A quick cup of coffee, a slice of “breakfast” lasagna, and some petting of two very good dogs, and suddenly I was hurtling along the highway, back to where I left off in Des Moines. Storms had raged overnight, waking me around 2am and lining the Walnut Creek Trail with puddles. After bidding farewell to Fritz, I was off and running, rejuvenated and with an extra spring in my step. Walnut Creek gave way to the Clive Greenbelt Trail, and that, in turn, yielded to the Raccoon River Valley Trail. I hadn’t enjoyed this kind of pace since my first day.
And then it all came to a crashing halt. The sky transformed into a fortress wall, a menacing gray verticality that climbed to a black smudge, interlaced with jagged bolts of lightning. Maybe this is what the end of the world looks like?
Despite the promise of doom’s imminence, I played a game of chicken, scanning the road ahead to spot the next fast food restaurant or gas station, something that could provide emergency shelter when the sky broke. In a rare moment of maturity, though, I finally conceded, turning into a Fareway Grocery before the first drops fell. A cup of yogurt and a banana bought me a perch on the lone bench positioned in the entrance, between lines of sliding doors, a front row seat for what followed.
I didn’t have long to wait. Winds whipped through the parking lot trees, causing even the traffic signs to swing manically. Almost instantaneously, water pooled throughout the lot, as heavy rain lashed the building. Lightning bolts slashed across the sky in all directions. A few final stragglers made their way out of the supermarket, concluding ill-timed shopping trips, and as each departed some ambitious rain drops raked my lower legs.
With no new customers on the horizon, the supermarket staff started milling around the entrance. The first woman to approach me saw my backpack, asked what I was up to, and invited me to stick around as long as I liked. Over the next hour, a handful of other staffers popped over to say hi, having already heard my story from the first one.
The rain delay lasted an hour and a half. On the surface, my forbearance was on full display. I chatted, I savored my cup of AE Dairy yogurt, I caught up on the news. In reality, though, my impatience churned; I kept reloading the radar, looking for a projection that would get me out the door a few minutes earlier. There was no particular urgency. After such a quick opening leg of the walk, even with the later-than-usual departure time, I was in great shape. 20 miles stood between my bench and where I planned to camp; even with the delay, I would still arrive earlier than ideal. Sure, the heat advisory in effect for the afternoon, projecting a heat index in the 105-110 range, was less than ideal, but the Raccoon River promised a decent amount of shade.
The truth of it, I suppose, is that I was out of control. As a general rule, I leave as little to chance on a long walk as possible. Beyond all the physical stuff, I plan the itinerary meticulously. My daily schedule scripts out each day, with daily gpx tracks and a breakdown of available towns and services along the way. If I’m camping, I identify potential camping spots, whether in town or out in the country. I carry a backpack, instead of using the stroller that other transcon folks do, because I like the security. Everything I need is on my shoulders, always with me, always safe. There are downsides to all of this, I suppose. The spontaneity-lovers out there would note that all this planning comes at the cost of a certain serendipity.
But it is what it is. When I’m on my road, it’s less about my life being in my hands and more about it being on my feet, and I have absolute confidence in my feet being able to accomplish everything that is asked of them, every day. That confidence is a shield. It gets me through, day to day, unwavering.
As much as I’d like to deny it, though, I am at the mercy of external factors to varying degrees. Road construction, for one, is a hassle. It set me back on the 51-mile day, and it popped up again today. When I finally got rolling again, after the skies cleared, I stumbled into a bridge closure at the entrance to Adel, forcing a mile of backtracking. There’s no greater variable, though, than weather. When the Mississippi flooded, I had to change my route to avoid Muscatine. When severe thunderstorms cut through, I’d have to be an idiot to keep walking. If a tornado’s in the neighborhood, I’ll be on the hunt for the nearest shelter. And at this point, I have to believe that it’s only a matter of time until wildfire smoke sweeps through, bringing sore throat and eyes with it. If those have only been mild inconveniences to this point, they at least raise the possibility of throwing my plans off track.
So what happens when someone who appreciates control is confronted with his ultimate lack of control? Well, this idiot decides to react by walking even further–by making the rain delay actually a legitimate, negative impact on the day, and by ensuring maximal exposure to the afternoon’s extreme heat. Even as I made the decision, I recognized it was nonsensical in so many ways, and yet it fulfilled one critical goal: it reasserted my control over the day. The choice was mine. And so I paused briefly in Adel, inhaled a coke and a slice at Casey’s in the main square, and then powered onto Redfield, which would have been a great place to camp. The town has a fantastic shelter for walkers, complete with toilets, a water bottle filling station, and chargers. And I turned my back on all of that, as well as the American Discovery Trail and the Raccoon River Valley Trail (I followed the first ADT scenic detour, but opted for a more direct westward approach this time), and set out on the exposed rural highway for Stuart. What’s another 11 miles in 105-110 degree weather?
Maybe all of this is unhealthy, a sign that I need to loosen up, stop and smell the flowers. But I think instead it might speak to some underlying necessity for a super-long-distance walker. The irrationality of the act, the steadfastness required by extreme endurance challenges, depends upon some sort of psychological inoculation. The specifics of that inevitably must vary from person to person, but in my case it manifests as planning, control, and excessive (and selective) stubbornness. Walking to Stuart might not have been tactically savvy, but it suited my strategy. As I crashed down for the night, dehydrated and sore, I smiled, knowing that every time I accomplish something ridiculous on a daily level, it takes me one big step closer to conquering the larger challenge. Physically weakened, I was ever more mentally resolute.
