Actually there’s a little more to it than that. The key to
being wrong is to be wrong in the right way. Here’s where my Electron Woman persona
reemerges and fights the good fight with the power of negative thinking. See,
when you go around all hopeful and optimistic about the future—go for it! never
give up! good things are gonna happen, just wait and see!—being wrong becomes
anything from a minor setback to a crushing defeat. Look on the dark side,
however, and being wrong is a victory. Believe in the worst, and you’ll never
be disappointed, regardless of the outcome. Life sucks! Oh wait, it didn’t
suck quite so much today, did it. My bad. Tee hee.
Case in point: running. Ten years ago, wasn’t a runner, was
never going to be a runner. Five years ago, wasn’t a marathoner, was never
going to be a marathoner. Two years ago, wasn’t a trail runner, was never going
to be a trail runner. One year ago, wasn’t an ultra runner…yeah, you know, and
by the way the trail ultra I picked is at the end of June.
I have to do things this way. I have to tell myself I can’t
and won’t before I go ahead and do it anyway. I know it doesn’t make sense, but
it’s worked very well for me. If I tell myself “it’ll never happen” and keep
telling myself that, by the hundred and seventy ninth time I figure I must be
on to something. If I have to put in that much effort to convince myself, the
opposing side may have a pretty solid case. (I suppose it’s rather a good thing
I never went to law school. Instead, I told myself for many years I would
never, ever get a PhD. By the way, that’s Dr. Electron Woman to you.)
The case for trail running was something I’d heard for
several years from about half of my running buddies, the other half being
firmly and unshakably on the side of road running. I was just as firmly
unshakably with this second group for several years, as trail running always seemed
more frustrating than fun. Rocks and roots could leap out of the ground at any
moment to trip you up. Branches smacked you in the face. Any moment a mud
vortex might appear and threaten to suck you down into the mire. Yeah, nature,
and all that, but how can you enjoy the scenery when you’re too busy looking
out for snake pits?
Road runners agreed fervently with me on these points. Trail
runners scoffed at them. Road running, they sneered, is boring. During
training runs you have nothing interesting to see but the same dull
neighborhoods over and over. During races you get crushed into packs of
thousands. Trail runners are tougher, cooler, and more fun—just ask them. Road
runners are whiny babies. Ew, the Gatorade is warm. Ugh, we have to go up a
hill. Goddamnfuckingsonofabitch my chip fell off my shoe and now there’s no
record of my PR this is a travesty how can things like this happen?
The whiny baby part? Truth. I readily concede that. The criticism
about road running’s being boring, however, annoyed me. It annoyed me in part
because it turned me briefly into my father, who, whenever I complained that
something was boring, would say “maybe you’re the boring one” in a tone that
suggested more thoughtful reasoning than harsh put-down. If it’s boring, you
make it interesting. You enjoy being in the moment. You revel in the fact that
there is nothing else you have to do—nothing else you can do—except run. You
exalt in just feeling yourself move forward, breathing, heart beating,
unquestionably alive. Yeah, and some other stuff you see on all those motivational
running posts on facebook, all of them wince-worthy when you read them at home
but truly inspirational once your feet hit the asphalt.
The one point that ended up being pivotal for me was time.
While there are certainly those runners who truly do not care about how long it
takes them to complete a course, they are rare. Anyone who runs a race of any
type, road or trail, 5K or ultra, must care at least a little about time. That
said, time tends to mean far more to road runners than trail runners. While
every road marathon is different, most will be similar enough such that
finishing time comparisons will be pretty much apples-to-apples. A comparison
between any two trail marathons, on the other hand, could easily be
apples-to-anvils. One trail might be well-marked and relatively flat while the
next will cover swamps, cliffs, jungles, deserts, and the occasional surprise
snake pit. A runner who does an 8-minute pace for a road race might do that in
a trail race, or might do 10 if the course is tough enough—and might just win
at that seemingly unimpressive pace.
This drives road runners crazy. If your time for a trail
ultra could be anywhere from three hours to three days, what’s the point?
How do you know if you’re getting better?
“It isn’t about the time,”
snorts the trail runner. “It’s about the experience,”
This is an over-simplification. Road runners do enjoy the
experience and not just the time. Trail runners do care about time, otherwise
races wouldn’t use a clock. And yet—and yet!—I will admit what I never thought
I’d say: I prefer the experience of trail running.
I don’t like running fast. Lucky for me I’m in no danger of
doing that very often, but I still try to do so when I race roads, and for
someone of my age, sex, and lack of athleticism, I actually run a pretty decent
pace for shorter distances. For the marathon, my pace is thoroughly average.
Yet it’s the longer distances that draw me. I would rather run 20 miles than 2
miles, because even though you can’t technically sprint 2 miles, you have to
try, and even though the 2 will be measured in minutes and the 20 in hours and
both will hurt like hell, the 2 will only feel bad. The 20 will feel good, then
bad, then great. And then you’ll go eat a lot.
Even with this mindset, the move to trail running still
seems like quite a leap. And yet it isn’t. Running trails is about slowing
down, paying attention to your body and your environment and pretty much
ignoring the clock. One prolonged glance at the Garmin and you might faceplant.
Yes, there are roots and rocks, branches and logs, mud and mud and mud. There
are hills that are truly hills and not just speedbumps. It can be tough. It
feels tough. And then it feels great.
This is how to be wrong. Set your mind against something with
all your strength. Tell everyone it will never happen. You will never live in
New York City; people get mugged there. You will never go back to school; you
have no interest in being a teacher. You will never get your book published; don't you realize the publishing industry is going down the toilet? You will never see this person as anything
more than a casual acquaintance and there is no way you will fall for him. You will never, ever run a trail
ultra. The very idea is laughable.
Guess who’s laughing now? That would be me, sweaty, muddy,
exhausted and sore, wrong as can be, and feeling pretty great about it.
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