I thought it would take me three days,
end to end to end,
but at 0500 at the Botanical Beach Trailhead,
three runners were dropping off a car.
Yes, they could drive me to China Beach
if I were ready in a minute.
How long will it take you to run it?
Eight hours or so.
I switch my backpack for my daypack.
If they could run a 47-kilometre trail in eight hours,
surely, I could hike it in twelve.
Fourteen hours later,
I stumble to my car,
bleeding, an injured toe
(probably lose the nail).
Tough trail, hills, hills, hills,
and mud, the concentration needed
to navigate the roots.
Hitting the wall at the 37-kilometre mark,
like an untrained marathoner,
feeling the need to vomit,
forcing down water and food,
feeling sick,
pressing on anyway,
finally finishing,
swearing I’ll never hike again. Never!
The Gypsy was unimpressed.
She thought I would slow down,
follow my heart,
see the world,
learn to enjoy the moment.
She wanted stories of my travels,
of straying from the path,
seeing squirrels or snails mating,
finding animal bones,
bears foraging,
cougars feeding,
or catching two people in the woods fucking.
Instead, she got a story of pain and puking.