Loose Rocks

Coming to terms with what’s in front of me

I’m never quite sure how to describe the terrain where I run. It’s not technical in the sense of climbing massive mountains while navigating precarious peaks. At the same time, whenever I see photos of runners scaling those majestic heights, the actual trail they took up the mountain looks pretty buffed out to me. 

We don’t have mountains in the Boston area. What we have are hills, and those hills are littered with millions upon millions of rocks of all shapes, sizes, and descriptions. Some of those rocks are smooth and slippery. Others are jagged and sharp. Some are rooted to the earth, but many more are loose. It’s those loose rocks that define technical trail running for me. 

The thing about loose rocks is that you can’t do anything with them. You can’t use them to launch yourself down the trail or as a helpful step up a slope. You really don’t want to try to stabilize yourself on them either because, you know, they’re loose. Instead, they wobble and slip and do whatever loose rocks want to do regardless of your intentions or purpose. 

When I first started running trails I had all kinds of problems with rocks. They rolled left when I wanted to go right, and I couldn’t tell which ones were stable and which ones were loose. They were all just literal obstacles in my path and I fought them every step of the way. So many minor battles taking place within the context of each run, messing with my flow, getting in my way. Stupid rocks. 

Notice the blue blaze on the tree in the upper left.

After months of futile effort, I finally accepted that the rocks simply didn’t care about my struggles. They had been in the ground long before I got there, and they would still be there well after I was gone. Keeping my head down and trying to steamroll over them wasn’t going to cut it. I had to find another way. 

With acceptance came a plan, or rather, an approach. What I needed to do was learn how to work with the rocks, instead of against them. I had to learn how to read them and understand what they were telling me about how to move and position my body. And I had to do it while taking them on, one rock at a time. 

This was not easy for someone like me who gets overwhelmed when things are beyond my control. Yet, by reducing my environment to a series of moments with their own unique character, and by staying present within the context of each obstacle, I began to make sense of my surroundings.  

This required discipline and focus, but it also involved keeping my body loose and relaxed, rather than reverting to my natural tendency toward stress and rigidity. The goal was to stay flexible and agile instead of tense and tight, which sounds lovely in theory. Remaining focused and relaxed is the greatest advice in the world, but man, it’s hard to do. 

As I began the process of working with the rocks, I noticed that I would subconsciously try to avoid them. My path would zig and zag and dance and skirt around the edges of the trail without dealing directly with the terrain. That approach kept me ‘safe’ -- I was less likely to trip and fall -- but it also added up to a lot of wasted motion and energy. 

In order to get where I needed to go, I had to force myself to go right down the middle of the path where the rocks clumped in formation and made the footing more treacherous. In other words, I had to get over my fear. 

What was it that I was afraid of: falling? Yes, Falling sucks. I have fallen several times and suffered a few injuries that I wouldn’t have endured had I been nice and safe on level ground. But those instances are rare and were often the result of being too tentative and timid. Or, conversely, of being too much in a hurry. 

What do you do when you fall? You get back up and try again. That’s resilience and like anything else, it takes time to cultivate. Through training and repetition, my resilience grew and those fearsome obstacles became less intimidating. They were part of the landscape, the natural way of things.

To be sure, some of those falls were beyond my control -- stuff happens. Still, most of them were the result of mistakes, not so much physical ones, but mental ones. Attention slips, tension mounts, focus wavers. In those instances, there was really no one to blame but myself. Not the rock’s fault that I tripped on it. 

Getting over fear is one thing. Forgiveness is quite another. When things go wrong — when you fall — you can spend the rest of that time mired in anger and resentment toward yourself or your environment, or you can continue on your way with a clear head and a renewed focus. That’s a choice. It’s not always the easiest choice, but it’s one you can make.  

In my best moments, my approach to trail running mirrors my approach to everything else. I confront challenges head on, with no excuses, and total commitment to the task. At my worst, I get distracted and find myself out on the edge of the trail worrying about things I don’t need to worry about, not really sure where to go. 

This path I have chosen is not perfect, and it’s rarely straight forward. I make mistakes. I screw up. I read situations incorrectly and I stumble. That’s alright. There’s always another rock in my path, always another opportunity to try again.