knowledge to compare myself to myself and quickly weave shame.
With my watch on the fritz, I’ve been running my shorter runs old-school. I have a black-spotted mutt dog as my running companion, and as it turns out, she is an incredible indicator of when to call it a day. Her tongue falls out the side of her mouth, then she gets a particular look in eye, and when she uses it to look up at you sideways without turning her head, you know its time to point towards home.
I take one last photo of a flower and walk for just a second. I have time to you know because no one is watching me. Not even the satellite can see me now. It is easy to perform when you have an audience… much harder to be accountable to just yourself. I start thinking, maybe its who we are when no one is watching that really matters. As soon as the thought enters my mind—I run again. I told myself I was running 16 miles today.
The satellite missed so much in the last 4 miles of my run. It didn’t notice the heat rash spread to cover my arms and legs, or the stumble and quick recover down the last descent, or the several feet of the grass that quickly slithered two inches from where my foot struck the ground. It did not take note that I tried as hard as I could to finish strong. Of course, I’m confident it ever takes notice of any of these things.
I look at my watch again and chuckle to myself. LOST SATELLITE CONNECTION... I’ll take that as freedom.
I head out to take a cold shower and get started in the studio.
No one is watching me, but it doesn’t matter—because I have work to do.
