Last week I ran 30 miles by myself. I left the house at 6am, and didn’t return until 4pm. Driving time took about an hour each way, and I stopped for food before heading home, so total running time, including stops, was almost 7 hours. And, I absolutely loved it. Friends comments ranged from “I can’t believe you did that all by yourself” to “I guess there are worse things you could do with your time.” I just smile and nod, because why try to explain something that some people will never understand? My long runs, in the woods, exploring new trails, are my church. It’s where I brainstorm, ponder, wonder, practice mindfulness, and appreciate. 

I’m not a short distance runner. I run marathons. I want to run ultras. I will run and run and run and hike a little. My feet will ache, my breath will grow rapid, my stomach will growl, and my legs will leaden. But my eyes and ears will be open. I’ll notice the tree canopy, the breeze, the color of the flowers. I’ll wonder at a noise, and think it’s a mountain lion. I’ll think about how eerie it is to be unable to see past the fog. 

I’ll contemplate a conversation I had yesterday, and I’ll mentally compose an email, or I’ll try to make sense of an argument or someone’s political affiliations. I’ll think about how tired I am, how I need to reconnect with an old friend, or that I can’t believe someone said that. And in between all of these thoughts, I’ll think of nothing at all. And the miles will pass. The minutes will pass. 

As I move forward I acknowledge the miles with acute awareness that I have found the thing that makes me happy. That makes me feel strong, capable, and accomplished. Seven years ago, I didn’t know that being a runner would become an integral piece of my identity. But when I started running I found a confidence that made me want to keep trying, to dedicate the effort and focus to keep getting better. This is why I don’t get lonely when I run. I don’t wish I were somewhere else, doing something else. I don’t miss late nights, doing things that were fun but didn’t make me feel good about myself. So, I don’t feel bad when others don’t understand. I have chosen this for myself, and I do this for myself.

During a recent solo run in Skyline Park on a Saturday morning, the busyness of the park was making me a little grumpy. A horseback rider asked me to move aside off the trail for fear of spooking her horse, a group of guys who looked like they were part of a bachelor party were playing Frisbee golf, 20-somethings from the city didn't want to get out of their Zip Car while complaining about the cold, and men with loud power tools and ear plugs didn't see me approaching along the trails (although I can't be too upset at this crew - they were clearing the trails for me).

A few miles into the park, human noise pollution drifted away, and my irritation turned to calm, turned to feeling eerily alone. As I approached Tutuer loop - a section at the back of the park, I realized I had never before run that section alone, and I was acutely aware of every cracking twig and rustling branch. I also remembered the sign posted at the park entrance reporting that a mountain lion had been spotted in this section over a year ago. I reminded myself that as long as there are deer, turkeys, boar and cows in this park, I am safe from a mountain lion attack. Mountain lions are shy, reclusive and would only attack a humans if it's terribly sick. I would be fine. But, I couldn't do it. I turned around and made my way back toward the noise... The safety of the power tools and human voices.

One of my running friends has a joke about "stick snakes" - every branch or twig we trip over or step on on the trail has potential to be a snake we didn't notice. My fear of snakes "should" outweigh my fear of mountain lions. Not just any snake - the stick snake is harmless, so is the gopher, the garden, the king. But why am I not afraid of rattlesnakes? Until this past weekend, when I told a friend about my irrational fear of mountain lions, I hadn't thought much about rattlers. But with the warm summer weather, and my decision to train for a 50 mile race, I'm realizing rattlesnakes should be a cause for concern. What if I'm on a trail alone with no cell reception, and am bitten? What if it hurts like hell? What if I lose a limb? I avoided one while hiking in Zion and I nearly stepped on one while backpacking in Trinity. Then there's ultra-runner Jenn Thompson who survived a double-rattlesnake bite, and whose account of the nightmare is absolutely horrifying. They're out there, and they're no joke.

Here's the thing - I have to believe that the reward is worth the risk. Isn't that true with anything in life worth doing? While backpacking, am I cautious about losing my footing and slipping down a scree field? While riding my bicycle, and I nervous the car coming up behind me won't see me? 8,000 people a year are bitten by venomous snakes, but like most things in life, human provocation tends to be the cause. In Jenn Thomspon's case, a passing cyclist clipped the snake. A freak accident, yes, but still human error. If she had been all alone out there, would she still have been bitten? Snakes are just as shy as mountain lions, and will retreat if they can. To survive in the great outdoors, I have to believe that I am the greatest threat to myself, whether running trails, backpacking in the mountains, or driving my car. Carelessness, over-inflated confidence, these are the things that will put me in harm's way. Isn't it ironic that humans provided me a false sense of safety while running in Skyline Park, but it's humans who are the most dangerous threat to my safety? How interesting it is that, equipped with awareness and knowledge, I am at the same time my most vulnerable and safest, alone in the deepest pockets of the wilderness.