Asking for help
This article started out as a blog post and finished up as something of a short story (a true story though). So it's a bit longer to read and a bit artier. I changed the narrative view, because it just seemed to read better.
I hope you like it - if you do, feel free to leave me a comment below :)
It's the peak of summer 2009, and I'll get cancer soon, in June, and fall without choice into the care of all those who know me and of so many who don't.
But now, I crave the adventure and solitude of a mountain run. It's my own indulgence; an escape from the unrelenting loud contact of my city life; a relief from its messages, its meetings, its connectedness, its expectations, and mine.
I'll run the Mt. Jumbo-Holdsworth race: 24km of steep forest terrain up nearly 5,000 feet. The race requires an early morning start at the river below. Once before, I'd driven from Wellington at 5am in the morning to get there, and run the race, skipped the prize-giving, wolfed a sausage, salad and a pie and drove back to the city in the afternoon for a wedding. This time, I'm determined to start relaxed: I'll stay the night before in my tent at the foot of the mountain; I'll stake the full experience as my own.
I leave Wellington on Friday evening after work, having bundled my tent and race gear hurriedly into the car, fearing interruption. The hill roads unwind me. I stop at the lodge on the Holdsworth road, and enjoy a self-congratulatory pizza, savouring my escape.
After the pizza, I drive the remaining 15 minutes along the road in darkness, to the public campground its end. It's blissfully quiet here, with a sparse community of dome tents pitched around the perimeter of a large grass field, each tent glowing quietly in the night like a Chinese lantern. I drive to my spot slowly, not wanting to disturb, but my car wheels crunch on the gravel road, announcing my arrival. I choose my campsite on the far side of the trees, away from the large family beach-head sprawled out from the fence, with the kids bikes dumped outside.
There's no mobile phone coverage here, at the foot of the mountains. No one can get me. It's my time, and I'm free.
I wake at 6:30am. I feel tired, slow. I imagine a slow run, conceding the thought easily. I lie in my sleeping-bag another 10mins, because I can.
7am. I'm up, and I can't find my running shoes. I empty my two bags, search the car, the ground around the car, underneath the car. I've left my running shoes at home.
I'm angry at myself. It's not dramatic anger, but it's quiet, bitter, severe. I've failed. There's no-one around, but I'm ashamed. I've no energy. My shoulders drop, my head bows and I push out a sigh, like a worn Thermarest, my shape deflated. The tent is damp and its air is stale. I'm sunk.
It's too late to drive back for my shoes. Regardless of time, I won't drive back. This is not a fear of the reaction of others, or their mocking - I don't comprehend those things (why would people laugh?) My critical self isn't funny - it's menacing. It's the glowering thug with the baseball bat, the closing brick wall, the sharp broken glass to squeeze by. It hangs in the air like a thick, inescapable humidity. Me versus the humidity.
I don't want to leave the tent. I can't. I need the freedom of the run, the comfort of familiar trees and ferns, but I can't have it. My head bows and the air seeps out again.
Outside, there'll be hundreds of runners here today. Their sporty hatches will arrive packed with the latest fluoro gear, all of it breathable, ultra-light, gel cushioned and gaudy. There'll be dozens and dozens of people with spare shoes. Friendly people, kind and like-minded. I know what the obvious thing to do is, but I can't face it. I won't bear it.
The Want turns bitter, and gleams with a streak of mad. I'll run it in Tivas, I think. Sandals. One time I had climbed up Yosemite's Half-Dome in Tivas. I scaled its steep rock in the heat, swinging up the rusted safety cables, past hundreds of sweating, geared up Tourist Groups in my irresponsibly inadequate Tiva sandals. Past their startled disapproval with a silent smirk. I'll do it again, I think, I'll run the race in Tivas, stuff it. I'll do it myself, I'm not going to give up my freedom.
The belief ebbs, and dissipates.
I'm in the tent. I can't step out and ask. There's nowhere else. I'm frozen, it's an exhausting strain. But this isn't fear, its unacceptance. I have to solve this myself, it's my problem. I don't deserve their help. What do I deserve?
I step out of the tent, muddled. The sky is bright blue and the air is sharp. Polar fleece trackpants on, warm athletic-looking top. They're protective layers. I collate my race food, energy bars, my survey map, water pack, and of course the survival blanket: a thin wisp of tinfoil dubiously rumoured to trap your bodyheat when you're sprawled in strife on the side of a mountain. I've got all the gear to survive the race - but no shoes. Socks on. Tivas on.
Looking back now, I tell my past self: Lacking shoes is merely ridiculous; Relax. Smile. Instead, I wear a vicious, unforgiving chagrin.
I walk to join the growing group of (organised) runners. There's a false adrenalin building in me. I'll run this mountain race, over its rock and bog and roots and through its streams in sandals. Yeah.
Within me, I know what I really have to do. What any normal person can so easily do.
One memory made the difference for me. I remember what my friend Lisa would do. She'd ask. She wouldn't think.
It changes. There's no buildup, no epiphany. Rob the race organiser is there.
"Hey I want to run but I forgot my shoes."
Rob just laughs. No judgement. "We'll find you some shoes, he says. From the spot, he yells out: "Does anybody have any spare shoes?" Straight away the guy standing next to me says, flatly and casually: Yeah, I've got some, what size are you?
Suddenly, EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE. Craig's shoes are two sizes too big, but I can wear three pairs of socks. The shoes are heavy and old, but they're proper mountain shoes, stable and grippy. It's all going to work; I'm going running today. This guy's forgot his shoes, says Rob to the safety gear-check woman, laughing. We all laugh.
The crowd of runners amass at race start. I see a couple of workmates. I forgot my shoes, I say proudly, but I borrowed some. Look at my big Ronald McDonald feet! I'm wearing three pairs of socks!
I start the run in the middle of the pack, among the crowd. Free among the crowd. We spread up the hill, through the trees. I run contentedly with another guy along the Atiwhakatu track. We reach the astoundingly steep 'rain gauge' track. You don't run the rain gauge track, you scale it. On the slow climb up, we peel off a few more places.
Across the high ridge to Mt Jumbo, now looking down on the lower hilltops like a helicopter view over green dunes. It's sparse up here, a few runners ahead and behind.
Down hill - I'm flying. I streak past a guy running gingerly over the swollen, gnarled track. Past one, past another, running free.
Back down at the final foothills before the river, I'm finishing strong. I check my watch: Just over three hours. Quick for me, I think. Good shoes.
At the finish there's a small crowd milling around a barbecue and food table. I gulp down water and inhale a banana. More runners come in, happy, swapping stories of adventure up there. How did you go?, says Nick G, my friend. Good I think, a good day, not a bad run.
After a while, the provisional results are printed and taped to the outside wall of the lodge. People crowd around. We squeeze in and look down the times. I'm stunned to see I've placed second. I had absolutely no idea. I've never placed in a race before. "Bro! You got second! What do you mean - not a bad run?!".
At prize-giving, my name is announced. I go up and shake Rob's hand. He tells the crowd: "This guy forgot his shoes this morning, and had to borrow some! Must have been some pretty good shoes!" The crowd laughs; I laugh. Thanks, I say, soaring.
After the merit prizes, there are spot prizes for all. Everyone can be a winner. Rob draws race numbers out of a large cardboard Bonita Banana carton. A t-shirt: Number x. A woman springs from the crowd to collect it. A Timex watch: Number xx. Oooooh, murmurs the crowd. Good prize. A pair of Hi-Tech shoes, Number x. It's me. You're not going to believe this, says Rob. It's Nick White, the guy who forgot his shoes! Ha! Mate, you need these, well done!
After prize-giving, I offer my new shoes to Craig, as thanks for helping me out. He won't have it. No, they're yours, he says. You've earned it!
That was the first ever race I placed in. The race was difficult, sure, but by far the hardest thing for me that day was asking for help. It began as me versus me, and the victory was in the asking.