What are you waiting for to be afraid of?

Is it running into resident ghosts of the landscape, or is it never running into water? Both sources watch from their ancient dwellings high in the canyon walls, trickling down so you can find each other on the floor, not alone anymore in your anxious solitude. You think the resident beings are eerie too. The Puma concolor pounce off the canyon walls, not trickle, but they are just as spooked by your mousey passing. 

Besides running dry, you fear the storms too. I know, just as the metronomic pitter patter begins to feel like a rhythm you have to find a new one. But remember: storms manifest wind chimes and lull us to rhythmless sleep. Besides, those storm clouds brewed in the mountains are not as ominous as they appear. It would not surprise me if they had fears of leaving their towering roots for the deep abyss of the plains.

So what are you waiting for? What you are afraid of? Make enough plans and there is nothing to fear. You love planning, even though I think you just need the distractions. It’s fine. Making plans is a creative process, where you add structure to the imaginary story we are slated to act out.

Zion 100 recap: about my veins.

I was not watching from my brief requiem, in the soft pink of dim florescent, pulsing orange monitors, and neon green exit signs. I could sense another pair of lenses in the room besides my dad’s thick bifocals. My eyes snapped open as the shutter’s snapped closed. What are you doing?

My dad said he took the picture so I could never forget what I looked like. I’ve never seen the picture, but I haven’t forgotten. The feeling, at least, of liquefying after trying to overdose on something as stupid as Aleve and alcohol. How tight they wrapped my forearms that I never bothered bandaging before.

I’m writing this because it amazes me how we are the same changing person throughout our lives. I was 15 and determined to destroy myself as slowly and inefficiently as possible. I never slept well because at night gravity would overtake my meticulous calculations and weigh on my flesh. Thin flesh so I could not lie on my back or my bones would grind and puncture.

Eight years later I still think that irrational voice is in my head.  The voice used to command me to sit staunch and unfeeling in front of a room full of my tear-streaked family and a plate of food. Voicing opinions about making cryptic cuts like how the Indians used to gird trees through the phloem. The difference now is I learned to work with this voice, and I do not deny it is the same voice that commands me to run all day. Where before I would run three miles and shake my way through a futile family dinner, my body and mind in direct opposition, I’ve learned to make my body and mind work in conjunction.

Hanorexic (n.): nickname middle schooler's daub Hannah's hovering around 100 lbs.

I didn’t realize how well that voice and I started working together until I started working at the coffee shop in Golden, CO. As someone who’s adopted new methods of movement to hide my scarred arms, the comments I get from customers surprise me. No one sees my scars. They ask if I climb or what I do to get these veins. The same veins once traced with razors, that I worried showed my weakness, tell a story of strength. 

Little guy just resting.

I don’t regret dropping out of the Zion 100k. I maybe regret starting. My mind tried to coach my body along, but I know when a body is useless. My throat was so swollen that my breathing turned into a wheeze, I couldn’t cough, and I wouldn’t talk. I’ve gotten a lot better at listening to my body, eating intuitively and not running through injuries, but toeing the start line sick was a new one for me.

I was terrified of finding a clown on course because I was afraid he would do this to my esophagus.

I wrote this because I guess it is not that amazing we are the same person throughout our lives. I hear of family and friends battling their own irrational voices and I hope they learn to listen. What sounds like self-destruction might just need to be spun around on a baseball bat and sent in a different direction.

Scumbaggin' (verb): If running ultras doesn't make you feel scummy enough, camping sans showers and plumbing might do it for you. 

Virgin River, around mile 16. 

Gooseberry Mesa, around mile 30.

Both a bunch of dropped pants, trying to make John smile about it.

We both got sick two weeks before Zion, thinking how lucky we were. So many siestas in my near future again.

Virgin River below River Rock Roasting coffeehouse, the best for caffeine and calories.