The Notch

Hands on my knees, heart pounding in my skull, my mouth opens as if to scream and a stream of pink liquid pours out. It burns the nose.   This is the third puke in an hour and I’m partially amazed there is anything left in my stomach. Questions and self doubt are screaming in my head.  “What the HELL ARE YOU DOING?” “Why don’t you quit, nobody will know?”  “You’ve got nothing to prove, just walk it in.”

I’m on my third 7-mile lap of a trail in Minnesota. It’s the one of the last hard training runs before my first ultra-marathon and I’ve selected the course specifically because I knew it would test my mental toughness.   I’ve already run up, and down, a ski hill five times.   I know I have another three miles to go before one final ascent and the final descent to the rental car.  4 hours in, an hour to go, and I have no water, no food, and I can’t stop throwing up.

In response I summon the last bit of courage I have left and tell the voice, tell myself,   “We’re going to the notch.”

The notch is a very specific place and remains at the center of one of my most cherished memories of my dad. When I was younger my family would often vacation in Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado.  As a young child, my asthma was not well controlled and I often struggled just walking in the oxygen depleted air.  One of our favorite hikes as a family was from the Alpine visitor center to the summit of Mount Chapin. One day, my dad and I opted to try to summit Mt. Chiquita, the mountain next to Mt. Chapin which was quite a bit taller and further away from the trailhead.  It was an ambitious decision and we started before dawn the next day.

Mount Chapin is the mountain furthest right.  Chiquita is the center mountain.

http://www.nat-park.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/09/img-7368.jpg

Being from the flatlands of Michigan farm country, my legs and lungs struggled mightily as we labored across the scree and boulder fields.  We were making slow progress and like any kid, I was complaining.  I honestly didn’t think I could go much further and I stopped.  After initially being annoyed, Dad made me a deal.  We would only go to the notch, a giant stone cleft in the side of the mountain and he’d help. He explained that it would be a wasted day if we didn’t get to where we were trying to go.  So, we pressed on.  Me putting one foot in front of the other.  After a short ways further, I was so tired that Dad carried my backpack.   Then I had to grab on the straps of his pack, literally being towed up the mountain. Then we stopped.

I looked up through my exhausted eyes to see a look of joy on Dad’s face.  The next thing I saw was the edge of a cliff and to my astonishment we had reached the summit.  Dad couldn’t believe we had missed the massive gash in the side of the mountain.  I couldn’t believe I had actually walked to the top. As long as he lived, Dad insisted he hadn’t missed it on purpose; instead he used it as a lesson. He used it to explain that sometimes, you just have to put your head down and keep going.  It isn’t always going to be comfortable and in fact, sometimes everyone is suffering.  Sometimes, you have to conquer that internal voice by just focusing on an intermediate goal and always keep putting one foot in front of another. If you focus on getting to the notch, you might find yourself at the summit.

I finished that run in Minnesota.  It was slow and agonizing.   Sitting on the bumper of my car in the parking lot, I sipped on some lukewarm water and had to smile.  I had again missed the Notch.

Dad being dad in the mountains.    Longs Peak is in the background.