Born to Run
Most days, my alarm goes off at 6 AM.
Even if I don't have my iPhone alarm set, my body seems to wake me up anyway. Time to go, my muscles tell me.
Koa looks at me with uncertainty. Getting out of bed is always the hardest part of every day for her. I get it. Lifting up the blankets, the cold air rushes in. If I wasn't awake before, I sure am now. I swing my feet over the edge of the mattress and in the usual hunched position navigate around the van, which my friends have appropriately referred to as my "gear closet." Climbing, skiing, highlining, and running gear are strewn out across the carpet along with the occasional stray piece of dog kibble. Most of the time, it looks like a bomb went off.
I slide my running shoes on and sigh in despair. Once again, I can't find my headlamp. This isn't the first time- but my eyes have learned to quickly adjust to the moonlight anyway.
The first mile is always the hardest.
My legs are sore, and I can see my breath coming in rhythmic puffs, even in the dark. My gait feels awkward- like I 'm once again learning to walk, and my ears are ice cold.
By mile three, my stride is set and my legs have adjusted to hit the pavement. I've quickened the pace- I'm averaging around eight minute miles. I'm also warm now; and I unzip my jacket just enough to let some of the cold desert air in.
By mile four, the sun is rising, peeking over the White Mountains to greet the valley floor, and bask everything in orange light.
This is my favorite part of every day. The world is silent, like it's holding it's breath in anticipation of the quickly approaching day. There are no roosters crowing, no dogs barking, not even birds chirping; Only the sound of Koa and I's footsteps on the trail, along with my ragged breathing. Koa runs silently, not tired at all.
By mile six, the sun has risen, the fire has left the sky, and the sound of semi trucks passing through town echo even out to the trails. Their air brakes hiss and screech like a predator.
By this time, I've usually put headphones on.
I can remember my first race, even now. My dad has been a runner since he was in middle school, and he wanted nothing more than Lance Armstrong endurance athlete babies, so he started us early.
I probably wasn't any older than four of five when I won a mile long turkey trot. The prize was the biggest turkey I'd ever seen- It was probably bigger than me.
I will never forget the look of pride of my dad's face. He wouldn't let my Mum take down the picture of me holding my ribbon next to the bird off the refrigerator until we moved houses years later.
The thrill of competition no longer excites me. I run the trails long before any of my roomates are awake, and I do it for myself- because deep inside every human has the instinct to run.
The cold keeps you awake, the running keeps you alive, I tell myself.
And I've been running ever since.
Even if I don't have my iPhone alarm set, my body seems to wake me up anyway. Time to go, my muscles tell me.
Koa looks at me with uncertainty. Getting out of bed is always the hardest part of every day for her. I get it. Lifting up the blankets, the cold air rushes in. If I wasn't awake before, I sure am now. I swing my feet over the edge of the mattress and in the usual hunched position navigate around the van, which my friends have appropriately referred to as my "gear closet." Climbing, skiing, highlining, and running gear are strewn out across the carpet along with the occasional stray piece of dog kibble. Most of the time, it looks like a bomb went off.
I slide my running shoes on and sigh in despair. Once again, I can't find my headlamp. This isn't the first time- but my eyes have learned to quickly adjust to the moonlight anyway.
The first mile is always the hardest.
My legs are sore, and I can see my breath coming in rhythmic puffs, even in the dark. My gait feels awkward- like I 'm once again learning to walk, and my ears are ice cold.
By mile three, my stride is set and my legs have adjusted to hit the pavement. I've quickened the pace- I'm averaging around eight minute miles. I'm also warm now; and I unzip my jacket just enough to let some of the cold desert air in.
By mile four, the sun is rising, peeking over the White Mountains to greet the valley floor, and bask everything in orange light.
This is my favorite part of every day. The world is silent, like it's holding it's breath in anticipation of the quickly approaching day. There are no roosters crowing, no dogs barking, not even birds chirping; Only the sound of Koa and I's footsteps on the trail, along with my ragged breathing. Koa runs silently, not tired at all.
By mile six, the sun has risen, the fire has left the sky, and the sound of semi trucks passing through town echo even out to the trails. Their air brakes hiss and screech like a predator.
By this time, I've usually put headphones on.
I can remember my first race, even now. My dad has been a runner since he was in middle school, and he wanted nothing more than Lance Armstrong endurance athlete babies, so he started us early.
I probably wasn't any older than four of five when I won a mile long turkey trot. The prize was the biggest turkey I'd ever seen- It was probably bigger than me.
I will never forget the look of pride of my dad's face. He wouldn't let my Mum take down the picture of me holding my ribbon next to the bird off the refrigerator until we moved houses years later.
The thrill of competition no longer excites me. I run the trails long before any of my roomates are awake, and I do it for myself- because deep inside every human has the instinct to run.
The cold keeps you awake, the running keeps you alive, I tell myself.
And I've been running ever since.
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