January
30, 2017
Greetings
from the next step,
The
first thing I noticed was that it was dark.
You might pause here to be amazed at my astute sense of
observation. Given that it was an hour
before sunrise, your assessment of my perception may perhaps decline a
fraction.
I
was on the edge of a town named ‘Surprise’.
The three people I asked said they didn’t know the origin of the name,
and so we are left to discover it. What
lay before me was the desert, and the light from the stars was not challenged
by civilization. It is not the same dark
to which I am accustomed.
The
other thing I noticed was that was cold.
Considering that I am from the Mitten state, this should not have been
remarkable. Except I had flown to
Arizona expecting some relief from the winter temperature. Instead it came with me. I stood shivering, a few degrees above
freezing, socks on my hands to keep my fingers warm.
I
was told by a few runners around me that the sun would be up soon and that
would change the two notable facets of the morning. I had full faith that they were speaking with
veracity because runners only stretch the truth about conditions after the
fact, not before. Plus common sense gave
me hope; the day before the sun had come up and it got warmer and lighter. So I had that going for me.
I
was in a small knot of runners which would make up the population of the Desert
Classic Marathon. We were all dressed
like homeless people; wearing multiple layers of disposable clothing, some with
garbage bags pulled over to protect them from the wind. I couldn’t count them in the dark but I think
we could have all fit in a large elevator.
The
race director gave us a few words of encouragement, and promised the sun would
come up. Race directors never lie,
except when describing the elevation of the race course, so I was encouraged. With that, we were sent off into the dark.
My
legs were cold in the morning air but I could feel them warming to the
work. The first several miles were an
uphill grade, (‘Gentle’ is how I think the race director described it, which is
more befitting the reputation of their ilk and less befitting the facts) and I
felt myself panting harder than I should have been for my pace. I would not say I was gently panting.
Behind
me the horizon turned blue. The dark
shapes to the south became defined, textured with rock and scrub, the contours of
the mountains slowly revealed in the first light. And finally the sun crested the desert and
chased us west. The sun lit up the
reflectors lining the road, nearly blinding me.
It
was a small race into an empty stretch of road that split the desert. No bands, no spectators, no cheering fans. I spoke to a few runners along the way as we
settled into our pace, and then I was alone with the road. I turned on my music after a few miles and
dug into the run.
Now
I could see the land around me. Mostly
bare, some small leafless shrubs lining the edges of the ditch. Barbed wire was strung along most of the
road, and occasionally there was a sign warning us to watch for animals
crossing. I watched. Whatever was going to get past the fence was
getting my respect.
A
few cars honked support as they went by.
I saw a family stop and jump out to cheer a runner behind me, and I was
included by proximity. By now I had
crested the grade and was given the gift of six miles of downhill. Since we were coming back this way, the gift
would be rescinded. I glided toward the
halfway point, my legs confused with the change in grade. My mind wandered back in the week.
A
few days earlier I had gone on an impromptu hike up Piestewa Peak trail. I am glad I had been short on time, because
that was a built in reason to stop climbing after half an hour. I sat on a rock, more winded than I should
have been, and considered the challenge of going back down.
Even
at that point in the hike, the view was beautiful. Just high enough from the base to feel the change
in the horizon, able to see back over the city of Phoenix and to the mountains
beyond.
The
thing that came back to me on Saturday as I ran along was this; I was so
careful minding my step on that hike, rightfully concerned that a mistake could
send me pinwheeling over a rocky edge, that I hardly saw the beauty around
me. It was only when I would stop to
catch my breath and look around, that the grandeur of the world came rushing at
me.
It’s
an excellent lesson. I relaxed, a
little, stretched my arms above me, and looked around. I gobbled up the miles, grabbing water from a
lonely volunteer every few miles, and felt my body settle into its groove. The sun warmed me now, reminded me that race
directors sometimes tell the truth.
To
the west a range of mountains rose up, snow covered, rimmed with a belt of
fog. Beautiful as they were, I hoped we
were not running to them. On either side
of the road I could see hundreds of Saguaro cactus. They stood with arms out, cheering me as I went
by. I said ‘thank you’ out loud.
To
the south of me were the White Tank mountains, rippling with stone muscle. I could see more cactus and scrub lining the
sides now, the shadows as bold as what made them. The sun buttered the mountains in gold.
I
turned back to the east fought my way back up to the crest, passed by one
runner, a crazy-happy man who said: “What a beautiful day.” as he cruised by
me. He was right. I did my best to follow his lead, even as he
disappeared along the ribbon leading us back to Surprise.
A
phalanx of cyclists went by, silent, a relentless human arrow, launched from
beyond where I could see, aimed at a place I would not see. I waved and a few
of the riders nodded as they passed, acknowledging our brotherhood out there.
I
was relaxed, my pace my own, and as I made my way over the peak again and down
the other side, I smiled into the day.
Friends and family floated in and out, giving me words of
encouragement. The miles rolled by
almost unnoticed. I was too busy looking
at what the sun had to show me.
The
last mile was over without me begging for it, and then the finish line
appeared. It was the same place I had
left, but it was different now. Not just
because of the sun or the light, but because we had all been changed by the
hours that passed. The lesson I took
from Piestewa out into the desert served me well, because I got to choose how I
filled those hours.
Hope
this finds you looking,
David
Copyright
© 2017 David Smith
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