Run Harder, not Smarter

Today I started a course in Mountaineering. The very first event of this course was a timed four mile ruckmarch with a 45 pound ruck, dryweight. (Dryweight means the ruck is weighed before you add water, snacks etc.)

The stepoff time was at 6:00 A.M. and the altitude is about 6400 feet above sea level. The instructor pointed out the course for us, "You're just going to start off down this hill, and follow this dirt trail until you come to a 'T' intersection. There you are going to take a left and follow the fenceline until you hit a hardball road. That will take you up the first of those two hills over there. You will go across that first ridgeline, down the saddle and back up the other ridge. Follow that hill down the spurr until you come to another hardball road. That will take you back to this dirt trail, which will bring you back around here and you'll finish up over there. There will be vans at all the intersections to point out which way to go. The course is 4 miles, you have an hour and fifteen minutes. We are giving you that extra fifteen minutes because we know some of you come from sea level, and you'll be surprised how bad the elevation will hit you. Ready? Begin."

So I started. Straight out of the gate I had a Forrest Gump moment. I just felt like running. So I took off down the first hill, planning on using the downhill to warm up and make up some time. I hit a semi 'T' shaped intersection (it really looked more like a "Y") and I took the left, and ran around a couple of small hills until I came to a wide open spot with a fence right in front of me. There was no van in sight, but the trail went to the right and followed the fenceline, so I headed that way at a pretty blistering trot.

It was a pleasent running trail, and I followed it for about a mile, walking up a pretty decent hill before I decided to turn and look to see how far behind everyone was.

There was no one in sight. I ran back around the bend and still there was no one in sight. I could see almost a mile along the trail, and there was no way I was that far ahead. Must have missed a turn somewhere, so I turned and ran back down that hill as fast as I could. When I got to the place where the trail turned right along the fence, sure enough, there was a van out in the distance along the left hand side. I found out later that the van hadn't even arrived until after a couple of guys had already passed that spot. It wasn't really a running trail to the left, just some old tire tracks, and now a whole bunch of boot prints. And way off in the distance, about a mile and a half away, I could see the main group of guys just cresting the top of the second hill.

:-(

Nothing to do but run for it.

So I ran. I followed the tire tracks until I found a road (a dirt road, not a hardball.) I passed the van with the cadre member sitting silent and stoic in the driver's seat. I walked the up slope, which was pretty stiff, ran the ridge and tried to control the fall down the other side. Walked up one more hill, and then after that it was just straight running. No road, no trail, not even bootprints any more, just me running for all I am worth along the top of this ridgeline and down the spur on the otherside of the hill. I could see the next van off in the distance with one tiny figure just barely arriving. I pushed it out and caught up with him, and hit a hardball road (a real hardball road this time.) A bunch of regular army guys was running up behind me in shorts and t-shirts and I raced them for about a quarter of a mile (stupid move. Burned too much energy.)

I hit the trail again and ran until I hit the last little uphill stretch into the compound. The latter half of the main group was barely 200 meters ahead of me now. When I broke over the hill they were just walking away from the finish line. I stretched out into a nice, easy lope, down the last hill to the finish, with a final time of one hour and two minutes.

Dead last.

The moral of this story is, you don't need to know where you are going, you just need to RUN AS FAST AS YOU CAN. You're bound to end up somewhere eventually.

Ruck

“Tramp!” goes the boot as it crushes the ground,

“Stomp!” goes the heel, and “Slap” goes the toe.

The rucksack creaks and squeaks, the ponderous sounds

Of overloaded canvas, in time with the slow,

Slow, agonizing pace of too many pounds

At least a hundred, sagging from my spine.

I feel it in my shoulders, I feel it in my feet

Slapping down and down and yet again down,

Always slapping down.

With shockwaves like a hammer on hamburger meat

Plodding on clay, on shale, on grass, weed and bush

Trudging in the dust of the field or echoing on the street.

Pain from toe to heel, pain from heel to knee and then

Shooting up in grinding vibrations to hips and lumbar spine

As every one of these weary, dogged men

Stoop and limp and plod under the weight of the ruck;

That damned unwieldy tick that we’ve strapped on again;

To carry across the land.

                                        Through the night, through the rain,

Through the draws and hills and swamps and thorn;

Pitch black sticks in the pitch black night

That stab you in the eye with careless scorn.

The “wait-a-minute” vines that claw and clutch and drag

And lie in wait for our heels, in the dark before the morn,

As we curse our way onwards in pitch black

Sans moon and stars, and wish we were never born,

Or if born, at least born normal people, not the sort

Who volunteer for this tomfoolery!

                                                      But that awful ruck!

All else is really an afterthought, my mind always returns

To that creaking, sagging, soul crushing bundle of suck

Ninety pounds of gear on my back: ammo, water, food

Clothes, med bag, and explosives just for luck;

Then, to top it off a 25lb necklace! The iron pig,

Swinging in front of me by its sling.

80 clinking rounds in the feed tray, to start with,

“Carry as much ammo as you can bring.”

And then a bandoleer of 120 more, because hey, you never know!

Muzzle and bipod stick out like a broken wing,

Catching the brush and shifting, sliding canvas on my collar,

After a few hours that will start to sting.

But someone has to carry it, right?

                                                     It’s really just the weight.

I carry it, not on my spine, but on my soul like a brick.

My spirits sink as hour after painful hour drags on,

And from twenty-two to zero-two we’ve moved barely a klick

And left half our mojo behind, somewhere in the draw.

The wait-a-minute vines got it. The bush was just too thick.

We hit the tracks and make up some time,

Urging speed from battered limbs and trying our best

Not to twist our ankles between the ties,

Or in the gravel. Pushing on. Only a minute for a rest.

Behind schedule. Forget security, out on the road,

And run. We need to make link-up, so haul butt

With dogged, shuffling, comical steps under the load,

For half a mile of open blacktop,

Ready to dive into the brush if a glimmer showed.

Of headlight, but nothing comes. Civilized people

Are all asleep right now. We run

Praying there’s a ride at the end of this one.

But no.

             Alas, only an angry, nervous face,

And a stream, and a quick, “Follow us.”

Then lights running off into the darkness.

“Awww. Sad face.” Someone says, but no more fuss.

These guys are running light, and they know the way,

And they’re fresh. We barely have breath to cuss

And we have a guy with a sprained ankle.

Little things like that, you know, they add up.

Who’d have thought?

                                  The lights go on, and on, and on

Up the ravine. We fall behind, get separated.

Link back up, move out again, fall behind

And half our element moves on without us.

If it weren’t for the injured guy I wouldn’t mind.

I swear I’d still smoke half of them even now.

But this guy can barely limp, and I can’t find

The slightest glimmer of light ahead, just black.

“Crossload his gear.” Everyone gets something.

They wait for us, we link up again, move back out.

Farther and farther, up and down, on and on.

This is not much fun, I think, with a slight pout.

No one can see my face, so I’ll pout if I like,

I just want to be rid, once and for all, of this

Terrible,

Hideous,

Malignant,

Sneering

Hateful

Ruck!

But here we are.

Forming a perimeter, facing out, catching a breath

A quick meeting in the center and the word comes out,

“We’re stopping here tonight. Rucksack flop.”

Tonight, indeed? All two hours of it before it’s light?

But at least we can stop,

Face inward,

Crouch down,

And let the ruck do the work:

Sag,

Sway,

Pull,

Fall over backwards

And rest on the ground, leaning against that beast

Like a lazyboy recliner, as all the stress

And tension drift away and are released.

Every muscle and sinew are totally relaxed,

And light and warmth and pure endorphin high

Flood every corner of my being in a rushing flow

Of pure, unbridled bliss.

A bliss which, without the rucksack, I would never know.