Against Wind

Have you not heard...they will run and not grow weary, 

they will walk and not be faint.

Running long distance against a steady wind can be just a hard as scaling a short, steep mountain trail. The difference between them is that when you approach the trail, you know what you're in for or at least have a small idea of it, and you can picture the summit. Running against wind poses an ambiguous, sometimes imperceptible set of challenges. You step outside ready for your run, feeling optimistic about the road ahead. It's a bit windy but it feels good against your skin that's been shielded from the elements all winter. You put one foot in front of the other and the wind becomes part of the movements of your body--you're in motion, it's in motion. It might not be helping, but it's not hurting either. Half way through your run you notice you're a little more winded than usual. Stupid. Should have hydrated better. Should have stretched better. Should have waited longer for that cold to subside. Out of shape. Long winter. A litany of reasons for your premature weariness marches through your mind to the pound of your sneakers against pavement. You push forward any way, not permitting yourself to utilize any of those valid reasons as an excuse to slow down or quit early. In the meantime you've forgotten the wind that blows at your back or slides sideways across your skin. Until you change directions, and it can be a very slight change; you take the left hand split at a fork in the road, for instance. Now the wind imperceptible presses full on and slows you down against your will.  You realize that premature weariness isn't anything you did or didn't do; it's the elements.

Running against wind is a little like trying to drive the getaway car in a bad dream. You might be pressing the pedal to the metal, but you're in your bed, afterall, and asleep. And that bed just won't move. Despite the fact that your brain and feet are propelling you ahead, you're treading water on land. Temporary mind-body confusion.

At this point the run becomes a mental exercise in convincing yourself there's no need to slow down; your body's impulse is to decrease your output, because in calm weather that's how you steady your pace. But it's not rough weather and it's not calm either. Maintaining pace requires subtle adjustments in output. It requires you to both pay attention and not pay attention. Pay attention that you don't decrease your speed. Don't pay attention to the fact that you now have to work harder in order to keep the same pace. When the wind finally does die down, and it often does, your body is in its new groove, though achy and tired. When the wind finally does die down, you're surprised. You're moving with an alacrity that defies your taxed energy. It feels a little like gliding. And though temporary (the wind will probably pick up again), it's lovely.

Life often feels this way to me. We push push push through our days, our tasks, our hours. We work hard, take care of the kids, field small crises, and strive for long term goals. I'm not always willing to acknowledge the ways in which this can drain my reserves. It's just life, it's just a little wind. Nothing major. Nothing awful. Adjust, adjust, adjust. Press in. Adjust. Press in. Adjust. Press in. You can't run head on into the wind forever, though; you'll eventually have to slow down. Your body will run low on reserves without your even perceiving the decline. And suddenly, as if without warning, your legs grow heavy as lead--your body telling your brain to please let's stop, or in the case of life, your spirit telling your body to stop. A body has to stop sometimes.

Mountaintops are great. I love a hard, fast hike to the summit. But that steady wind. It creates a resistance workout that only gradually taxes. And the gradual taxing of the body is what endurance training is all about. When you train for endurance you push yourself just hard enough so that your muscles will be able to work hard (but not give out) for an extended length of time. Sprinters train in short, fast bursts. Long distance runners train on hills with slow and steady climb. They have time and breath enough to chat, to watch the view. It looks easy on the outside (doesn't everyone's life sometimes seem easier than our own? It's an illusion equal in its power to deceive as a hill that doesn't seem hilly until you try to run up its incline). When distance runners finish, they're just as exhausted as the sprinters. And their bodies are conditioned for ever longer, steeper challenges.

Running into the wind this morning was just what I needed to remember that it's OK to slow down when you're truly tired, and it's normal to feel spent by everyday living. But it's good to press in, too, because that's what makes us stronger. That's what gives our lungs expanse, our muscles memory, our hearts capacity. And we needn't worry so much where our foot will fall if we can remember where our path leads. We needn't grow exasperated at our sometimes weak constitutions if we can remember to trust in the one who fashioned the precious storehouses of our souls.

Run against the wind for awhile and it might some morning dawn on you: You should feel tired. Rest a little, but don't give in. When the wind dies down you'll be surprised. It was just a little wind, really, a gentle but persistent burden you hardly noticed when you were in it. Small and large at the same time. You breathe deep. You might be gliding. You take joy in those weary limbs that strain gave strength.