For a long time, I had trouble explaining to people why I love trail running. I could never identify a singular concrete reason. All I knew was that when I run trails, I feel a deep sense of joy. Even on days when the weather is terrible or my legs feel dead, I have a hard time keeping a giant grin off my face. But saying “it just makes me happy” or “it’s fun” feels like a lackluster response, and one that doesn’t fully express the level of happiness I feel when I’m whipping around a switchback or bent over, hands on knees, lugging myself up a steep climb. I started to question whether or not I actually liked trail running. After all, if I didn’t have some sort of super-strong and passionate “why”, wasn’t that some sort of problem? Without a concrete “why”, I felt like an imposter in the sport. I felt like I was lying to everyone whenever I had to answer the constant question of “why do you love trail running?”. 

Trying to nail down one single reason for love seems foolish. Love is a multifaceted thing, as diaphanous and elusive as a cloud. The reasons I love people change weekly, daily, even hourly. It’s the way their eyes light up when they talk about their dog, or their passion for some obscure indie film, or the way they slowly rub their thumb over the handle of their coffee mug in the same way every morning before taking the first sip. Why should my love for the trails be any different? Just because my “why” changes constantly and is hard to pin down and vocalize doesn’t make it any less real. 

Last weekend, I woke up and decided to drive 45 minutes to a trailhead to do a short ~5 mile out and back on one of my favorite runnable trails. I had spent nearly all summer hitting the roads, with a few trail runs here and there. I figured I should ease myself back into the trails, to save my legs a bit from the inevitable DOMS that comes with having to suddenly use all those stabilizer muscles again. After about a mile of gradual “runnable” uphill, I came to a fork in the trail. To get to my intended route, I had to take the right fork. The left fork led to a technical steep trail that climbs all the way up to the top of South Boulder Peak. Despite my intentions for a nice easy run, I blinked and found myself jogging along the trail leading towards the peak. 

As I heaved myself up and over the rocks and roots, breathing heavily and trying my hardest to ignore the fire burning in my muscles, i couldn’t keep a grin off my face. I know it took me ages to finally get to the top, but it felt like only seconds had passed. I was so full of joy and had no idea why, like usual.It’s not just the views from the top that spark this sense of uncontrollable happiness. It’s also the pain it takes to get there. It’s the knowledge that there’s no one making me do this, that it’s my choice completely. And as I started back down the trail, I had a brief moment of clarity. 

Running downhill feels like dancing. It’s one of the only times that I feel fully in sync with my body. My brain isn’t running full speed, thinking too much and buzzing with anxiety. All I’m thinking about is where my next step will be, scanning the ground, looking around at the trees, picking out where the trail ahead of me leads. My legs and feet are in constant motion, bopping over rocks and darting in and out like I’m doing the most intricate and ridiculous tap routine that’s ever been choreographed. And I feel connected to something bigger than myself, and it’s not just a feeling of being connected to the nature around me. Every time I careen around a switchback and grab a tree for support, I can feel the years of hands before me that have smoothed the bark to a silky finish. When I look at the path, I can see the years of feet that have worn down the rocks and roots and dirt into a distinguishable path. I see the eyes that first looked upon the wilderness and carefully planned out the perfect route through. I feel a deep connection to the people who made my joy possible, and I feel a connection to those who will be here when I’m gone. My feet and hands and body are contributing to something that’s way bigger than anything I could do on my own. Years and years from now, when I’m completely gone and no one even remembers my name, someone else’s feet will walk the same trail that I did. Their hands will brush the same silky smooth worn bark of the trailside trees that mine did.

But I probably won’t explain all of this the next time someone asks why I love trail running. I’ll stick to the simple “because it’s fun” and “because it makes me happy”.