One July a couple of years ago, I ran the Four Pass Loop near Aspen, Colorado. As the name suggests, the loop rises and drops four times, crossing four passes in an achingly beautiful swing through the mountains. I ran through haunting Aspen groves, climbed switchbacks adjacent to a waterfall, and trudged along high elevation drainage marshes.
As much as I enjoyed the vistas that stretched for miles at the top of each pass, this run holds a special place in my heart because it was the most difficult, most exhilarating run at the height of my last, great running season. I didn’t know it then, but the next year I would require a series of surgeries that would end my time running competitively.
The loop includes 7,752 ft of elevation gain in what I clocked as just under 27 miles. I ran it alone with nothing but my supplies in a Camelbak and my Garmin. By the end of the ordeal, all I could taste was copper. I’d pushed myself as hard as my body could go.
Haruki Murakami once titled a chapter: “Most of what I know about writing fiction I learned by running every day.”
Often, I find myself using running metaphors to explain my writing and writing metaphors to explain my running. In my mind, the two activities are intertwined. Writing a novel isn’t a sprint; it’s a marathon. To write something worth reading requires the endurance necessary to cross the finish line. Focus must be maintained to develop a sensible narrative. When everything comes into harmony, the trail (or novel) can be understood as an integrated whole, an experiential sequence that flowed beginning to end.
I’ve been both a runner and a writer most of my life. I’ve enjoyed several runs over the years that showed me, beyond any illusions, expectations, or preconceived notions, what I was capable of accomplishing. Every novel I’ve written did the same, even those early novels that weren’t publishable. Running and writing, each in their way, forced me to face my limitations and to develop a relationship with my possibility.
The trail, like the story, defines us through the act of showing us to ourselves.
Happy Trails!
Well Worth Reading
Murakami’s memoir certainly struck a chord with me. As a runner and hiker, I’m always delighted to learn about artists who, like Joyce Carol Oats, Gustav Holst, J. R. R. Tolkien, or Charles Dickens, made a habit out of running or walking. Murakami, in particular, has a pedestrian way of writing. It may be an aspect of translating Japanese into English, or it may be his genius for distilling complex sensitivity into the everyday. Perhaps the outcome is a bit of both.
If you pick up a copy, you’ll enjoy the trail.
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