Millions of years ago there was a tree. That tree, like all living things, eventually ran its course, died, and fell to the ground to return to dust. However, that tree was fortunate and fate had other plans for it. For one reason or another, conditions were right for the tree to be buried in a specific mixture of silt and sand. Over time, the tree did fade away, but its remains were replaced by trace minerals and eventually what remained was the exact imprint of the tree now made of stone. The soul of the tree lasted for millions of years and we can still glimpse it today.
In the course of our lives, we start as something soft and malleable. We are chipped at, eaten away, parts of us are broken and fall. Eventually, if conditions are right, we are changed. We become something stronger. We become different, solid, and lasting. But our souls remain.
Thanks for being on this journey with me.
* * * * *
The day before I left, I wrote the above email to my close coworkers and gifted them a piece of petrified wood in their mail boxes. The time of my race, dear reader, was upon me. It was over a year in the making. In the course of my training, I had run through mud and jumped over fire. I had sweated in freezing temperatures and bled in sweltering heat. I had tasted victory, suffered loss, cried in joy and sadness. I felt ghosts, and had visions. I put my body through things I never thought I would endure. At 40 I was in the best shape of my life, strongest, resilient, tenacious and disciplined.
But though my exterior was firm, my interior was frail. I was tormented by what I had become, by the sacrifices I made and the accomplishments I had made. I was not the person I thought I would become. 17-year-old me, with his long hair and leather jacket, smoking a cigarette laughed at me as I jogged past him. He was just one of the many ghosts who stood along the edge of my vision.
The ghosts of my brother, grandfather, classmates, and my dad all looked on with a crowd of other specters. I thought I could see them when the veil of my waking life thinned and my soul pressed into another realm like a stretching spiderweb without breaking. And my uncle; clinging to life in his small house waiting to join them.
The last thing I packed was a small drawstring bag just big enough to hold a deck of cards. In it I put mementos and offerings imbued with the spirits of those who haunted me. A pocket knife, a hat pin, a ring, a necklace, stones and other trinkets. Even though I knew the dead would be with me, I wanted to take their energy so maybe at last I could use it up and we could all be at peace.
My mom wanted to join me and on Friday morning we set out. At the start, the Texas Spring was in full bloom. Bluebonnets covered the roadside breaking through the green blanket of thick grass. But halfway in the rolling hills and green cedar trees started to change. The chalky limestone hills broke through choking out most of the flowers. The hills flattened, but soon the edge of the mountains began to rise. The soil turned from grayish white to sandy tan. The distant mountains were no longer distant and loomed just beyond the road shoulder. 7 hours in the car and we were enveloped by the high desert and the twisting roads that led us to Ft Davis.
In the evening we checked into a single wide manufactured home with one bedroom and one bathroom which was billed as a “Tiny House” when I rented it from a Lodge several months prior. Then we went to pick up my race packet from a historical ranch 5 miles away. Everything looked familiar, even though it had been over 20 years since I had been there. My mom even commented on a wave of familiarity she felt.
I got my packet and my bib was number 7. “Lucky number 7” the lady told me, and that would be the first of many times I would hear that throughout the weekend. When I asked some race coordinators some questions, they asked: “What distance are you running?” and when I answered the 100, I could see something change in their face.
“Have you tried it before?”
“No, this is my first one.”
“Well, good luck!” and I could see behind their eyes a skepticism, like they knew I probably won’t finish, but there was always a chance.
There were only 15 people who signed up for the 100 mile distance. The bib numbers reflected your race distance, so the first 15 numbers were the 100 milers. I saw other racers with low numbers. We exchanged glances with the same skepticism as the coordinators, but there was also a respect and silent comradery. There was that chance we might finish but the chance we would fail felt even greater.
Back at the tiny house I layed out everything for the next day. The race was 8 laps, so I planned out when and how I would change my clothes. I mentally rationed the boxed and singular wrapped food. I made sure I had my gels and first aid readily available. But none of the planning eased my mind. For weeks I felt like something last minute would put the race to a halt. Even on the ride up I was anticipating a flat tire or something worse with the car.
And now a few hours before the race I was thinking my alarm would crap out for the first time in my life, or the car wouldn’t start, or something else unseen. I wouldn’t be able to relax until I crossed the start line, I just had to make it there.
Right before bed, everything laid out, everything prepped, I looked out at the clear desert night. The moon had not yet risen, but it would greet me in the predawn hours of the morning. Orion was clear and sparkling. The wind was beginning to pick up. It would reach 30-40 mile an hour gusts before tapering off at noon the next day. It would be 35 degrees when I woke up.
And there would be a mountain and 100 miles in front of me. Behind me a year and many miles already traveled to that point. There were other things I wanted to leave behind me, some things I already had. This journey was finally near its end.
But that, dear reader, is a story for another day…