I went hiking yesterday with my husband, Matthew, and nearly died.
One part of that statement is true.
This happened in my mind: We conquered Runyon Canyon park.We demolished that place with our hiking skills. The state of California closed down the trials after we left because no one could ever climb them better than we did. Mountain Goats openly wept when they saw our prowess (are there even Mountain Goats in California?).
This actually happened: We hiked for awhile. I stepped in dog poop and fell. Twice. Only one of the falls count though, because Matthew only saw one of them. That is part of the science of marriage. One partner can only mock the other if they witness the humiliation. It is only fair – and thus it is science.
Nothing in my mid-west days of walking, biking, and pretending to run prepared me for California hiking. Here is why: the mid-west is flat. California is all hill-y and the trails are all dust-y. If I needed some sort of validation to the claim that people from Los Angeles are nuts – I got it while watching people running, no, sprinting these trails (we are talking incline 13 all you treadmill aficionados out there).
Also: once you reach the non-paved wonderland of these hills, leashes cease to exist and dogs just magically follow their masters’.
All that being said, there is something so unexpectedly nice about climbing to the top of a huge hill. The sane, reasonable, Kansas girl in me said: HELL NO to the insanity that is running that terrain (slow and steady wins the race, amirite?). The worst-case-scenario part of my brain said: “you want me to climb up *that* face of rock?” I did it though. I made it. I was able to look back behind myself and know that somehow, someway, my tiny little body made it up those slopes.
Not to quote Miley Cyrus, but to quote her:
Ain’t about how fast I get there
Ain’t about what’s waiting on the other side
It’s the climb