Nightfall

May 23, 2022

The old man stared at the green corridor ahead. Daylight was fading. His back ached from leaning forward. His legs felt heavier with each step. He heard nothing, no breeze in the trees, no bird calls, no scurrying squirrels. No human being was near. He was alone on this stretch of trail, probably five miles from the last aid station and that far from the next one.

He reminded himself he was 74, the oldest entrant in the field in this 100-mile trail run. He figured he was around mile 45. Lately, he was the oldest in any event he entered, usually the only one in the 70-plus group. Even with his aching back he grinned at the thought of winning the division, finishing both first and last. The race report would place him first. Oh boy, he thought. Isn’t that a big deal.

The event was called a “trail run,” but his pace included very little running. He picked up speed on the descents with a kind of calculated trot. He focused on the surface, trying to avoid the obstacles that could cause him to topple forward. If he did and was lucky he would throw his hands forward to cushion the fall. If he couldn’t, he might crack or slash something.

It had happened countless times, usually just a glancing blow, but at others, gashed arms and legs, ankle strains and sprains, knocks on the head, once a concussion and a couple of broken ribs. Injuries were part of the game. He felt pleased that he stumbled far less often now than in his early years of running in the woods. He had needed many training runs to develop his skills: the ability to quickly assess the terrain as he moved over it, the reflexes to place his feet firmly and safely, avoiding rocks and roots that could throw him off balance. He was good at it. He should be, he reminded himself, he had been doing it for 20 years.

He could see the stretch ahead rising to a short level point, then rising again until the trail disappeared into the trees. His thighs throbbed, each step became shorter, more deliberate. He watched the ground no more than ten or twelve feet ahead, focusing on progress over and past the rocks, than casting his eyes forward to measure his progress. The climb became steeper. He paused and drew water from the tube of his hydration pack. It was warm but good. He stepped forward, feeling the drag of gravity.

What’s the point, he asked himself. He knew the question would come to him at some hard moment, as it always did when he was stuck alone in the forest on a knee-stretching, breath-sucking climb. He had conjured up different answers: senior fitness, camaraderie with younger folks, the lure of the challenge, the satisfaction of finishing or at least trying to finish. There was the sublime, consoling solitude of the deep forest, the breathtaking mountain views. Then the nagging one he tried to avoid: the reality of age, of time passing, the mystery of what lay ahead. Seventy really is not the new forty

None of the answers made the trail easier. He knew, no, he hoped, he would stumble into the finish under the 35-hour cutoff. The few folks still hanging around would applaud, the race director would smile and shake his hand. He would slump in the nearest chair and bow his head.

He achieved the top of the hill and exhaled and paused, looking at the descent that curled around a sharp bend. He knew this short, steep slope led only to another hill. Night was softly closing in. He reached up and touched his headlamp. At the start of the race in the pre-dawn darkness that morning he had left it hanging around his neck rather than stow it in his pack, to avoid a stop to fumble with it. He had packed a spare light and triple-A batteries in case of a midnight headlamp disaster.

He reached the bottom and turned into the curl, the trail narrowed and wound into thick brush. He knew this section went for about a mile, or was it two miles. The descent provided some sense of recovery, but he knew it wouldn’t last. He tried to stay in the center of the trail to avoid touching the underbrush, where the ticks waited. He paused, thinking he heard voices, then shook his head. What was he hearing? The rest of the field were far ahead, he knew he couldn’t overtake any of those young greyhounds, or even the middle-aged ones. Keep moving, he muttered to himself.

The question returned: what’s the point? Why the endless training, with the risk of injury–not only cuts, bruises, skinned knees, blisters, but also sprains, dehydration, kidney stress. Then, snakes, horseflies, ticks. Then the days of recovery, the aching back and legs, the temptation to numb the pain with bourbon. The folks at the finish always had plenty of strong stuff.

The shadows lengthened, the lush greenery grew dark. To conserve battery power he waited until darkness had nearly descended before switching on the headlamp. He moved more slowly. Night fell, and he slogged through the beam, glancing left and right, the light creating ghostly shadows of the trees and underbrush, gnats dancing in the light around his face The woods came alive with the deafening staccato of katydids and crickets, and in the distance the haunting hoot of an owl.

The air cooled, he paused and reached into his pack for his thermal shirt and pulled it over his head. He moved on through the forest music, the beam ever brighter in the deepening darkness. He drew more water.

He felt stronger then, knowing he had managed his pace well up the climbs and down the descents, around the rocks and the blown-down trees and fallen branches. He breathed deeply, freely, knowing the point: relentless forward progress, moving through the pain, the exhaustion, the loneliness, the heat of the day and the night’s chill. To persevere, to overcome, to finish the race, to succeed at the mission. The mission was within him all these years. It was the way he wanted it to be, the way it always had been. The mission told him all he knew about himself.

He guessed the aid station was within a mile. He had come a respectable distance for an old coot. He looked forward to a welcoming word from the crew. They would ask him how he felt, and if he wanted to go on or drop from the race. He would have a moment’s pause to get his breath. Then, before the urge to quit seized him, to step back onto the trail.