This was most likely a mistake, a long mistake.
I hiked six miles once; and though I’ve run farther on pavement, those six in the woods had more sticks, creeks, and hills—no—mountains in them than the roads around our neighborhood.
So, 35 miles? I’ll start puking now, good preparation for September.
I’m blaming it on my parents; curse you Forrest Gump! May I lather shame on my great grandparents for owning all the land I roamed as a child! And a hex on you middle-age! And that ever-fading patch of hair atop my head! Shan’t I just acquire a Corvette, comb the remaining strands to the side and push on with my life!
Yet, it feels so right. This seems like the perfect moment to stumble off into the forest and wind (or weep) my way back to civilization. The urge won’t disappear. My new job forces me to walk more than ever before. My diet has shaped me into a smaller circle. Our five children provide me even further reason to escape for long hours in the night. And, let’s be honest, I can’t find anything to watch on Netflix.
So, the journey awaits. The Georgia Jewel ultra-marathon, a worn and beaten path for many, for me is a road never traveled.
“Run when you can, walk if you have to, crawl if you must; just never give up.”