Susan Talks the Walk

When we first got home after the long walk, I had a lot to do to get caught up and tended to stay in the studio to work through the piles of gear, mail, and general stuff.  Matt was the one who had to go to work and was, therefore, the one who fielded the common questions, “Well, did she do it?  Did she actually walk the whole way?”

Sometimes in the middle of the night I still wake up with that nagging question, “What would have happened if I hadn’t gone the distance?”  I think we’d have had to move.  People around here can be a bit merciless and it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d gone 290 miles, if I’d missed those last 19, I’d have failed.  That’s what they’d remember and what they’d remind me of regularly. 

Thank goodness, I finished.  I know it, and so do they.  Now everyone is my new best friend.  Oh, my old friends always believed in me, but now even people who’ve been less than friendly run across the street to say, “Hi,” and to tell me that they wish they’d been there with me.  Uh-huh.  I smile and think, “Then why weren’t you?”  Maybe it’s not my sweetest self, but let’s face it, anyone running or walking an ultra-distance suffers for the sport.  The wanna-bees have no idea and I’m the skeptic when it comes to just how far they’d get.  Oh, maybe the first day they’d make it, but could they move the second day?

An older woman who is a native to New Mexico and who is a docent at the Camino Real Heritage Center offered a comment to the group at my presentation there a couple of weeks ago: “When I was a little girl my grandmother would tell me what her great-grandmother said about the caravans.  Maybe 200 people would start together, leaving Mexico City with their carretas and high hopes.  They would stop at our village to get water and supplies, maybe rest and bathe.  But by that time, there would only be 50 or 60 people left.  Some would die from the Indians, or diseases, or even the snakes, but most just quit because it was too hard.  Then they might die before they could get back to some place safe, or they would just go back and know that they didn’t make it.”

For some reason, at this moment of my recent finish, I have been thinking a lot about DNFs.  It’s probably because with every article I write, I have that same nagging feeling that rejection will follow.  I don’t have a regular writing gig, so rejection is a major part of my life.  The same was true when I was an artist.  I had to compete to get into juried art shows, exhibits, fairs, whatever.  Where there is competition, there is always rejection.  Usually there’s a lot more rejection than there is acceptance.  The stats are there to back me up.  It’s not just true for me - I’m not wallowing - it’s true for most of us slugging it out in creative endeavors.

People react to artists and writers much like they do to the ultra-athlete: “Oh, I wish I could stay home and write all day.”  or “It must be fun to just make art all day,” or “How fun for you to run your in those events - I wish I had the time to do that.”  They don’t know that in preparation for an art fair my record was 27 days straight of 10-14 hr. days in the studio.  To get to the show was a three-day drive across much of the west, the show, then the three-day drive back.  It was a great show.  The truck and trailer were nearly empty when we headed back home at the end of the weekend, but I’d put in the hours and worked my behind off.  Being an artist and a writer is not a different kind of life than being an ultra-athlete.

So, yesterday I mailed the story of my walk in article-manuscript form to New Mexico Magazine.  I got really stressed just before leaving for the post office.  I expect rejection.  I mail out a lot of manuscripts for books and for articles.  Last time, after my walk in Belgium, I mailed to 15 publications and heard back from 5 - all “no thanks.”  The other 10 didn’t even respond.  Each rejection is a bit like a DNF.  I walked my walk, wrote my story, prepped it the way the publisher wanted it, and didn’t finish - the story died somewhere short of the reading public’s view.

Maybe that’s why I was able to finish my recent walk in spite of all the weather and my feet threw at me.  I was tired of the publishing DNFs and was going to make sure I finished without a physical DNF.  Finishing was a matter of mind beyond pain and fatigue and weather and blisters.  I’d sit in the car during breaks, look out the window, say to Matt, “It’s not going to get any easier,” and head back out onto the road.  He says it was agonizing to watch me those first 20-30 feet when I’d try to make my body move in some kind of rhythm.  There were times I could barely shuffle my feet.  So, I’d move my arms.  I’d tell myself, “You need to walk, which means with some kind of stride.”  And I’d make my arms move like I was cross-country skiing until my mind got past the pain and my legs cooperated.  There were a few times someone else witnessed my pitiful start and I’d just laugh lightly and say, “It’s not pretty, but I get going eventually.”  And I did.

Yesterday the article to NM magazine went out in spite of the fact that I expect rejection.  I figuratively worked my arms and got my legs going, and delivered it to the post office (literally).  A well-known running magazine (not UR - so let’s not start on them again) rejected me straight off when I sent my query.  The reply was, “We aren’t interested in hiking stories.”  Well tut.  It’s part of my problem…I’m a walker in a running magazine world.  It narrows my prospects.  So what?  I can’t run 100 mile events but I still manage to go beyond that distance.  I keep writing because it’s what I do and it gives me pleasure.  Even though I had pain and was beat up by the weather, I loved my walk.   Matt told me last night, “It’s who you are - the writer and the ultra-walker.  They won’t be denied.”

Now I face the final stages in the book proposal. It will be sent off as well. 

DNFs aren’t fun.  They are in fact painful, even when we do learn from them.  And yet, the ultra-athlete keeps signing up for the next event or even the same event the following year with great determination to conquer whatever it was at the root of the DNF. 

The thing is, we keep moving forward (even if it’s in a shuffle that reminds the onlooker of Arte Johnson’s old man character on Laugh In) any way we can.  Otherwise, we’d succumb to the fear of the DNF.  And I think, somewhere in the back of our minds, as we shuffle on to deny the fear its attempt to hold us, we know sooner or later we’ll hit our stride.  Then dreams of successful finishes dance in our heads.  All the fear and all the DNFs are worthwhile when the dreams become reality. 

Shuffling on, susan

 There was a time when I thought my recent walk would take me through a part of the Cibola National Forest that begins at Hwy. 60.  A US Forest Service employee told me months ago to just call when the time came and they’d make arrangements to open the gate that’s about 10 miles in as one moves north into the forest.  When I called, I was told the forest was closed and I should go around.  The reason was that trees were falling in the winds, there’d been a fire in Fall ‘07 that caused much damage.
 
      So, I debated.  “Big Red” (my truck) has managed to get through some amazing places when put in 4×4 and driven by Matt.  I get out and walk when he’s getting the truck through the tough spots, but we weren’t to be deterred.  My only hesitation, “We’ll see what the winds are doing when we get to Hwy. 60.”
 
     Anyone following my story this month has heard me complain about the winds.  When I was walking in the Jornada they were gusting to 60 mph, regularly at 50 mph.  I wore my sand storm goggles.  I sometimes walked backwards just to breathe.  Once it was so much that I cried from the nerves and the exhaustion such winds produce.
 
    Before we ever reached Hwy. 60 I walked with our friend John Harrington.  Yes, the Foresty professor.  Great company, good companion, wise forestry guy.  He was mild in his comments, but I take people who care about me and who know stuff seriously.  He cautioned us from entering the Cibola at Hwy. 60 with, “More people are killed annually in Yellowstone by falling trees than by grizzlies.  The fire was bad.”  He said a few more things, but the ones given here in quotes are the most accurate in my memory.
 
     John’s words were prophetic in saving us.  I won’t say we weren’t already considering going around that bit of forest, but he made the decision easy.  When we reached Mountainair, while I tended to my blisters and caught up on my blog, Matt did a bit of driving to find a decent alternate route.  If we went north, then east, then north on Riley Rd., then back west as far as we’d gone east, we’d hit the road that heads right up to Chilili.  We’d miss the small villages of Manzano and Tajique.
 
    I think it was on Wed. (just over two weeks ago) that I began that stretch of my walk.  The day before fire had erupted in the Manzano Mountains, the village of Manzano was being warned about potential evacuation.  The winds continued to blow.  As I walked my throat felt the smoke at its back.  We have a photo of the beginning of that fire, taken from where I walked.
 
   So, it’s been two weeks.  I had a headache the other day and was edgy with the winds up worse than ever.  Turns out they were gusting to 70 mph.  I remember thinking, “I was insane to be out in these day after day, what was I thinking?”  Well, we know that I was just in the “going the miles” zone and not really in open thought. 
 
   The thing is, those winds of a couple of days ago caught the fire once more in the Cibola.  Homes in Manzano were lost the first week.  The fire was 95% contained as of early this week.  Wednesday night, the forest erupted in flame once more.  Tajique was evacuated yesterday, more homes were expected to be gone.
 
    As of last night, 12,000 acres have burned.  Right now the wind is mild, more along the lines of a gentle breeze.  Parts of the state are suffering as low as 8% humidity.  With lack of rain and the high winds, we’re simply drying out.
 
   More than one of you has wished me well, hoping I’m not near the fire.  I’m not near the Trigo.  We are near another national forest.  We’re hoping everyone obeys the “no open fires” rules that will probably be in place for the next several months.  It may be that barbeque grills will be restricted as well.  It’s that dry.  They’ve been banned before.
 
   I am not sure why I felt the need to write this, except maybe to express the fact that I’m so very grateful we chose the road rather than the woods.  We’d have been caught right in it - were even supposed to have camped there the night before the fire started.  We’d have been there when it began.  Sometimes, things work out in ways we can’t imagine.  It still gives me goosebumps.
 
   Anyway, today I’m starting to formulate my Table of Contents in my head.  It may even make it to paper.  I usually have titles for things as they are written, so this is a first - naming chapters before they’ve begun.  But then again, the story is there.  It’s been lived.  I guess it’s already been written by my feet, eh?

Somewhere along the way, it seems that more than one of you asked for a post-walk report and I for some reason amicably agreed to provide one. 

I’m kind of stuck.  Since the walk wasn’t an event, I can’t say where I placed, or even give a finish time that compares to anything else.  I guess I can say I got a PR - 309 miles in 19 days.  Not so great when you think about the folks running and walking at the Sri Chimnoy (I hope I spelled that right).  Mark Dorion has sent in the report via Andy that the rain was horrible.  I didn’t get rained on, but I did have just about every other kind of weather NM could throw at me.  As a matter of fact, the wind is back and fierce as usual. 

I work on our property, so in the week that I’ve been home, I’ve not seen too many people.  Matt comes home and gives me the scoop on the comments he’s heard about my walk.  Mostly, people want to know if I pulled it off.  They seem to have had little faith in me, or maybe it is just that they knew where I was going to walk.  I dunno.  I can’t even say I really care.  I did it and that is what counts.

There’s not been a real report because my head is too full.  It’s not easy to sort such a trip out while still needing to do all the daily stuff that life requires.  I’m also in creative mode where I am shuffling thoughts between magazine articles, newspaper articles, and the Table of Contents required for the next step toward the book contract.  It’s hard to condense the story for the articles while thinking about how many pages I need to fill to make the book more than a booklet. 

Today I worked all day on the article for the local newspaper’s monthly magazine.  My deadline is Friday.  The mag. will come out in late May.  The deal was that the editor was going to write an article, asked me to collaborate, and for his part he just put a photo of me with a caption in this week’s paper.  I seem to have come out on the more-work end of our “collaboration.”  At least my article is done now. 

I wrote one while I was still in Santa Fe.   I’ll submit it to a regular monthly magazine.  I was so tired I let it sit, thinking that it was total crapola.  Matt read it the other day and said it’s much better than I thought.  I wasn’t even sure it held together, but he says it flows just fine.  It’s hard to tell the same story in many different ways.  The book is pressing on me.

So, I’ve done some thinking on what you’d want to read.  I don’t do so many “events” that I’m used to putting together formal race reports.  I usually just write what I’m feeling or thinking and let it go from there.  I’ve received several comments from people who’ve seen the photos on my website.  The comments are all pretty much on the same order - “How did you get through it?  It’s a wonder you finished!”  One friend wrote, “They’re chilling.” 

The comments have had me trying to remember how I did get through it.  I’m not sure I have an answer.  How do we get through any of our endurance efforts?  We watch our feet, we watch the landscape, we measure it the best way we can as it unfolds…1 mile, 2…10…20…and so on.  With the wind blowing today, I have a headache and am a little cranky.  The wind.  It was my constant challenge on this walk.  It sucks the air right out of your lungs.  Today I went out to get something and bent down to talk to one of the dogs.  A cottonwood fuzz blew into my throat, I thought I was going to choke to death.  I was gasping for air, spitting up nastiness, had snot and tears running down my face, and was beat red.  I finally coughed up enough junk that I think the fuzz went with it.  When it was all done my headache was worse.  I really am not happy that the wind is still blowing.  How on earth did I walk through it day after day?  I don’t know.  I just did.  Some days I handled it better than others.  Once I was so worn out with the wind that I cried.  Matt told me that as I approached where he was standing, he knew how I felt.  He’d had to hold onto the fence to keep his footing.  He struggled watching me, wanting to not see me suffering.

If the wind wasn’t blowing today, I wonder if I’d remember such details.  After all, pain is something you can’t really remember.  You remember that you had pain, but you can’t recall how it felt except in descriptive terms.  You cannot make your body re-live the pain.  Same with being out in the wind.  Unless I go out and stand in it and breathe in more cottonwood fuzzes all I have is memory of discomfort.

There persists a nagging desire to do just that.  Oh not breathe in the fuzz, but to be out walking again.  I’m a little restless.  It’s hard to settle down.  The Jornada got into my soul.  Certain places there haunt me.  Showing the slides last Saturday stirred up the longing all the more.  People think I’m crazy.  The Jornada is a forlorn place.  There are lost graves throughout.  People who died while crossing.  No markers to remember them by.

Crossing such a place brings one to humility.  It is full of forces greater than I.  I may have walked across it, but I cannot conquer it.  There were moments when I felt the struggle between me and the place.  It was as though the place would claim me and not allow me to pass beyond its boundaries.  It’s not that I felt I would die, just that I would not be let go of.  And maybe I haven’t been.  Maybe that is the magic of the place.  Maybe it captured me, even though I went forth from it, I am now a prisoner to it.

I moved beyond in the miles, but not in the spirit.  This morning I wrote of those who crossed hundreds of years ago.  I compared their journey with mine, the fact that I could not travel back in time.  I was always aware that I could get in the truck and go for whatever supplies I needed.  When I was worn out, stinky and sore, I could head to accommodations that would provide me with a shower and a bed.  I live in these modern times and we took a DVD player with us for those moments when we wanted modern entertainment.  There was enough discomfort, I felt no guilt at my conveniences. 

And yet, I feel so close to those who have gone before me.  Many died.  Many quit.  But some finished their journey.  They found a way across and they survived.  They crossed on horses and in carretas.  I walked.  It was my way to know their path.  I wonder if they missed the crossing?  No answers today, just musings.  Sorry, but the wind distracts me.

For those of you who enjoy the technical stuff - here is how I walked my miles:

Day 1  - 16.9

Day 2  - 20          

Day 3  - 18.2

Day 4  - 10.5

Day 5  - 21.1

Day 6  - 20.6

Day 7  - 13.5

Day 8  - 14.6

Day 9  - 18.1

Day 10 - 8.2

Day 11 - 20.4

Day 12 - 18

Day 13 - 12.4

Day 14 - 16

Day 15 - 20

Day 16 - 20.1

Day 17 - 11

Day 18 - 15+ (Matt has the exact total)

Day 19 - 13+  “       “       “    “       ”

The grand total was 309 miles.  I went from elevations of 4,385 ft. to well over 7,000 ft., down and back up again.

I wore three different pairs of shoes.  Day 1 I was in Keen hiking shoes.  Day 2 I was in my Mizuno running shoes.  Day 3 - 9 or 10 I was in Keen hiking sandals.  Then I was on paved roads and back in my Mizunos. 

Stories will come back to me, and I will share them.  Mostly now I have images.  They are of softly lit hills and of silence.  That’s another thing hard to re-play - the silence.  But when I am alone and I close my eyes, I think of the Upham Hills and almost, not quite but almost, can feel the silence.  Today it is simply to windy to write that I can hear it.

Cheers all! susan

This will be quick as we’re heading out to dinner soon.  A place the has true Spanish food (we’re talking paella and lamb dishes) has 40% off food and wine on Mondays…did we time this finish well?!
 
Here’s a run-down on the day:
Up at 5:30am, walking by 7:00am to get 2 miles done before my visit to Turquoise Trail Elementary.
Great time with the kids.
Clicked off another 3 miles, then a stop for pancakes and hot chocolate.
Then I pretty much walked along specific streets of Santa Fe which brought me within 8/10 of a mile to the plaza. 
By this time it was 2 pm so we checked into our B&B, I had a shower and change of clothes and looked all “fresh” to finish my walk.
Matt drove me back to the junction of the Old Pecos Trail and the Old Santa Fe Trail, then he headed off to park.
 
Shortly after the Round House (Gov’s mansion and capitol bldg.) is the Church of San Miguel.  It’s one of our favorite places in Santa Fe and is the oldest church structure in the USA dating back to 1610.  Matt turned to me and said, “I think this one you should do alone.”  I walked inside and promptly burst into tears.  Good thing for pews and few tourists.  I let my tears be my prayer of thanksgiving, I figure God knows they were heartfelt.
 
And then I walked 2/10 mile to the plaza where Matt was waiting.  We waited about 10 minutes, the mayor turned up, I gave him his letter and a small gift from me, we visited briefly and I was done.  The mayor btw is a very down to earth kind of guy who has lots of ideas for motivating people to get outside - like connecting four already existing trails to make one large 25 mile one.
 
Today has been the loveliest day weather-wise, and I’m happy to report the one where I have had no foot pain related to blisters or any other complaints.  It was all rather perfect and low key.
 
How do I feel?  It’s all a little surreal.  There were times today when I was grinning like a fool as I walked along watching all the busy busy people whipping around in their vehicles.  It was like I was sitting on a huge secret.  It’s been quite an adventure and one that I know will sort itself into some kind of shape.  One thing I know - I have seen New Mexico as few (if any) still living have.  It is a beautiful state with vast and varied landscapes.  The desert presents challenges unlike any I can imagine - both physically and spiritually.
 
Thank you to each of you for the encouragement and support throughout.
 
Oh, and the final mileage: 309 miles even.

Tomorrow I finish my long walk.  I have 13 miles left (more or less) so just around a half marathon for me.  I am planning on doing 3 miles, then going to the Turquoise Trail school, and then finishing my miles (which look like they’ll total closer to 310 than the original guess of 330).
 
One of my toes continues to leak when I walk.  There’s no blister to pierce, just a weeping toe.  It hurts when I start, but I have learned to walk past the pain.  Though my legs are still strong, they feel the 295.4 miles that they’ve accrued in the last 20 days.

As I limped along today I visualized my arrival in the plaza.  The mayor will be waiting for me, and Matt.  I don’t know if anyone else will be there.  It doesn’t matter if there is a crowd or not, for I will know what I have done.  I am at that place where it is hitting me and sometimes the tears flow.  I have certainly suffered for my victory but I have also been greatly blessed in this journey.  I will not receive a medal or a jacket, but I will have great satisfaction and on Tues. - a massage!
 
I know that many of you will be running in Boston tomorrow.  You will run for many reasons: for a PR, because it’s Boston, for charity, for reasons only you know.  I wish for all of you good weather, strong legs, healthy hearts.

If I have anything to share other than wishing you blessings, it is something Matt asked me today: “Did you ever think you couldn’t finish?”  My reply, “No, but there were times I wasn’t sure I wanted to.”  Should you find yourself in pain, or questioning the wisdom of your run, remember - it is worth the finish.  

Run well.  Many blessings, susan

It’s All Uphill from Here? 

            This is going to be relatively short as I’m tired.  You already know about my battling out 20 miles in the cold and snow yesterday.  Well, I got in another 20.1 today.  There’s just no time to drop a mile or two with the hope of making it up in the next three days.  If anything, I want my distances to shorten as the end of this journey approaches.

            Today started two miles south of Tijeras.  It was downhill those first two miles, then up the next six.  Tijeras is at 6,300 ft. and by mile 8.1 I was at 6,897.  Somehow after that we stopped taking GPS readings, probably because I just wanted to move along.

            My morning miles totaled twelve.  I have been plagued by a nagging irrational fear that I’ve miscalculated the distances remaining and will turn up short come Monday.  So, to placate me, Matt drove us forward from the Mile Twelve point to Madrid.  We’ve accommodations here for the next three nights.  My goal for the day was to reach Golden, which we passed on the way to Madrid.  Sure enough, it would take me a total of twenty miles to reach Golden, but the good news was that it was only eleven miles more to reach the heart of Madrid.  Tomorrow will not be so rough.

            Once we were here for the re-measuring operation we decided to have lunch and a small siesta.  By 4:00 p.m. I was restless and wanting to face the final eight miles for the day. 

It would probably be a good thing for me to mention the change in roads.  From Tijeras to San Antonito I was on a sidewalk.  The road was four lanes plus a middle left-turn lane.  It was noisy and unpleasant.  We discussed the fact that we were both feeling a little let-down after all the days on back roads where we saw no one and heard nothing but the wind, maybe a bird or two, and the random cows.  We were suffering what I call,  “Re-entry into civilization syndrome.”  It made sense to end my walk in Santa Fe for many reasons, but it is what it is in terms of the noise, fumes, and safety concerns.  Sigh.

After San Antonito I was truly on the Turquoise Trail Scenic Byway (Hwy. 14).  It’s a two lane road with no shoulders.  I was constantly hopping on and off the road depending on which driver was approaching.  My heart was full of gratitude toward those who gave me a little more room, and maybe even slowed down a bit until they were safely past me.  By the end of my day I’d muttered a few unprintable words at those who’d crowd the white line, forcing me into whatever happened to be just off the road.  I continue to marvel that a scenic byway with a speed limit of 65 mph is driven by most at full throttle.  I don’t think they’re getting the idea that they should be enjoying the scenery.  Much of my time I marveled at the lack of shoulder even though this is a recommended cycling route.  If only someone with a little foresight had considered the possibility of a parallel hiking/biking trail.  The Turquoise Trail has some magnificent vistas.  The hills are challenging as they come one after another and are of good length in and of themselves. 

My evening miles went well.  I peeled off eight in pretty good time.  The sun was warm until about 6:00.  I love the soft light of those last couple of hours before night’s darkness.  I seem to get my best miles after siesta.  Of my eight miles, the first seven were uphill.  The GPS was back in Madrid with my backpack, but believe me when I write – the hills were big.  The last mile descended into the village of Golden where I happily climbed into the truck.

Madrid is an old mining town turned art community.  Most of the buildings are over 100 years old.  We are staying in a small efficiency apartment above the Java Junction shop.  It’s listed as a Bed & Breakfast, but we have it all to ourselves.  The owner is donating our third night’s stay in support of my efforts.  I’m grateful to her.  I’m also grateful for the extra-long claw-footed tub.  There is an ample supply of bubble bath provided and the local water has a strong mineral content.  There are numerous notes around the apartment letting us know that the locals don’t drink the water, but apparently it’s great for soaking in.  I’ve had my turn and Matt is in now.  I have to agree with the notes.

Tomorrow we’ll drive back to Golden and I’ll walk to Madrid.  It’s a scary bit of road with some blind curves and not even grasses at the side for jumping into.  I’m hoping to be ahead of the Saturday morning traffic – maybe they’ll all sleep late!  Once I’m here, it’ll be rest time again and then some late day miles.  At this point, my miles are decreasing – 16 tomorrow, 15+ on Sunday, and about 10 on Monday.  I want to arrive at the plaza in presentable form!

“Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from their appointed rounds.”  Many people recognize this (or a similar version) as the slogan for the U. S. Postal Service.  It actually dates clear back to Herodotus, the ancient Greek historian who lived some 2,500 years ago.  He was on my mind today.

            If I was to paraphrase him for this particular journey that I am on, my slogan would go something like this:

            “Neither sand, nor blisters, nor wind, nor heat, nor cold, nor snow, nor hail will keep me from my appointed finish in Santa Fe, for I must deliver the mail.”

            Silly, perhaps, but then today was the day that was my official turning point.  It was 30 degrees when we left for my starting point.  By the time we reached there it was snowing.  I don’t do snow.  I have Raynaud’s Phenomenon, my normal body temperature is a whole degree colder than the norm, and if I get cold my blood pressure has been known to drop to 90/50.  Basically, cold makes my blood stop flowing – literally.

            Today was day 15 out of 19 for this New Mexico walk.  I couldn’t skip the day.  There are no scheduled “free days” and I have a set finish time and date.  The clock is ticking.  The last couple of days had such fierce winds that I have regretted not having a day off, but then it would have been used by now.  So, I sat in the truck at my starting point and rationalized that the day would warm up.  It’s late April, after all, and the snow was light.

            I was dressed in longjohns under running pants, two running shirts, a fleece pullover, a runner’s headband to keep the ears warm, a fleece hat, gloves, socks and shoes.  Over my pants I had on the 4XL shorts that Matt bought me back at the Socorro WalMart.  He and I were silent as I mentally prepared to exit the truck.  When I did step outside the winds immediately cut me to the bone.  That kind of cold causes me to break out into a sweat similar to the kind one gets with fever.  “Well, crap, this is going to be one heck of a day.” 

            My first eight miles were pretty much up-hill.  I passed the village of Chilili.  It’s a land grant community and there are signs that pretty much say, “Don’t try to buy our land, don’t linger, don’t take photos.”  I was a little nervous passing through but figured it was too cold for anyone to bother me.  I had a buff around my throat for extra warmth but realized that my face was numb in the first ten minutes and pulled the buff so that it covered most of my cheeks and chin.  The town dogs barked at me from a distance.  Then they laughed when I got close.  Their expressions definitely gave away their thinking that this was the most ridiculous human they’d ever seen.  As long as they didn’t bite me I was cool with being the clown.

            Those first miles weren’t pretty.  Our system is such that I go forward a mile, Matt then passes me and drives on another mile.  Basically he leap-frogs me and we meet every two miles.  I found myself diving into the truck every two miles, panting to catch my breath, and then sitting for several minutes trying to regain feeling in my legs and behind. 

            After the first two miles I was pretty sure the day would be a total disaster.  It was still snowing on me and I wasn’t getting much ground covered with all my resting in the truck.  It wasn’t that I was lazy, I simply couldn’t survive any other way.  Somewhere after Mile Two I came up with a new approach to thinking about the day’s scheduled 20 miles.  My first report to Matt was, “I don’t want to die today.”  He agreed that such was a good plan.  After those first couple of miles I realized with sinking heart that I still had eighteen to go.  I also told myself, “But you’ve gone 1/10 of the way.”  That’s when I decided that rather than count miles I would count units.  I had ten sets of two miles to go this day.  Every two miles I mentally marked off another unit.  Ten is so much easier to deal with than twenty.  Hey, whatever it takes was my thinking!

            At Mile Four I was dying.  I got into the truck and took gulping breaths.  The hill behind me had nearly done me in.  Without oxygen in the veins it’s hard to climb.  My thighs were stiff, the muscles far from “warmed up.”  We sat in the truck and discussed the fact that I had until sunset to get the miles I needed.  That would be the day’s cutoff.  Huge dark clouds filled the sky.  Then a beautiful gray fox crossed the road not 30 feet from the truck.  Its tail billowed out behind it and we gazed upon the creature as though it was a common sight.  This might sound incredibly silly, but seeing that fox boosted my morale.  Sadly, it didn’t warm me any.

            All told it snowed for my first four miles.  By that time I had conquered some major hills.  There was some traffic, but other than the random laughing dog, not much else was moving in the gloom.  Shortly before I completed Mile Eight I sensed I was not alone.  Turning my head to the left I spotted some kind of collie trotting inside a fence parallel to me.  She kept looking at me with amusement and determination.  I knew when she made a sudden dash behind a tree that she was going to appear outside the fence at any moment.  I was right.  We danced something of a dance together as she stayed with me but always about 20 feet away.  Then I told her she should go home.  That was too much for her and the next thing I knew she was sniffing my legs and I was rubbing her ears.  We were buddies alone in a miserable world.

            She kept me company for about half a mile.  Then I spotted the truck parked at the bottom of the hill and put on a little speed to get there for my warm-up session.  Matt watched the collie give up and go home, her fun gone for the moment. 

We decided that it was time for some food.  I was frozen and using a lot of energy trying to keep my body warm and moving.  We snacked on Clif bars, half hamburger patty each, trail mix of almonds walnuts and chocolate chips.  I drank some Powerade.  Anything to put calories in at that moment. 

I’d planned on a 30 minute break at the eight mile marker, but as Matt was telling me a story I looked past him out the window and announced (rather calmly considering), “It’s snowing again.”  He suggested I just sit in the truck with him until it stopped.  I was starting to shiver and decided that I was going to ride out this latest snow in the back end of the truck in my sleeping bag. 

An hour and a half later I woke up to find I was incredibly wonderfully warm.  The bag was warm, but even more so, the truck shell was warm.  I touched the roof.  It felt great.  I lay there luxuriating in the warmth, not wanting it to end.  Then my cognitive senses kicked in and I checked my watch.  It was not quite 2:00 p.m.  Matt was to wake me at 3:15, so I could stay where I was or I could begin my efforts again.

It was not an easy decision.  I liked being warm and out of the wind and away from the traffic.  My little world was a toasty cocoon.  Then that little voice that hits most runners at some point spoke, “How important is this to you?” 

I had something of a script playing out in my head.  I’ll share it in brief with you here:

Me: “Very important.  I want this.”

Voice: “Are you sure?”

Me: “Without doubt.”

Voice: “Then you need to get going.”

Me:  “I could wait a little longer.”

Voice: “Are you an ultra-winner or an ultra-weenie?  If you fall behind today you will not finish in time.  You will be forever disappointed in yourself.  Do what it takes to finish your 20 miles today.  Get started again.”

And that was it.  I was decided.  I knew my goal was important and that the clock was ticking.  I pulled on my various layers of clothing, tied up my shoes, popped out of the truck (much to Matt’s surprise) and announced it was time for me to start again.

When I started my day I decided that groaning about the weather would be a waste of precious energy resources.  When I started my ninth mile, having left that warm truck bed, I shook my head and laughed when it started snowing on me again.  If the heavens can exhibit such humor, so could I.  And I walked on.

The hills today were substantial.  To give you an idea – my beginning elevation was 6,685 ft.  Miles Eleven and Twelve were one huge hill.  At the top my elevation was 7,589 ft.  That seemed to be the peak.  Then it was downhill for the remaining eight miles.  At Mile Sixteen we were down to 7,109 ft. and at Mile 17.8 – 6,865 ft. 

Matt stopped short of the eighteen mile mark because of the landscape.  He had to choose a spot that allowed him to park safely out of range of the rushing traffic.  I guess all the people were commuters from Albuquerque, but the traffic really picked up at 3:30 and was going strong when we quit shortly before 6:00.  Thank goodness there was a good shoulder to the road starting at Mile Nine.

We agreed that we’d go eat right after I was done.  I was starving and definitely needed some nourishment.  As I limped into the restaurant, the young hostess looked at me with a little puzzlement so I explained that I’d just walked twenty miles, starting south of Chilili, and was a little sore.  She wanted to know why I’d walked today at all, so I told her about the entire journey.  Her mouth fell open.  Then, once our food was served, she stopped by the table once more.  She told us she’d heard gas prices would be over $4.00/gallon by May and she couldn’t afford to fill her car just to come to work.  She’d been thinking about walking to work since she didn’t live far away.  Now she was determined because if I could do what I was doing, she could certainly walk a few blocks to and from work each day.  She had me almost in tears when she said (not so quietly), “You’ve inspired me.”

Four days more and I will end my journey in Santa Fe at 3:30 p.m.  I know it is within my reach now.  Today was the turning point.  “Neither sand, nor blisters, nor wind, nor heat, nor cold, nor snow, nor hail will keep me from delivering the Mayor’s letter on time!”

            Yesterday’s slump had a lot to do with being in traffic, being in fierce winds (gusting sometimes to 50 mph), and being a little depleted nutritionally.  Once it was decided that I’d had enough, the order of the day was to get lunch.  I think I wrote about cleaning my plate, but I don’t think I told you that we ordered take out for supper.

            One of the great benefits of being in a small town (Mountainair has a population of around 1200) is that if a business is slow, it’s very common to chat with the staff.  At least for me.  Matt says my tombstone should read, “She never knew a stranger.”  I’m not sure about that, but I have no problem talking to anyone who’ll tolerate me.  When the two waitresses and the cook heard the details of my walk, and that I was now starving, my food was served out in generous proportions.

            The restaurant closes at 3:00 p.m. and since it was now around 1:30 we figured we should order our take-out at the end of lunch.  That way we’d be all set for dinner.     We thought we were being modest by ordering chicken Caesar salads with sides of rice and beans to go.  It wasn’t until some hours later when we were in our room and hungry once more that we inspected what our cartons contained.  The waitress was thoughtful and put the sliced grilled chicken breasts (one for each of us) in a separate container so they wouldn’t make the lettuce soggy.  A quick inspection and it was determined that our chicken breasts had to have come from a bird more the size of a large goose.  We seemed to have an abundance of food.  We ate until we couldn’t eat any more, even though there was still some left.

            We were up early as the winds were already howling and I knew it was best to just face the day.  Matt offered to take me to the other little place we know in Mountainair, it opens early for breakfast.  Feeling still a bit stuffed from the night before I tried to beg off, but he persisted with, “Pancakes will be good carbs for you.”  We don’t usually eat wheat, but the thought of the butter and syrup and I was in with, “Okay, but I’m just having a short stack.”

            During my first miles I felt like I was waddling more than maintaining a good stride.  I decided to relax and not worry about my gait.  My mood was sunny.  As it turned out I was pretty much right on my normal training pace.  Not bad for someone half an inch taller due to the blisters on the bottom of her feet.

The road I was on had little traffic.  There were plenty of hills or I imagined I would have bumped into Dorothy and Toto along the way.  These are the high plains, lots of winter yellow grasslands.  The Manzano Mountains in the west kept me focused in New Mexico.

            Sadly, I could see and smell the smoke from the fire for some miles.  Eventually the road turned and the wind came from such a direction that I was smoke-free once more.

            The miles rolled away.  Hill after hill after hill, and I found myself suddenly above the plains and in the juniper once more.  I don’t know how I climbed, but there was a forever tug at the back of my calves to remind me that I was still climbing.

            Drivers who passed me often gave me a wave.  Most were certainly curious as to my presence.  My bright orange mesh safety vest gave them plenty of time to ponder well before they were upon me.  On the whole, today’s drivers were a courteous bunch and gave me a little extra space in the lane.  There were no shoulders to the road.  If I was forced to step into the grass to my left I was careful to scan for snakes first.  I am very happy to report that so far we have yet to see a snake.  However, the kids at Mountainair and their teachers all told me of the huge one that had been spotted on Hwy. 60 not long before I arrived in town.

            The day was scheduled for 18 miles.  At mile 12 I took a break and sat in the cab of the truck with Matt.  We had some snacks – apples, Clif Bars, half a cold hamburger patty each.  More water and I was ready to go again.

            By mile 14 I needed a bathroom break.  In an effort to be delicate, we’ve devised a system where the truck door that is away from the road and a windshield screen Matt holds up affords me some privacy.  While Matt was anchoring one end of the screen with his two feet I coughed up some nastiness from my throat and lungs.  I’ve learned that I can only swallow and breathe in so much dust before such a problem occurs.  We decided that I’d go two more miles and be done for the day.

            The two miles brought me almost to the town of Chilili.  From what we can figure, I finished up about 80 miles short of the Santa Fe plaza.  I’ve five days to cover that ground. 

            We drove to our accommodations for the next two nights: Elaine’s B&B in Cedar Crest.  It’s about 25 miles from where I stopped for the day, so I got a good look at tomorrow’s miles.  There’ll be more tugging at my calves, as there are plenty of up-hills and not so many down-hills.  We’ll be in a non-burning part of the Cibola National Forest.  From what I could tell, it smells as lovely as it looks. 

            So once more I’m clean, well-fed (Chinese take-out tonight) and have checked my emails.  I’m very grateful to all those who’ve written encouraging emails.  They do make a difference!  One that particularly touched me was from Bobbi in Kansas City.  She wrote that her students read my blog when they finish their assignments.  I want to give a special “thank you” to all of you in Bobbi’s classes who sent letters.  I’m glad you’re a part of my journey and hope I’m doing you proud.  Your letters mean a lot to the kids who receive them, and to me.  I’ll be at Turquoise Trail School to deliver the last batch next Monday. 

            Two nights ago I arrived right in Mountainair proper, having completed my late day miles.  Matt was waiting at a particular spot and had me stop for a photo when I got there.  It was where I reached 200 miles.  Just after that a car with some teenage girls turned left in front of me, kind of cutting me off.  The girls were sheepish but I told them, “I walked 200 miles in 12 days and I’m so happy!”  They cheered and went on.  A few blocks later they rolled up beside me and offered me Gatorade.  One asked about my goal and when I told her it was Santa Fe by the 21^st, she said, “I believe you’ll do it.”

            That’s when I told the girls, “Believe in your selves as well.  Dream your dreams and don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t accomplish what you set out to.  Have lives full of good adventures.  Be amazing.”

            So, to Bobbi’s 7^th and 8^th graders in MO, I hope the same thing.  You are part of my journey, but I wish for you to have many wonderful journeys of your own.  Cheers!

The winds are back. Last week we had gusts of 60 mph. Matt waited for me this morning just past mile 12 and had to hold onto a fence to keep from being blown off his feet. I didn’t get as far as I’d hoped. Tomorrow will have to be a longer day. We’re guessing that some gusts hit 40 mph today, they are expected to be worse tomorrow. And the temperature is supposed to drop about 20 degrees. It was easier being ignorant of the forecast.

It’s an odd thing - when the doubt hits. I’ve always believed my undertaking quite possible. Today, at the end of my shorter miles I was in tears. I’d not been able to see the truck for some time and mistakenly thought it was the speck in the far distance. Turned out I wasn’t looking at the right thing and that our truck was actually turned into a side road behind a fence. The mind plays games after so much wind and vast landscapes. I actually felt panic creep into my being.

From the high of reaching the 200 mark last night, to despair and doubt at my ability to finish my goal in time. Not one day left is as long as some I’ve already done. The longest should be 19 if all goes according to plan. This is not a number to panic over.

We decided together that I really needed some substantial food. So, we called the morning at 12.4 miles, drove back to the hotel in Mountainair, and ordered a substantial meal. They had no steak, so the next best was Philly steak (sliced stuff) grilled with onions and peppers, piled on a bed of rice which was flanked by pinto beans. I cleaned my plate. Then I came upstairs and took a long bath in the claw footed tub. The water was hot and had a fair amount of Epsom salts thrown in for good soaking. We watched Field of Dreams on the encore station. Matt’s now gone to get more groceries and do some laundry. I sit in flannel and fleece as I get really cold when depleted. The faint aroma of Desitin and Gold Bond fills our room. Soon I’ll snooze a bit. Every so often I drink another glass of water or blue Powerade. There’s still a taste of dust in the back of my throat. My lips are chapped from the morning’s wind.

When we were in the restaurant downstairs, I had a great chat with the two waitresses. One is a young woman, in her early twenties. Without hesitation she asked my age and the other waitress said, “Oh you’re the same as me.” I listened to her litany of aches and pains, and encouraged her to try walking a little - even 1/4 of a mile daily might help. We commiserated that in the high season she walks 8 miles just waiting tables. I didn’t know what else to say so I listened. Matt and I have been in the wilds for a long time. Other voices were refreshing.

Two women and a man came into the restaurant. The man headed to the restroom and the women made a big deal about needing to stretch. So, as I am prone to do, I asked if they’d been out hiking or walking. What transpired was interesting. It’s one of those things that I’ve experienced before and still can’t fathom. We chatted, they asked what we were doing, I told them. The reaction was not what I expected, but that’s probably because it’s outside my normal response mechanisms. The one woman announced she has a nephew who is hiking the Appalachian Trail. I was enthusiastic in my response. Then I was looked up and down and told, “Well, of course, he is carrying a pack.” This was spoken in tone and manner as to let me know that I was the lesser, not able to hold a candle to the nephew.

I’ve done some thinking about the exchange in the couple of hours since it happened. If there’s anything I know, I am not an elite athlete. I only have to offer what I have. It is limited, it is not the most or the best. There will always be many who will do more, be faster, go further. All I can do is give generously and enthusiastically when possible. Maybe that’s why I like going to the schools. The kids like me and accept me without feeling they need to best me. I’ve never been big on “one upping.” Maybe it’s catty of me, but when people feel the need to reply with “oh I know someone who has done such and such” - my question is - but what have you yourself done?

This journey I am on has had many humbling moments. My feet have suffered, the cold has gotten me, the winds simply beat me up. And yet, I still keep going. I will have knowledge of my state that few others have, for it is gain through countless footfalls in the back country and along the rural roads.

I have thought of Brian Robinson and his final two laps in the Barkley, running on when others no longer continued to run. I have thought of Keith Dunn who will only accept his finishers award if he’s earned it and beaten the clock. I have thought of my Ghost Towners who have had to face fierce winds and piercing cold, and yet they push through.

I have six more days to finish this walk. I plan on making the clock. Today I am remembering the Little Engine that Could. His mantra was, “I think I can, I think I can…” Mine has come round to “I know I will, I know I will…” Hope it’s not vain of me, but I have a mayor to meet and some letters to deliver.

Had a great time with the kids at Mountainair school.  I had a couple of classes - total 28 kids - so they each got 4 letters (including one each from the Sunrise Elem. kids).  They were very attentive and asked great questions.  The best, “Do you have to walk all the way back to get home?”  I about died!  We were all glad to know that I get to ride back next week.  Anyway, the letters were a big hit, so thank you all who participated.
 
Was finished up with the school by 10.  Matt drove me back down Hwy. 60 and I began my day’s miles.  We’re switching the route ever so slightly - my friend, Ghost Town alum, buddy, and forestry professor John Harrington cautioned us against going through the forest.  So, I’m doing more road work but my feet are relieved for the more constant surface.  At some point I’ll have to post photos of some of the “roads” I’ve been on.  Aye yaye - sand is a booger.
 
At 8 miles Matt said he had to drive me up a side road just to see the Abo ruins.  They date back to the 1300s.  There are ancient Native American dwellings and more “modern” ruins of a church built in 1630.  I took lots of photos, ate a rice cake, and we headed back to where we’d left the main road.
 
It’s hot now, so we’re resting, but I’ll be back out this evening.  If I can click off 7.5 miles I’ll be at the 200 mile mark!  Woo-hoo.
 
I’m going to take a nap now.  Best, susan