The afternoon was cold and raw.
Rain was cascading nonstop from the gray October sky.
It was the perfect weather to stay inside and read a book, or watch television. But I was doing neither.
I was out on wooded dirt trail in the 38-degree chill.
Outfitted in a T-shirt, shorts and a pair of running shoes, I sprinted for a quarter mile up a steep hill. Rain drenched my face and stuck to my clothes with every striding step.
My reward when I got to the top? To jog back down to the bottom of the hill and do it all over again.
Jog, not walk. After all, the number one rule of Cross Country practice: No Walking Allowed.
By the fourth jaunt up the hill, I was dragging. My quad muscles were so full of lactic acid that I felt like I’d been stabbed. My arms were raw from the elements. My teeth were chattering.
I made it to the top, and our coach mercifully called it a day.
By the time we got back to the locker room — a full mile from Hell’s Hill — I could barely move. I sat on a bench for what felt like eternity.
Never again, I told myself.
Never again will I subject myself to this.
If you had told me how this scene would play out two months earlier, I flat out would not have believed you.
I was preparing to start high school, and to experience all the changes that would bring.
One of my main goals for my freshman year was to make the Junior Varsity baseball team. So, when the baseball coach encouraged me to join the Cross Country team — which he also coached — I didn’t think twice.
How hard can this be? I thought. I’ve run before.
I quickly learned just how wrong I was.
For my first practice, my task was to run a mile-long loop on the backcountry trails near school. I didn’t run up Hell’s Hill that day, but I did weave my way through some remote and hilly trails.
All the while, the coach paced me on his bicycle. There was no chance to slow down, even after I began to suck wind a half mile into the run.
Still, discouraged as I was, I decided to keep going. It was important for me to show the coach how resilient I was. It would pay dividends in the spring. And staying in shape couldn’t be a bad thing — although I was a string bean back then anyways.
Over the following months, I learned to shift my habits. I swapped out fries and Coca-Cola for Subway and Gatorade. I committed to stretching properly. And I learned to conserve my energy on race day.
I found that by sprinting that final quarter mile of the race, instead of the first one, I could pass dozens of fatigued runners and bolster my final position. That tactic became my secret weapon.
It seemed as if everything was working out. That I could learn to love this brutal sport after all.
Then, that fateful afternoon in the rain came to pass.
No more, I told myself. This would be my first and last season on the team.
I finished the year with a medal in the Freshman State Championships. Then, I walked away.
There was no going back. Not to Cross Country. Not to running regularly.
I was done.
Or was I?
I’m doing it again.
The thought crossed my mind as I scaled a 100-foot hill, with the day’s first light ahead of me.
The origins of what was sure to be another triple-digit summer day were taking its toll on me. As I cut through the muggy predawn air, my shirt and face were drenched in sweat. My quads felt the familiar resistance of that cold afternoon from half my life ago.
Yet, I powered through. I continued to push the pace.
Yes, a lot had changed since I walked away from running. I grew up, fell out of shape and had a shift in perspective.
Somewhere along the line, I decided that running could help me get back on track. So, I started spending 10 minutes on the treadmill twice a week.
But even with that workout in tow, I felt something was missing. I missed the thunder of my shoes hitting the pavement, the freshness of the air in my lungs, the excitement of every stride taking me somewhere new.
So, I started running a mile in my neighborhood. That mile run quickly became a two-mile loop. Then, I added a third run to my weekly routine, so that I was hitting the pavement roughly every other day.
I could feel the difference. My running regimen made me healthier, happier and more balanced. What was once a nuisance activity was now an essential part of my life.
So, I made sure to get my scheduled running in each week, no matter the weather. I ran in everything from 1-degree wind chills to 107-degree heat indices, blazing sunshine to pouring rain.
Then, I moved.
I had to find a new running route. And my search led me to the 100-foot hill.
At first, I didn’t want to mess with it. Too steep of a grade. Too tall a task.
But eventually, curiosity got the better of me.
And now, here I was. Scaling the hill. Dealing with déjà vu all over again.
Only this time there was a twist.
I wasn’t taking on this grueling workout because I had to. I was taking on “The Death Run” because I wanted to.
The steady hands of time and fate had gradually guided my back to one of the most miserable moments of my youth. And somehow, they led me to find joy in it.
The irony was palpable. It lingered long after my workout ended.
There must be a lesson in this, I told myself. It can’t be pure circumstance.
Still, I had trouble finding the connection, until I put pen to paper.
I realize now how well this experience showed life’s circuity. That over time, we can learn to love the things we once despised. We can embrace experiences we once abhorred.
Better yet, we can thrive off of these changes. We can use them to push our boundaries, gain fulfillment and become more well-rounded.
We’re all better served by embracing the power that big shifts can have in our life. By adopting a growth mindset. By replacing the word never with perhaps someday.
For we don’t know what surprises the future might hold. We don’t know if the mountain standing in our way now might provide the key to self-fulfillment later.
Endless possibilities await. An open mind is the key.
Don’t throw it away.