Running Long Enough for Stillness
By: Carrie Jesse
Sometimes a trail run is just a run. But sometimes it’s about the noise we carry, the quiet we find, and the shift that happens somewhere in between. This is for those who run long enough to find stillness.
Mile 0
I step out of my car and grab my pack. I’ve got two water bottles, probably overkill for a 10-11 mile run. I stuff a gel into one of the side pockets. Sweatshirt off. Pack on. I lock the car door.
Keys. They’re still in my hand. Sigh.
I shrug the pack off and stash my keys in the zippered pocket. Pulling the pack back on, I glance one last time through the windows of the car.
Phone.
There it is, sitting on the front seat. Longer sigh. Once again, off goes the pack. Out come the keys. I grab my phone and with one final slam of the door, I stomp off toward the trail, muttering to myself about wasting time.
With my phone secured in the front pocket behind a water bottle, and the keys back in the zippered pocket, I press a few buttons on my watch. A cheerful chirp tells me the satellites are ready.
“Start run?” my watch asks.
I look over my shoulder at my Subaru. Then forward, toward the trail.
I hit start.
Mile 1
My legs are moving. Slowly. But my head is already warmed up and sprinting ahead.
I should’ve just skipped this run and started work early. Right? Right. I’ve got spreadsheets, and Slack messages, and …
“Wait, hold up,” my brain interrupts.
What am I even doing out here? I mean, do I even belong out here? What am I even doing right now? What is the point?
I think about these questions, but the noise is too loud for an answer. So I just keep running.
Mile 2
It’s early, and the trail is quiet. But I don’t even notice, not really.
I’m too busy, being elsewhere. My thoughts bounce around until they settle on work, of course. That comment from yesterday, it sounded kind of passive aggressive. I’m not sure if it actually was.
But just in case, I draft 27 different solid responses. Each one better than the last. None that I will actually say.
Mile 3
I take a sip of water and glance up at the sky. Bluebird blue and not a single cloud in sight.
I take an extra deep breath, and as I exhale my legs almost start to feel lighter. I start to find a rhythm.
Mile 4
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
The vibration of my phone brings me back to the real world and an onslaught of notifications. Even though I had settled into a good pace, I’m tempted to look at my phone and read what I’ve missed. It can’t be that important. It can wait.
But after a few more steps, I give in and check. Nothing urgent.
I look back up at the blue sky and tap my phone a few more times.
Airplane mode. For the phone. And for me.
Mile 5
Almost immediately, I hear the quiet. I sense the silence.
There is space between my thoughts. Finally, I can breathe.
I notice the peaks in the distance.
Mile 6
And now, I’m face to the dirt. The same dirt that’s in the cuts and scrapes on my palms.
How did I get here?
My big toe found a tree root sticking out just far enough. And now, muttering and cussing, I look around to see if anyone saw my Superman slide.
But it’s still quiet. No one. Silence.
How did I get here?
Mile 7
I eat my gel and run through a welcome shady section of trail. The pain in my palms starts to fade.
I smell damp pine needles. The ground is soft.
I can barely hear my footfalls. The noise is gone.
Mile 8
I breathe.
I smile.
I run.
Mile 9
The trail winds up several switchbacks. I round a final corner and stop.
Peaks above. A valley below.
This moment. The reason why I’m out here.
Mile 11
Mile 11? Wait, what happened to mile 10?
It slipped by. In the quiet. Just me. My shoes. And the trail.
Mile 11.1
Back at the car. Still in airplane mode.
Quiet. Ready to listen.