Ruck It Up

Oct 11, 2024

Being creative is a funny thing. I always have ideas, usually at all the wrong times. I’m most inspired when I'm least available to act on those impulses—like when working or driving. I awake from dream-riddled sleep with awesome plotlines and forget them by the time I’m done brushing my teeth in the morning. The discipline is returning to the same well day after day, week after week, forever. The problem is when the well is dry. Dig deeper, they say. Keep digging, they scream. All the while, my brain is telling me I’m not good enough, and I’m just an imposter anyway.

I decided to shut out those negative voices and took the advice of a friend. I loaded down a rucksack and hit the trail. Rucking is good for the body and mind. The problem is that sometimes my mind thinks I can still do things to the level I used to. So, with fifty pounds in my backpack, I set out on a two-mile trail. By the end, I was praying I could just make it back to my truck. The sun was relentlessly assaulting me. I hadn’t had any water before setting out. Did I mention there were NO clouds? I was dying.

At one point on my slow slog back to relative fitness, I saw an old lady meandering in my direction. I moved to the grass and kept plodding along. She looked to be at least 400 years old. Methuselah’s grandmother had the audacity to proclaim it was a beautiful day and that she hadn’t even broken a sweat yet. I tried to force a smile and pretend I wasn’t about to pass out. Did I mention sweat was pouring off of me like a broken faucet? I mumbled something like, “It’s hottttttt.” I then willed myself to keep walking and pick up the pace so my ancient friend wouldn’t witness my death on the paved trail.

In the last tenth of a mile, my vision began to narrow, my head started to womp, and my mouth began to water slightly. The joke’s on you, nausea, I had eaten less than I drank that day. There was nothing in my stomach to throw up. As I dumped my sweat-soaked ruck into the backseat of my truck, I nearly passed out. “Two more steps. Just two more steps, and I’ll be inside my truck,” I thought or maybe even said aloud as I pulled myself into the driver’s seat.

Just as I sat down and rolled down my window, I caught the distinctive skunky smell of some degenerate smoking illegal substances in the parking lot. I cranked the air conditioner and prayed I wouldn’t fall out of my truck’s open door. That’s when the dry heaving took hold. I sat there and mock-vomited for five whole minutes. I must have looked like an idiot. That’s probably because I was, as I mentioned, I didn’t prepare. I impulse-hiked too far with a bag too heavy, but guess what? I survived. I’m better for it.

As I sat retching and dizzy, I had to smile. I did it. Did I prepare? No. I just said the hell with my anxious brain, grabbed my bag, and beat feet on the trail. I realized it was hard to entertain my spiraling anxiety if I was more focused on catching my breath. Here’s the thing: it worked. Those happy endorphins replaced my anxiety. The dizziness and dry heaving were reminders that maybe next time, I should properly hydrate and consume enough calories to sustain that level of exertion. But I mean, come on, that’s just semantics anyway.

The main takeaway is that sometimes the stress your brain invents to distract you can be mitigated by the stress you put on your body. Heat stroke is a real threat, and the idle thoughts that wrestle for prominence in your mind aren’t real. Even if they are real concerns, time on the trail can help reprioritize the emotions and help you work the problem. Maybe next time I’ll go further faster and properly hydrate, but where’s the adventure in that?

My friend John Dailey has two substacks that you should consider following. Check out Walking Point and Ruck the F*ck Up

Lastly, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention my Halloween children’s Book “The Halloween Traveler.” If you order now you should be able to get a copy before Halloween for your young reader. Here’s the Link.