Zen of Trail Running

In the words of James Riddell on skiing:

To ski, however well or poorly, is a reminder--whatever one may for a long time have suspected--that one is alive.

I feel the same thing when I'm running on trail. Especially downhill running. There's a special state of mind I experience. It's an abandonment of responsibility to my instincts. I know that millions of years of instinct are buried below higher level layers of consciousness. The layers that are saying "maybe you oughta slow down", "dude, there's a rock there and there and there, and I can't keep track of it all!", and "your lungs hurt and your legs are heavy". Below all that, there's an animal that knows how to fly. There's an innate capacity to absorb visual input from my two eyes, the sound of the wind in my ears, the amount of purchase that my feet are reporting, the kinaesthetic awareness of how I'm oriented to the center of the earth. It's not a skill. It's an instinct that I'm willingly giving up the reins to.

And while that instinct handles the movement logistics, I keep my higher order brain functions occupied with sensation. I imagine I'm water, a smooth, fast brook. I follow the contours of the trail in front of me, searching for the line of least resistance. I stay level, seeking to float over obstacles, not bounce. If there's a tree or a rock that would hinder that, I might hurdle it. I might put a foot on it, not to step up on it, but merely to maintain my height above the ground.

I step fast and light. My feet hit the ground primarily to keep me from touching the ground. Not to slow me down. They hit the ground to carve a turn. I avoid sharp angles. I step quickly to distribute the angular momentum across many small steps instead of a crashing single step. It gives me margin for error. If I'm about to turn an ankle, I know that another step is on the way to relieve the burden. I'm uncommitted to that step. I'm like those insects that run across the water using only the surface tension to stay up.

My arms are wherever they need to be. If I'm running down straight and fast, they're pumping hard to counterbalance the quick pace of my legs. If I'm carving a turn, they're providing the balance. If my left heel slips, I might throw both my arms forward to keep from falling on my ass. (But then again, why was I on my heel!? I should have been leaning forward). If I'm cutting around a tree, I'm like a slalom skier cutting close to a gate, my arm leading my shoulder, my torso, and finally my leg around to the back side of the tree, so that it barely breaks my line of descent.

My head is up. I look far ahead. I trust that that inner instinct can queue up 3, 5, 10 steps. It's never let me down. I'm always amazed at how easily the brain can do that. There must be a subsystem that's evolved specifically for that ability, relieving the brain to worry about other things like throwing the spear to hit the woolly mammoth. I try to be aware of my surroundings, but in truth, I see mostly the trail. Sometimes, I'll come back and walk a trail and be astounded at all the beauty around me that I never noticed when flying past it.

Sometimes I imagine I'm a cat, sliding stealthily down the trail. Sleek, smooth, silent. My shoes are the supple paw pads. My eyes see everything, including my prey which is helpless against my speed.

...then the downhill runs out, as it's wont to do. And I'm a mortal human huffing against the burn in my lungs and the weight of my legs.