LOST. In a world with Google maps and Garmin watches, I'm not sure we understand what lost means anymore. We use it casually, throw it around for dramatic effect when we turn the wrong way, or miss an exit. Like so many words, it has lost its original bite, but for lack of a better one, we continue to use it.
A few weeks back, I tossed it out there myself when I got turned around on a long run. During the late fall and winter in Missouri, runners find the trails littered with muddy leaves, which pile and build like snow. Most of the places I run have enough foot traffic to keep the leaves slightly packed down, or the trails are wide enough to cut a noticeable—and still easy to navigate—line through the trees.
But on that day weeks ago, Em and I decided to take the less beaten path, on a trail it would take a dog to find. As we ran up the ridge, the trail got narrower and narrower, we began to run single file, and the path through the leaves became more challenging to spot. When we hit a fork in the trail, I was comforted by a prominent stack of rocks marking the turn. I felt sure I would have spotted it on the return trip, but as the miles drag on, the sinking feeling in my gut let me know somehow, we had missed it. It took us 4 miles of wandering and Ember's nose to find our way back to anything recognizable, but we shrugged it off and lived to tell about it.
I had to admit the whole ordeal spooked me. 'Lost' was a stretch—I knew I was only in danger of annoyance and discomfort since I understood the general direction of the highway and figured if I ran far enough, I would come to it. Yet, I typically run alone, or with Ember dog, so I try to be more aware of my surroundings. Anyways, determined not to be 'lost' again—I headed back out a week later to the same spot to understand better where I had gone wrong.
The 'due over' run was almost as bad as the first. I brought along Jenni this time, as we had a half marathon training run penciled in on our calendars. We made lots of jokes at my expense—it is common knowledge I am directionally dysfunctional—but in the end, Jenni also voted it was the wrong time of year to navigate the narrow section of trail. After a few miles, we reluctantly opted for plan B, which meant leaving the high ground and logging the rest of our miles through the valley with its cold-water crossings.
It was hardly 40 degrees, and the air was damp and heavy with the Missouri humidity that makes you shiver in the winter and sweat in the summer. The first water crossings were waste deep with the water moving pretty good, but we hardly broke stride. If we aren't wet over our belly buttons… we don't usually whine about it. The last crossing was the deepest and the slickest, so of course, we both fell. Me first... the shocking cold took my breath away, when I came back up, I had just enough time to see Jenni laugh at me before she bit it herself.
We froze our asses off—to put it politely. Luckily, we were towards the end of our run, but it is a memory I won't soon forget. Jenni still insists that water came straight from a glacier. Since it took me four hours of fierce shivering to get my body temperature back up, I might have to agree.
So now, my long run training log looks something like this:
Round One - Lost - or whatever you want to call it.
Round Two - A hauntingly cold run.
Which brings us to - Round Three – AKA today…
Today it is Ember and I again, trying to make a 20-mile training run. Honestly, I don't want to be here, and I am making up a lot of solid excuses to get me out of this. In addition to feeling overwhelmed and behind, I have some legit medical reasons why I should not do a 20-mile trail run. Add those excuses to the scarring memories of the last two times I was out here, and they all combined to create a seriously lousy attitude sprinkled with a little self-pity.
The sun works to balance the equation, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, it had managed to break through the drab grey sky. I needed something positive to hold onto, so I found myself thankful for the sun, then the time alone, and finally, the quiet…
Yet, not even sunshine could make me want to be here. Today was about commitment, as is so much else in long-distance running. I committed to this race, I committed to Jenni, and I told myself for better or worse, I would get this training run done today. So here I am—suppressing my feelings because they are overall irrelevant to the objective.
I figured I might as well find joy here, or I was setting myself up for a long day. Still scarred from the cold, I decided to run the high ground for as many miles as possible. Translation: slow miles, rocky climbs, and that stupid narrow trail covered in leaves. As I started my watch, I added an uneasy feeling in my gut to the list of reasons I would rather be at home.
Ember and I find our stride while the sunshine slowly melts away my sour mood. I did not expect this would be an easy run, but we were covering ground at a consistent pace, and I am encouraged by the progress. We make our way up the first fork, to the narrow trail no one is stupid enough to run on—but of course me.
After several more miles, we hit the fork in the road with the oversized stack of rocks. I smirk to myself… Fool me once—but I wasn't likely to make the same mistake twice on the return trip. The water runoff transformed the trails into something more like creek beds, and I find myself overly consumed with watching my foot strike to prevent a fall. With the path still challenging to spot, I put one foot in front of the other for a long way, all the while starring hard at the ground in front of me. I feel the uneasiness take root in my second stomach, which I ignore in the beginning. Nervous energy continues to build so that even Em' could sense it, and she slows her stride down considerably. We push through and make our way through a small creek crossing and up a short climb before she comes to a dead halt.
I am annoyed, but as I finally do a 360 scan of my surroundings, realize Ember is right. If I was barely 'lost' the first time, I certainly wasn't 'lost' now. Sadly, I know exactly where we are, which is over a mile and a half from where we were supposed to be. I'm pissed off at myself for not listening to my gut and begin running the math through my head to determine if there was any way possible for me to finish this run and make it back in time for my afternoon meetings. I can't believe I missed the marker again. A stream of self-criticism floods my mind, and I'm hurling insults at myself steadily. The first step to getting back on track is admitting you are wrong and coming to terms with lost time.
As we make our way back, I keep wondering how I could have possibly missed the marker again. But the faster we run, the more I ignore my peripheral vision and focus my gaze on the footstep in front of me. I take a deep breath and realize I know exactly how I had ended up in the wrong place, make my peace with it, and what it would take to get back on track.
My running (and my art for that matter) often seem to parallel my life. And right now—spiritually, mentally, emotionally, and physically—I think I have somehow missed the marker. I am embarrassed to admit it, but I know my heart is east of Eden.
I'm not the type of person who finds comfort or hope in looking ahead, and I even pride myself on finding joy in each unplanned step. It is not often I have a reason to raise my eyes from the ground. But I currently find myself in a season which I believe might require something else from me. After all, 'one foot in front of the other' mentality is how I ended up in this mess because without vision, the people will parish.
I am not lost. I begrudgingly understand now exactly where I am, and I admit I was wrong to ignore the gradual uneasiness building in my spirit. I know how much ground I wasted looping around in the wilderness to end up where I stand today. I know it is quite a trek home, but I think I still know the way. If I am going to make it safely back and prevent such a wasted journey in the future, I will need to understand how to better balance looking down with looking out… or learn how to be present today but still find hope in tomorrow.
I run home in the quiet and the sun, inhale and exhale all of this, until these last words remain.
"Look up, child."
