Gratitude

by Krystal Wu

I pull into the gravel parking lot at the base of Ridgeline and park my car.  I push back my seat and lean down to lace up my tired and trusty running shoes.  My old Mizunos seem much older than they really are—I have only had this pair for a few months—but I have been running enough miles lately that I should probably get a new pair soon.  As I tie them up tight around my padded $9 running socks, I notice with satisfaction the inner corner of the front toe of my shoes that has been rubbed raw from countless laps on the roads in my neighborhood.  I look down lovingly at my socked wiggling toes underneath the tattered cotton webbing of my shoes and hop out of the car, slamming the door shut behind me and shoving the car key into the hidden pocket in my nylon shorts.  I glance down at my blue rubber Timex watch, set the timer going with a sharp beep, and I’m off to run Ridgeline.

At Ridgeline, I feel the most like myself and the least like myself at once.  I run heedlessly and carefully at the same time, smacking myself in the face with blackberry brambles while always being mindful not to hog the one-lane trail.  As the trail starts to make the first gradual incline of the run (certainly not the last), I talk to myself: You can do it, just a few more steps. Pick it up!  How can you ever expect to improve your form if you’re running that slow? The long hill begins to rise sharply, and I feel my legs pick up the pace slightly while I lengthen my stride, consuming as much ground as I can.  I breathe consciously, a steady in through my nose, out through my mouth as I run, making sure to pump my arms to urge my lagging body up the hill.  I shoot my knees toward the swaying tree tops as my quads begin to prickle with the first signs of fiery pain, and then I crest the hill.  

Time pauses indefinitely the moment my body is shocked into realizing I am no longer running uphill.  It is as if I have taken a digital photo of my surroundings. The angry cawing of the crows shrilly pierces my ears; the small rocks threaten to press through the thin rubber soles of my Mizunos; the impossibly green hue of the tree branches blinds me.  I begin to stagger down the hill, mentally and physically spent from racing myself up this small mountain.  But then, the moment of pain passes, and I exhale gratefully as I start my downhill free-run.  I let myself go and coast, allowing my legs to find their own pace as they cycle below me.  I feel detached from my body as I breathe in, out; in, out.  The wood chips from the path kick up behind my dejected shoes, flinging at my calves and falling to stick on my cottony socks.  I look ahead at the path before me and watch the afternoon light play tricks with the leaf shadows.  The evergreens and oaks above my head have locked their branches in a dense canopy in the way that lovers intertwine fingers, allowing only dappled sunshine to slip through their tight embrace.  I am grateful for the shade of the forest; there is nothing that ruins a good run more than the stifling heat of a summer afternoon.  I look at my watch.  It has only been seven minutes since I started my run, but I am already consumed by the challenge.  

I am not a real runner—I have short legs, I don’t have PR’s, I like to eat too much—but I love to run.  On any given day during any given run, I have to remind myself every other thought how much I enjoy the pain that I am putting myself through.  Some days, there is nothing I can tell myself to make my run any better than it is.  Those are the days when I feel as if I am running against a current of crashing waves with dumbbells tied to my feet.  I see the “real” runners that pass me on the trails and know that they have Runner X-Ray Vision that penetrates my cotton T-shirt to see my naked body, where I harbor forbidden fat pouches instead of lean muscle.  I feel the pus-filled blisters on my big toe and heel begin to crack, and the thin, translucent skin peels away, leaving raw pink flesh to be whipped around inside my shoe.  Those are the days when I look at my watch every two minutes and find, to my utter despair, that my run never seems to be half done.  I know I have had a bad day when my thoughts are consumed with finishing my run rather than running itself.

But on good days, all of the moments of pain are made tolerable by the few moments of pure joy.  Today, as I careen wildly down the steep hill, I sense that today is a good day.  I just know.  Even though I have to furiously swipe at my brow to prevent the salty sweat from stinging my eyes and my quads feel like Jell-O, I am acutely aware of where I am.  The dusty dirt poofs up as my feet pound the earth, my dim shadow trailing behind me.  The ground gradually descends until I find myself running on a very uncharacteristically flat stretch of Ridgeline trail.  The momentum from my recent downward dash pulls me along, and my legs feel airy.  I feel the way a leaping, frolicking deer must feel; as if the world is moving around me as I float effortlessly in one place.  Granted, I am exerting effort—my breath is still returning back to normal from the hill—but I barely notice.  I am too busy having fun.

And then I am there.  I am in my holy place, where I feel most electric and most peaceful.  As I enter the expanse of forest, I get the cathedral shivers, the kind of goosebumps that make you realize you are in God’s presence.  Most of Ridgeline is the kind of closed-in, grown-over trail that reminds me of running through a rabbit hole; most of the time, I can’t see around the next curve because the forest is so dense.  But here, in God’s house, the rabbit hole opens up suddenly to a space so huge I feel tiny.  It steals my breath from me, and I feel like I am standing at the very edge of a steep cliff overlooking the ocean.  And I always stop running, no matter how good of a day I am having or how pressed I am for time.  There is something about my Ridgeline Church that forces me to put myself on pause.  

I stand and revel in the power of this place, my breath heaving, in, out, in, out.  I crane my neck, noticing the soft light as it flickers through the windy branches and the firm certainty of the tree trunks.  I look down, seeing the knuckle-like, knobby roots puncturing the path before me and the wood chips that have been shuffled away by travelers before me.  I breathe.  I inhale big, open breaths with my arms lifted in an arc above my head; then exhale, dropping my arms like a rag doll attempting a bow.  My runner’s mind shuts off here—no more thoughts of minutes per mile or splits or weekly mileage—and only one quiet voice remains.  It whispers carefully: thank-you, thank-you, thank-you.  I survey my surroundings and want to scream and dance and laugh and cry and jump.  I walk a few steps, breathing deeply all the time, closing my eyes to see how far I can venture without tripping over a tree root.  My heart stops hopping around in my chest like a bouncy ball, and I calm my body and mind.  No matter how much I concentrate on what I think is important at the time, the voice returns.  Thank-you, it says quietly.  

I gulp down one more long breath and close my eyes firmly, sealing in my mind the absolute tranquility and peace I feel at this moment.  I keep this memory in my heart the way you might carry a lucky penny in your jeans pocket.  I finger it in my mind, caressing the worn copper edges, feeling the thousands of souls before me who have touched its energy.  I sigh contentedly, then start to run again.  My breaths quicken and my heart races, but my mind remains free to fly, unfettered by my body’s physical shackles.  I run freely on winged feet, without worrying about falling, or about being fat, or about my pace.  I run, thankful for my feet that are ugly with calluses and blisters.  I run, thankful for my knees that have withstood countless miles of pounding on concrete and asphalt.  I run, thankful for my legs that are strong from years of running and walking and dancing and living.  I run.  And I am so grateful.