A fun story about a "fun" run
A tale about a cougar encounter that was not the lowest low of the run and some thoughts on the miles and things we can't control.
To kick off our Trail Mix fun, goodr asked me to share a story about how “running is fun?” It was a no-brainer which “fun” run I wanted to write about. It was a jaunt around Mt Adams when I stumbled upon a cougar in the trail and actually had to put some serious thought into whether that was the lowest low of the day because that big cat had so much competition.
Hop on over to goodrtimes to read this story about an especially “fun” run. And grab some sunglasses while you’re over there, goodr is hooking you up with 15 percent off their sunglasses with the code TRAILMIX!
Despite the fact that it’s been a cat-free week in Eugene, it’s been a bit of a rough stretch over here. On Sunday night, I found out I have to move out of the beloved barn that I’ve called home for nearly four years. Sunday night is also when I learned just how bad the local housing market is – with places selling for 100k over asking price and approximately 1.5 rentals available outside of student housing.
This reality has thrust me into a tailspin of stress. I’ve been refreshing craigslist and Zillow like I’m playing the slots with one-million-dollars of quarters. Only, I never-ever win at this game. I complain about the dire state of housing affairs to anyone who will listen to me. And to some people who probably stopped listening after the first five minutes.
I go on runs and walks to troll the city for real estate and for rent signs – and when I saw one of these elusive signs on a jaunt earlier this week, I craned my neck to look at it, tripped on the sidewalk, and collided with the concrete with as much body contact as a heated roller derby match. I impressively bloodied both knees, both palms, an elbow, AND a thigh. It was a poetic “fuck you” of a fall – to trip while trying to frantically address this miserable anxiety that is dominating my brain right now. And to get left with stinging flesh all over my body – to deliver a constant and painful reminder of this all-consuming stress.
That unfortunate fall had me remembering the first time I ran Cascade Crest, when we were gifted with a violent storm during the back half of the race. The temperature hovered around 32.5 degrees while a freezing rain and barreling wind attacked us for hours.
I was wearing short shorts and a flimsy jacket over my tank top, which was about 19 layers less than I needed for the punishing weather. I was ready to trade it all in for dry pants, long-sleeves, and a thick rain jacket as soon as I got to my crew. Or maybe for a full-body goretex ski suit.
But, to absolutely no fault of her own, my wonderful, generous, beautiful friend couldn’t make it to the one-and-only crewable spot during the final (and very stormy) 30 miles, due to some tragic combination of low gas and backroad challenges. When I got to the trail junction full of crews waiting for their runners, I frantically strained my eyes to find Sarah through the dark and stormy night. But each group I passed wasn’t my wonderful, generous, beautiful friend with a bag full of gloriously dry gear. When I reached the end of the crews, and still hadn’t seen her, I had to face the harsh reality that there would be no warm clothes for me until I made it to the finish line.
As I kept going, I knew I had a choice: I could fixate on how cold, wet, and miserable I was. I could dwell on how much I wish I’d seen Sarah. I could think of nothing but how shitty the weather was and how desperately I wanted way more clothing.
Or, I could stop endlessly stressing over everything I couldn’t control and work on what I could do. I could keep moving to stay warmer. I could talk to my pacer to distract myself from the mental anguish. I could guzzle hot soup at aid stations. I could feel grateful I was able to run 100 miles with support from start to finish. I could get myself closer to the relief that waited at the finish line.
I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that I was magically a really cheery runner for the rest of that race. But, those stormy miles did deliver a reminder of a lesson I’ve learned over and over through running (and life): dwelling on the things we can’t control isn’t going to do a whole lot. But, focusing on what we can control (including our attitudes), can be a bit more helpful.
I knew fixating on the weather at Cascade Crest wasn’t going to help me get warm and dry and to the finish line. Just like I know that refreshing housing listings at 2am isn’t going to help me find a home any faster.
So, instead of letting my stinging palms and knees (and elbow and thigh) remind me of how stressed I am about where I’m going to live, I’m trying to let them remind me that I am not in control over how shitty the housing market is right now or the fact that I need a new home, but I am control of how much of my mental space I give this current stress. And I think my knees, my palms, my thigh, and I would be better off with a little bit less of it.
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