Walking on a Dream

Hills.

We are currently standing in the middle of a gravel road in rural Minnesota, waiting for a fellow runner to finish fertilizing the nearby corn field, and watching the west sky swell up dark blue, periodic flashes of white hurtling through the sky. We continue down the road, mile after mile passing by relatively calmly. Towards the end of the run the sky erupts in heavy rain, to which we start sprinting down the hills, headed for our final destination; we decide also that if the rain turned to hail we would make a break for a tree patch and bunker down there. Fortunately for us, all we received was a soaking that was borderline-baptismal. When we finally wandered back to the vehicle, rain abounding, I realize that we've been running for more than 90 minutes and that this was my longest run in more than three months. I take a deep breath and look at the clearing sky to the west: in two days I have a half marathon race in the North Dakota badlands. My legs hurt.

I'm panting and struggling up another hill. I'm on a warmup with a recently-made friend who is racing in the badlands with me. We are ascending a hill on the road that will take us to the #ndlegendary (sponsor) Maah Daah Hey trail. We are bunkered down at the Buffalo Gap Guest Ranch, a small western-style main street that almost nobody knows exists. They have the rustic western restaurant with expensive steaks, motel lodging with hitching posts right outside the door, and a cattle guard upon entering the area. Our half marathon race starts on the Buffalo Gap trail because trail miles 5 through 10 of the MDH are through Theodore Roosevelt National Park, and going through a national park presents all kinds of logistics problems. (For example, bikes aren't allowed in the national park, because they are too invasive on the experience or something. We can pave roads and make 'scenic drives' for people and their gas-guzzling campers through the wilderness, but if you want to ride a zero-emission bike on a dirt trail, that's a big no-no) Thus, the BG trail was created partially so that bikers and hikers (who would need permits for overnight stays) would not have to go through the national park.

The sky is clear blue and the temperature hovers in the 40s as the sun bounces back and forth off the buttes, the drops of water still holding onto the grass before the morning heat eats them up. We finish our warmup and congregate with the other folks out here to run in an area named for how unappealing it seemed to human habitation. Two days ago when I ran too far, I thought I wouldn't have people to race with; now I look to my right and see a guy who will absolutely roast me. I end up not being wrong.

The first few miles go by in a flash- the course is dry and relatively flat- so we pop off a few miles in the 5:45 range and ease in. We take turns lifting up the gate for each other (these gates are spring-loaded on the left side, so you pick up the right side, set it down, and it stays down. It's genius and I'm sure the local ranchers love it) and engage in conversation here and there. In fact, I'm even beginning to entertain notions that I could actually win this interes

Hills.

I'm hurting now. Being a product of the famed Red River Valley and raised in her oppressive flatness, hills and I have a respect/hate relationship, but the hills definitely wear the pants. By mile six I'm sucking wind, and my opponent is kind and gracious, waiting a few moments at the gate to let me through without dropping it. Soon it's not even worth his time anymore and he's gone, and when I say gone I mean he's over the next valley, and by the time I get to the top he's over the next one and gone. I'm alone.

I had never before been in a race where I found myself completely alone. In cross country or track, you may be by yourself, but you can still see your opponents. You may be leading the race, but you can feel the competition behind you. My legs now felt like the 10 pound brick that lifeguards retrieve during training, and I was becoming quite hungry. On some of the tougher hills, I found myself walking to the top, periodically turning around and checking for runners coming up behind me. There were none. The trail had received a slight rain the night before, and our favorite cattle friends had duly walked every inch of it, and as a result the whole length was covered in hoof-sized ruts and muddy stream crossings. I could feel my shoes beginning to weigh more.

As I finish a short trudge to the top of one hill, I opened a gate, walked through, set it down, and paused. I had traveled sufficiently far from the interstate that I couldn't hear it's annoying sounds anymore. I still could not see or hear another human being; there were no homes or sign of human life save a power line powering through just south of me, hell-bent on Medora. The gentle breeze was flowing through the prairie grass, and the prairie animals and insects sang that summer buzz in the valleys; this hum is one of the most peaceful sounds I know.

The rest of the race was a struggle. I managed to scare a lady out of her wits (she was talking on her phone while walking the 10k race and ignoring all the scenery around her- quite sad) and my fellow racer had time to finish his race, recover, and run out to jog the finish with me. My legs were done and all I wanted was food. The MDH had chewed me up and spit me out, completely unwavering in its devotion to destroy all that enter. My jersey was soaked with sweat, my throat parched and in need of water, and my shoes and calves were covered in mud. I loved every second of it.

I'm sitting and watching the Olympic Men's Marathon now. The pack has split and the only three left are two East Africans and our random white guy from America (not random if you follow distance running, but nonetheless seeing a white guy in a USA top in the top three of the Olympic Marathon is a strange sight). However, the cameras still take time to focus on all the athletes that have been thrown out the back. These are runners that have put in years and years of training just to get stomped in this race on live tv. They have made sacrifices unknown to the common person, and some even have entire countries cheering them on. I can't help but sit, stargazed, at those behind the lead pack. True grit right there. They are living the Olympic dream.

As I stood on top of the trail in the badlands, I realized that my dream was not far, far away. In fact, it wasn't even across this valley and over the next butte. No, my dream was somewhere in between. My dream was putting one foot in front of the other and enjoying the ride. We are meant to move, not sit. We are meant to run, not walk. We are meant to breathe. We are meant to dream.