Away We Ran

"Well this is just as simple song
To say what you've done
I told you about all those fears
And away they did run
You sure must be strong
When you feel like an ocean being warmed by the sun"
 - Simple Song, by The Shins 



I was about a fourth of the way through an obstacle course mud run, called Todo Lodo (which means All Mud), and as I walked ... scratch that, trudged ... uphill, covered in mud, my shoes weighed down like bricks, and already out of breath, I wondered fleetingly, "Why is it I'm doing this?"


 Todo Lodo has been held annually for the past four years out at El Refugio, the retreat center in the mountains. April 7th marked the third year in which all the Casa Gabriel boys and I have run it. Our team consisted of our current 8 boys, myself, and two other staff members. Together we broke from the start line and ran full-speed along the paths created in the property's corn fields. We scaled a steep, muddy mound, and crawled through tunnels of earth, my back occasionally scraping the roof when I didn't crawl low enough. We climbed over a set of tires set into a wooden platform, and had to crawl beneath another set of them strung across a mud pit. Then, it was running and running, through more fields and uphill. I began to walk, running again to get enough momentum to jump over three fires, before walking once more. Already my muscles were screaming for oxygen in the thin mountain altitude. It was then (trudging) that I contemplated why I was back here doing this for the third time.

Our team had quickly split apart, with some of the boys running ahead and some falling behind. I was in the middle, my favorite place: it motivates me to try to catch up with the front pack, or gives me reason to stop and rest while waiting for the ones behind me.

Luis, our youngest and smallest at Casa Gabriel, matched my stride and together we hiked along the mountain path. I knew that the El Refugio team had to come out with machetes and occasionally hack the paths free of creeping vines and other plants which threatened to obliterate it. It was a place both peaceful and wild.

For quite some time, I let Luis be my pacer. When we finally crested a minor peak and began to go downhill he started to run, so I ran. When we headed back uphill and he walked, so did I. Finally we came to the next obstacles: wooden walls, the first about seven feet tall I'd imagine, and the second about nine. Luis made it to the top of each one first, holding down a hand which I grasped as I hoisted myself up. Then we were off again, running and running until the incline forced us to walk once more, our breathing ragged and our hearts pounding. This year, the trail led to the summit of the mountain along an incredibly narrow path. Through feeling as though I were dying, the view was absolutely stunning, with mountains and valleys spreading out in all directions, the city just a twinkle of glass in the distance.

We headed downhill. A man ahead of me caught his arm on some brambles and blood trickled down his elbow and mixed with the mud. As I focused on my footing, someone called my name, and just like that, Luis and I had caught up with Carlos. When the path widened out, the three of us took off running once again. For a time, I was Luis's pacer; when I ran, so did he, chest heaving. Going downhill, I love to take long, loping strides, conserving energy while covering more ground. But when we were once again on the forested path, my steps became more like hops as I flew downhill while trying to avoid hitting a patch of slick leaves and doing a face-plant. Several times the path would take a hairpin turn and I would be forced to grab at a slim eucalyptus tree as I turned, the velocity of my downhill race wrenching my arm some.

While wading along a muddy creek bed, my name was called once again: Alexis. Now we were four.

We made it across a large net (think the kind they place under trapeze artists), Luis pulling at me good-naturedly to try to beat me in getting off of it. We waded through a frigid pond, ducking under strategically strung logs which made the whole thing look like a clock (The Hunger Games, Catching Fire, anyone?). We scrambled through a maze of branches, climbing up and over and ducking beneath. We ran through a final field and army-crawled through a long patch of mud which had barbed wire strung across it.

We finished. We received our medals and sat on the grass eating bananas, soaking up the sun. We were caked in layers of mud, some which had dried from the first obstacles and some which dripped from us afresh. Eventually we would use the outdoor showers to clean off as much as possible before changing into fresh clothes. We'd give and receive congratulations to friends who were there. But it was driving away, the mountains and valleys once again spreading before us, that I went back to thinking about why I ran. It was because I got to share it with these boys I love, cheering them on when it was hard and celebrating with them at the finish line. It was because it made me feel so alive. I leaned against the car window, Carlos driving and playing the music loud as the rest of the boys chatted and snacked and took in the view of the mountains. We compared scrapes and bruises (my arms and legs have a plethora of lash-like scratches from crawling through the gritty mud), but doesn't all that just make you feel more alive? We ran and hiked and trudged uphill for forever, feeling like we were dying, only to fly downhill and across the finish line feeling so alive. So completely content and alive.



Photo: a handful of the guys and I.