Running in AK

I’m staring down at my feet, watching them move one in front of the other, willing them to gain distance and elevation with each step. Every time I look up, the crest of the hill isn’t any closer and the storm is engulfing the summits of the surrounding peaks. It’s Seattle-Rain right now—I’m getting wet but I barely notice.

Kaytlyn is about 20 feet in front of me and I’m wondering, “Is she having this hard of a time as well? Where’s my groove?”

The thing about running is that you can’t coast. To rest is to stop moving. Mentally, you’re choosing between forward progress and standing on a road, wondering if “milepost 106” even means anything when you’re on a two lane highway in South Central Alaska.

We keep moving and round the turn at the top of the hill. We’re taking the first steps down the second 7% grade and I look up as the next few miles appear before us. It’s gorgeous and daunting at the same time: a cliffed-out ridge on our left follows the road down where it crosses a creek and makes a hairpin turn to begin climbing another mile of steady 8% grade. To our right are Matanuska Glacier and flanks of the northern Chugach. The mountains themselves are obscured by a low cloud layer that’s getting ready to release some mid-run motivation.

We top out at the hill on mile 6 and the rain starts. It dawns on me that this is only halfway. The camera gets stashed in the ziplock bag in the backpack, we sip some water, and opt to keep running instead of taking gu’s.

Once again, I’m pleading with my body to turn on autopilot. The mental commitment of keeping myself running is almost more tiring than the act of running itself. The rain began coming down in sheets.

Finally, it happens. Halfway up the hill, my mind goes numb, my legs keep moving, my heartbeat and breaths are steady. Kaytlyn and I are running in step, our feet creating a steady rhythm on the wet pavement that’s interrupted every few seconds by a passing truck.

I’m dripping wet. My calves and quads are aching. Cars and trucks zoom by at 70 miles an hour, leaving water, dirt, and oil on my skin. The crest of the hill doesn’t seem to be getting any closer. The rain isn’t letting up. My mind is numb, and I’m smiling. This is what beating the Blerch* feels like.

As we finally make it back to the cabin, I make a quick mental note of the 12 miles:

Cons: I should’ve put the beer in the fridge before we headed out.

Pros: everything else.

The view of the road and our 6 mile out and back (goes from all the way left to a bit right of the middle) from the top of Lions Head. This was taken about two hours after our hike, to give you an idea of how fast the weather changed.

*By the way, if you haven’t read The Oatmeal’s excellent comic on running, you should. It’s great.