R2R2R

“Die with memories not dreams”

“If you only did the things you don't want to do you'd have everything you've ever wanted”

I came into this with no preparation; I didn’t train, and I don’t consider myself a runner. I’m an enthusiast. Maybe a moron.

Wake up, it’s 3:30 AM. It’s cold outside, though I haven’t stepped foot outside, but inside my van, it feels cold even with the four layers of blankets I’m wrapped in, so I know it has to be cold outside. On the passenger seat, my folded clothes for the day await, along with a stocked running vest. Before I get dressed, I take a moment to contemplate and question my choices. The thought, “What the fuck am I doing?” crosses my mind as I shake my head. Despite the uncertainty, I gather my determination and put on my socks and tie my laces. Each piece of clothing I wear serves as a step closer to the start.

I warm up some water on my single burner stove; oatmeal and a generic Walmart pop tart are the morning run fuel. I meet my friend Adrianna about a mile from the South Rim trailhead. She, too, will embark on this challenge; both of us have our own reasons, our own motivations, and our own goals for this feat. How does one justify running/hiking 50 miles in a day? I can’t think of the answer, but people do, and I wanted to be one of them. We start our walk to the trailhead, nerves firing off, temperature low, and delusion at an all-time high. Upon reaching the trailhead, my nerves and delusion reach their peak, and all I can muster is a simple declaration: “Alright, let’s do this.” With that wish for good fortune, we begin our adventure. As the sun comes out, the trail and the path ahead become clearer; fear strikes me as what lies ahead becomes painstakingly clear. The canyon floor looks a lifetime away, and the mountains of the Grand Canyon carry an indescribable beauty that one can only stop and stare at. I continue to press forward, maintaining a brisk running pace, aware that the energy coursing through me will lessen as the day progresses. Acting on impulse, I decide to adopt a go-with-the-flow approach and let my feet guide me. A water breakage that led to its closure and limited access to potable water in the canyon foiled our plan to make a stop at Phantom Ranch, a popular rest stop known for serving lemonade and selling goodies. I don’t feel any immediate concern, although in retrospect, I wonder if I should have. I shed one of my clothing layers, placing it between the posts of the bulletin boards that displayed important notices and cautionary messages. I end up forgetting about it. It wasn’t a substantial loss to forget it.

Knowing that I am entering a challenging phase, I prepare myself by sitting down and devouring one bar I brought along, understanding that it will only get harder from here. I carry on, setting a comfortable pace for myself, with minimal company aside from a few occasional passersby, until I face the challenging climb up the north side of the rim. Along the way, I stop and eat a can of sardines, repack electrolytes, and breathe; my brain is on autopilot, but the continuous beauty of the canyon stops me in my path, and I take it in before moving deeper into the depths of the canyon. A sense of frustration washes over me as the forest service’s rockfall cleanup forces us to take an unplanned break, disrupting the positive energy I had built up. I did not know that this unforeseen delay would make all the difference in my ability to reach the north rim without feeling shattered or maintaining high spirits. As we all sit waiting to get the go-ahead, I am rubbing my calf violently with cramping balm, and another runner takes notice (I might’ve been doing it a bit dramatically, but that’s not important). He asks me if everything is okay, and I hint my calf had been cramping; he offers me a few salt pills, and that was the difference. After about 20 minutes, we receive the green light to proceed. I push forward, and each stride sends a jolt of agony through my left knee. I think to myself, “This fucking ibuprofen isn’t working,” but I have no choice; you do not come this far to turn back. I have this internal debate with myself that if I turn back, I won’t be in pain as long as I will be if I continue on; then I say out loud, “If I’m going to be in this much pain, I might as well finish and be in a lot of pain till the end.” Dark thoughts flood your mind, including self-doubt, regret, and questioning the rationality of your decision.

One foot after the other, knees tremble, joints ache, and mind spirals. Despite the physical discomfort and mental exhaustion, I push through the last mile to the north rim, and I find it miserable. I won’t lie to you; I did soon find a deep appreciation for what I just did, as is often the case with type 2 activities. When I reached the north rim, I noticed a few tourists, unsure of how they had arrived at this point. Unphased, I carried on with my own tasks, while fellow runners and hikers refueled with water and dive into their well-deserved treats, all amidst the turbulent weather of gusty winds, pouring rain, and even occasional sleet. I took a seat on the soaked wooden bench, stretched out my legs, and opened the pack of chocolate Pocky sticks I brought; I don’t even think I chewed. I filled up my water packs with the most repulsive-tasting water and wasted no time. As much as I wanted to hang out and rest longer, I knew it would do me no good.

Ignoring my longing for more downtime, I mustered the willpower to jog at what I estimated to be an 18-minute pace, wincing in agony as my legs throbbed, and hoped that the new dose of ibuprofen would soon kick in. As I hear a voice up ahead, I recognize it as Adrianna’s, who made it about a mile and a half from the top of the rim. This unexpected encounter injected me with a surge of energy that propelled me all the way back down to the canyon floor. It was a relief to express the emotions that had been building until now, and realizing that we had returned to the same location after hours and miles was a clear sign things were not as dire as your mind leads you to believe. She turned back alongside of me, and we trekked along as rain showered us, but we knew home was the next destination (home for me was my van). I felt content with my speed, as I was making good progress toward my goal, whatever that may be. after our reunion, we found ourselves separated once again, emphasizing moving at our own pace; this was not the moment or location to seek approval from others, and that should never be the case.

I found myself in solitude for the following 13 miles. Fueled by the belief that speed would lead to an earlier return, I eagerly anticipated the pop tart awaiting me. The relentless rain continued to pour, while the temperatures plummeted, revealing my fear with the sudden arrival of thunderstorms and lightning. The sound of the roaring waters in the Colorado River made me feel like I had been caught in the midst of a battlefield. BANG, BANG, BANG! The canyon walls would vibrate from the fury above. Brief bursts of lightning would disorient me, intensifying my urgency to run, as I whispered under my breath, “Please, don’t let me get fucking electrocuted.” I look back and see the two runners who offered me salt pills a hundred yards away; soon enough, they caught up to me. Their pace was a seamless blend of running and fast hiking, and I matched it stride for stride until the very end. Engaging in small talk provided a clear morale boost for me. Once we open ourselves up to it, the world becomes small. They are from San Diego as well, and they even lived in Encinitas. I told them I was there all winter, and it all made it feel like we were in this together; that little sense of community and familiarity goes a long way.

Right before the three of us made it to the start of the Bright Angel Trailhead, we sat, we drank water, and I ate the last of my food. With a distance of 9 or maybe even 10 miles to the top of the rim, I knew that the upcoming hours would be absolute torture. The real uphill battle begins at mile 6, but it intensifies at mile 3, as the path becomes a treacherous series of switchbacks, increasing in steepness.

As the lights dimmed, the sun’s presence waned, leaving the area in darkness. The headlamps of runners far ahead could be glimpsed in the distance, miles away, and in that moment, it felt demoralizing. We’ve come so close to only feel it’s still so far. My headlamp put me in an intense state of tunnel vision; I saw nothing else but the floor and six feet ahead. Along the way, we took three breaks to reach the top, and during one of those stops, Nate, one of the runners I was with, generously offered his jelly bellies, which I believe played a crucial role in my ability to not lose my fucking mind. The small, colorful bean-sized candy was my hope; they were my motivator. I couldn’t stop thanking both of them; I felt I was in debt to them, for the jelly bellies, the company, and a pair of gloves they lent me because my hands were not in any good shape. The closer we got, our pace quickened, a surge of adrenaline coursed through me when I spotted the lights from the building up ahead.

I was so exhausted that even the desire to cry slipped by me. I take my first step off the trail. It was over. We congratulate each other; I thank them. We take a selfie—the selfie described the entire day, blurry, dark, and short-sighted. With my van visible in the distance, I am overwhelmed by a sense of invincibility. The feeling of victory and perseverance washed over me. I crawl into my van and tear off my clothes. My feet, oh my feet, they were nothing short of abused. The ugliest trolls in Lord of the Rings looked better than they did, but I was proud; they were a trophy, a sign of unwavering determination. They were what got me back here.