Dyck Knows

This is about running, but it isn’t a running post. Maybe I should say the pretext is running, but there’s more to it that just that.

I’ve spent the last year choosing to not run. My last efforts ended up taking advantage of my compromised back and shredding it to bits. That’s a hyperbole, but you understand. My efforts before that, another year in the past, ended up doing the same thing, putting me down for months of physiotherapy and discomfort. My efforts before that however, the year before, ended with hours upon seemingly hours of what must be the equivalent of a Buddhist reaching enlightenment; times of sheer bliss and an obliteration of most waking thought, just breathing, one foot in front of the other, over and over and over. I’ve written before about the purity of singular motion, of singular thought, and in its best reaches running gifts to us that pinpoint precision of life that makes everything in that moment perfect, and everything else meaningless. One foot in front of the other.

Fast forward to now. Four weeks ago, with the blessing and guidance of my physiotherapist, I started running again. Short, frequent sessions lasting only a couple of kilometres to get my legs and body conditioned to the forces, and then slightly longer runs to build distance. “Gradual” was a term used frequently while planning my re-entry into the sport. And she mentioned “slowly” a couple of times as well.

And then this weekend a friend invited me on what promised to be a slow, medium distance run. I had been up to eight kilometres without significant issues on my back or legs, so pushing up to ten or twelve would have been ideal. That was the plan the night before, but in the morning the plan quickly escalated to twenty kilometres. A flat trail, but longer than what would have been ideal.

How much of life can we let just happen, and how much needs preparation and conditioning?

Without that nudge, that push, I would have continued to nurse myself along, giving myself an excuse to cut runs short. I would have robbed myself from the experience.

I’m running now everyday. Sometimes five or six kilometers, but sometimes 15 to 20. I ran 26 kilometers into the wilderness this summer and didn’t see a single other human. I ran into the still clouds of Ball Pass, the day fully overcast and talking rain, cold but fresh against the skin and my lungs, my legs, working with the landscape, with the elevation. I coaxed my body upward, me and my mind, knowing this is what was needed. We ran down the backside of Ball Pass into Whistling Valley and into the browning meadows near Shadow Lake. I stopped there and cried and then turned around and opened myself to the returning run. I did all of this and nothing else mattered, and it still doesn’t.

I wrote this two years ago but kept it private. In the interest of being honest, here you go.

I bought a new knife today. My friend Joe laughed at me last night when I told him I didn’t carry one while hunting. I said I had a cell phone, if I needed a knife I’d call home for delivery. It made sense to me, but I haven’t hunted for years. And I’ve never hunted successfully.

I like the feel of a good knife, it’s heavy in the hand and solid. Not a folding blade, but solid steel from tip to tail. It doesn’t have to be large, but it needs to be made well.

My first hunting knife, like my first chef’s blade, was high quality. Not so much the chef’s knife, but the hunting blade I labored over constantly. Oddly, I never had the opportunity to use it hunting – testament to my ineptitude at feeding my family – but I kept it as sharp as a whip. I still have the stone I used for sharpening; smooth, graceful strokes, even pressure.

The first time I cut myself was after my second year of university.

I had just about destroyed my education by skipping final exams, subconsciously sabotaging myself and fully believing I was smarter than what university had to offer. But that summer course in psychology was to be my re-entry. I finally found something I desperately wanted to do well at and I literally needed A+ grades in order to get back into the Honors program to be considered for a Masters.

A book report was my undoing, and my walk home through Waterloo Park, cutoff camouflage pants and Doc Marten boots, was full of rage. That book report confirmed how useless I was, and even my best efforts would fail to propel me towards greatness. I would be average.

Returning to the apartment I grabbed that chef’s knife, sat down at the kitchen table and sharpened it one last time against the stone. Drawing it against my skin was deliberate and forceful, and every time after that it was the same, with punishing and guided force. One time I used a somewhat sharpened stone and simply drew it repeatedly across my wrist until I wore the skin out. Every other time however, I made sure the blade would cut through steel. I’ve dug deep through my flesh. I’ve tasted my blood far too much to love what I was born to. I tip my hat to our great poets.

I still have moments like that, the searing sense of failure and lack of value, but whether through the dumbing-down of age or a better understanding of myself, it is no longer an impulse on which I need to act. I know now that I have value, that all life has something inherent. It may escape me occasionally, but I know it’s there. And in my greatest moments of need, I usher myself off into the woods by bike or foot to see that my spirit gets the reprieve it needs.

I see my scars as trophies, and although I still always try to conceal them during conversation or other times when they are on display, I wouldn’t remove them for the world. This is what created who I am today. I would rather go through hell to experience something, than endure mediocrity and never know anything else.