When I finished the rain stopped. My flushed face wet with sweat and rain. My eyes alert – the eyes of a hunter hungry for meat. My legs pulsing with lactic acid twitching muscles, mud and dirt, bits of twigs pine needles all mated into the hair of my lower legs. A trail run in Roseburg, Oregon through oak and Blue Spruce. The trail weaves along the South Fork of the Umpqua River. Its headwaters at 7,000 feet at the base of Mt. Thielson flowing through Browns Hole before settling into Lemolo Lake where my brother owns a fishing lodge – you ought to visit – another amazing place to run trails in the wild. The river drops out of Lemolo Lake and runs hard 60 miles as the elevation drops a mile before it cuts Roseburg in two at the south end of the Willamette Valley.
A trail run can cut me in half – cut me like a cold wind, like a new blade, like a high inside fastball, like the smell of ozone before lightening as a new project from the boss settles onto your desk, your calendar, your life.
And so you kick it up a notch, dig down, dig in and put your head down face the headwind remembering to breathe. You ease into your 9 minute mile pace – the pace you can go forever – 10 miles, 20 even 100 miles if you wanted or even if you needed. Same with the boss’ new project – ease into the 9 minute mile pace. Head down. Heart? Heart open to the BIG heart of God – that Heart – man, God can do that 9 minute mile pace for eternity!
And so my heart with these new projects and the trail pacing. My heart can hit the wall – the wall at 18 miles or so when you’ve been running a cople of hours lost in the intimate rhythm of nothing but you. Your arms