Longest day of the year

I haven’t been out for a walk in two weeks, not since I lurched and cursed my way through a three-miler in Utah on June 7. The following day, I was officially cleared to get back on my bike and thought, great, bikes can be my adaptive mobility device. I don’t need to force the walking thing anymore. But I know. I know I’m never going to break through the wall if I don’t keep pushing.

It’s just that I’m so tired. Tired of physical therapy. Tired of table squats and wall sits and so many stupid things with resistance bands. Tired of Neuromuscular Electrical Stimulation. Tired of the ice machine. Tired of doing my daily Duolingo on my wobble board. Tired of my knee being the last thing I think about at night and the first thing I acknowledge in the morning. I’ve never wanted to quit anything so bad as I’ve wanted to quit this injury. But I know. I know you can’t quit an injury. Not unless you take to the bed, which sometimes feels like the most enticing option.

I can’t believe I used to think I was tough because I did endurance sports. Training to run a hundred-miler is like getting to eat cake every day. Training to get your mobility back is where true mental fortitude shines through. I’m not sure I have what it takes.

Anyway, it’s been a tough week. I got myself overbooked with work projects to the point I was feeling overwhelmed and waking up at 2 a.m. to tap something else out. There was the anniversary of my Dad’s death, Father’s Day, Summer Solstice. I think I have a touch of Summer Seasonal Affective Disorder. I think I’ve always had it, but the hazy skies and ozone alert days and grass pollen fog make my reverse-SAD feel more legitimate. Like, if you can be bummed that it’s dark and cold in December, I can be bummed that I can’t breathe in June.

But I boosted myself out for a walk on Sunday afternoon, even though it was 87 degrees and windy, and walking was the last thing I wanted to do. The first steps always feel near the edge of impossible — so much stiffness, flashes of pain, and then something like the arch of my right foot will cramp up, unleashing the frustration and cursing. But if I push through that, I will start to get out of my own way. Even after two weeks of mostly avoiding walking, my stride is better than it was. Still slow, still stiff, still bafflingly strenuous, but better.

Leaving the house, I told myself that this walk would be how I’d honor my dad on Father’s Day. He loved long walks, and I inherited that love from him. That I hate walking so much right now breaks my heart. I wanted to recapture something of the love we shared on this hard day, the longest day of the year. I psyched myself up for this walk by donning Grand Canyon R2R gear and cueing up a playlist with a few of Dad’s favorite songs: Van Halen, The Beatles, and of course, Stairway to Heaven. As I settled into my slow rhythm, memories floated to the surface. One stands out because it was an experience I haven’t consciously recalled in years. I clung to it, hoping for a flash of insight from the distant past.

The year was 2002. Dad invited me to join him on a hike to Mount Nebo, at 11,933 feet, the highest peak in the Wasatch Mountains. I hadn’t yet discovered endurance racing, but I was in the early phases of nurturing my competitive impulses. That summer, my athletic ambitions manifested as a peak-bagging streak. The previous weekend, I’d bagged Deseret Peak — the highest peak in Tooele County — in what turned out to be a frightening solo excursion involving snow fields. But the sense of accomplishment was exhilerating. I wanted another.

The trailhead for Mount Nebo was so far from home that we had to camp overnight to ensure an early start. Dad set up his springbar canvas tent, and I rolled out my brand new lightweight sleeping bag. It was a cold night. I didn’t get much sleep. Dad seemed to toss and turn as well. He hadn’t told me he’d badly sprained his ankle at work earlier that day. At least, he didn’t convey the seriousness of the sprain. He recounted it as a funny story. He was sitting at his desk with his legs crossed. One of his legs fell asleep. He didn’t realize the extent of lost blood circulation before he stood up quickly, teetered, rolled his ankle, reached out in a panic, and pulled down an entire cubicle wall as he toppled to the ground. Crash. Bang. So embarrassing.

We laughed and laughed, and then I didn’t think of it again, even as he took an especially long time lacing up his hiking boots in the morning. We started up the trail with me in front. Dad always let me lead, so I’d never feel rushed or uncomfortable. Dad was the faster hiker — a fact that never changed even as I developed my running fitness and Dad aged into his 60s. But as the one hiking in front, I didn’t notice his limp.

We stopped for snacks. We talked about our lives. I didn’t have a clue that anything was wrong until we reached the summit. Dad mentioned he wasn’t feeling well. I noticed his complexion was a little ashen as he sat on a rock to remove his hiking boot. He rolled down his sock, and I nearly lost my lunch at what I saw. His foot had become a purple water balloon, the color of grape soda with black streaks reaching up his shin. It was at least twice the size of a normal foot. I have no idea how he squeezed that thing into his boot.

“Oh, Dad,” I gasped. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“It’s not that bad,” he said as he stood, wobbling slightly. “Shall we continue?”

“Continue? What? Why?”

“This is just the south peak,” he said. “Mount Nebo has three peaks. After this is the middle peak, and the north is the highest.” He stretched his arm toward a point that seemed impossibly distant. “The North Peak is another mile or so that way.”

“But your ankle?”

“I made it this far,” Dad grinned. “What’s another mile?”

I will confess. I wanted that summit. When would I have another chance to travel all the way out here and bag Mount Nebo? Probably never. My selfish 23-year-old self was happy to let Dad take one for the team. But then I watched him take a few steps with a stiff, twisting gait. No doubt he was trying, but he was no longer able to hide the pain.

“No, Dad, not with your ankle. I really don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You’re probably right,” he agreed, letting me believe I was the wise, reasonable one. But all along, Dad never cared about summitting Mount Nebo. We’d planned this day together. He didn’t want to let me down.

I remembered Dad’s posture as he limped down Mount Nebo. Downhill was harder. He was suffering. He never complained, though. He never once let on that he was anything but happy to be hiking with me on that day.

I’ve still never bagged the true summit of Mount Nebo. As I shambled down my dirt road on Sunday, listening to my hiking poles clacking in rhythm with that Coldplay song Dad liked, I decided I really need to do this soon. I need to get back in shape so I can climb Mount Nebo. That’s what I’m training for. That’s the goal. No matter what, it won’t be as hard as it was for Dad on that hot summer day 24 years ago.

And while I don’t think this was the lesson I’m meant to glean from this memory, it feels good to dream about it — of being back out there, hiking with my Dad, his subtle sense of humor and unwavering optimism, the unconditional love that never fades, even years after he’s gone.

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