October 5, 2021

Because Life Is The Most Breath-Taking Experience

October 5, 2021

(Part 4 of 4 of the story of my tryst with destiny in running my first ultramarathon, in Ladakh)

I had done a 55 km run in the Himalayas.

I was letting that sink in, as I watched the mountains bathed in moonlight whizz past me. Irshad, our cab driver who I had grown so fond of, over so many days of driving us around Ladakh, played Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan to serenade our tired souls.

This, of course, was a stark contrast to the heartbreak-themed songs he played on our drive to Nubra a week back.

“O besharam, o behaya, o bewafa, tera ki haal hai (O shameless one, O scruple-less one, O unfaithful one, how are you doing?),” was one of them as I peered at him from the back seat, and wondered what pain has he gone through to listen to such songs.

So yes, Nusrat songs were a welcome break, and it almost felt like Irshad knew what would be apt for that moment. I thanked him for being with us from 5:00 AM that day—as our mobile fueling station, and for the encouragement that he and Stobgail ley together sent our way to boost us.

It was 9:30 PM by the time we reached our guest house, and Tsewang ley and Rikki, the manager, welcomed us with ceremonial Ladakhi scarves to congratulate us on our achievement. The smiles on their faces were beaming, and it felt that the victory was not just ours, but was felt and shared with so many, who have been with us on this journey since we arrived in Leh.

You would have thought that we would be ravenous, and would be excited to have a huge celebratory feast. I had at least envisioned that, but in the end it was a serving of rice and daal that we could manage to eat, and were happy with.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling for an hour, with nothing in particular brimming in the mind. I recapped the last few months, of life focused around training for this run, the determination, the early morning long runs starting at 5:00 AM through every season this year, continuing through the grief and loss of the second wave, of 5 months of home remodelling that I was supervising disrupted by yet another lockdown and yet continuing to work through and making the home liveable. That period brought with it its own set of stressors, heartburn, and sleepless nights, through which I persisted. As I reminisced, the painful cramp in the calf jolted me out of the reverie as I dragged myself through the fatigue to finally take a shower and then sleep. After all, the adventures were to resume the next day.

The drive to Tso Moriri was going to be about 8 hours long. Tso Moriri: a gorgeous lake where we planned on going for a short 15 km trek, and not as frequented as Pangong Tso were the reasons it was our chosen destination. The drive was through changing mountain faces, paved and unpaved roads, bouncing over small, gravely paths, passing hundreds of sheep and shepherds by, pausing to see some hot springs in Chumathang, as they bubbled through and the steam rose to make their presence felt. If one isn’t attentive enough, these natural wonders are so easy to miss, because people are just blindly driving to their next destination on their check list. We drove through an innocuous mountain pass, and finally reached as the full moon rose, shimmering over the lake, and spreading its light far and wide. It was a sight to see and I was transfixed.

The search for a place to say started when we reached Karzok, a tiny village whose length you can walk through within 7-10 minutes at an easy walking pace, and I wanted any place where I could get a fill of the lake and mountains. And so, a homestay where the sit out looked exactly over the most picturesque views was chosen. The owner knew only smatterings of Hindi which made it so humbling, but we were never lost in translation, because compassion, care, and kindness know no barriers of language.

The silent sheep and the moonlit sky (and lake)

There was silence all around, even when you stepped out and were among people. And as I stood out on the sit out for about 10-15 minutes, my eyes took in the moon-bathed lake, and the snow-capped mountains around them, and my nostrils picked up a faint dung smell, and I of course attributed it to the animals that would be around as the ones on whom the villagers’ livelihood depended.

Silence, all around.

I repeat that because as I took in the 360 degree view of the village around me, I happened to look just immediately below me, into the quadrangle of the adjacent home, and I saw about 150-200 sheep in their pen, quiet, some sleeping, some grooming themselves, and some nudging their friend lying next to them playfully. Not a bleat, not a sound. I know I sound like a silly city gawker making so much out of nothing, but it was the surprise with which they caught me, and how just like the humans in the village, they seemed to have a “speak only when you need to” code.

I wondered if I would be woken up at 4 AM with a few of them screaming to be let out, but the silence continued as I woke up to finally see the lake in its entire glory. It was surreal, like I was gazing at a photograph. The sky with the clouds, and a sun playing hide and seek, the lake and the horses grazing on its shore who appeared so still, that you had to look at them constantly to see any signs of movement. The placidity, the calmness was everywhere.

After having spent some time with the homestay owners’ 5-year-old daughter, we set off on our trek by the lake. Did we just run 55 kms a day before? It seemed so far away now, with new adventures looming ahead.

The trail had no other walkers, which made it so much more peaceful and personal. The sound of the crashing shores, gurgling brooks from the glacial melts, and the mountains as our companions, our feet did what they knew best now. Walk the distance.

I love surprise discoveries…Like the several Mani walls all along the length of the lake; and in some places they stood as cairns, one almost as tall as me. Manis: those beautiful plates, stones, and rocks that are hand inscribed with prayers offered to the higher power, with a sense of devotion, gratitude, and surrender. Everything about this place had such a strong spiritual connection, that it’s tough to not get drawn into its essence.

After having spent I don’t know how much time sitting by the lake, seeing the beautiful hues of the water, the way the clouds’ reflection brought out the light blue, or the clear sky with the sun shining brought on the dark turquoise, or the pebbles and rocks on the shore, changing it to a light green, we decided to head back.

And then I saw that lovely huge mountain dog in the middle of the field that I passed by. A white fur ball of love. I called out and he looked up, and his eyes shone through. And I called out again, and he bounded up and across the field, on his three legs; the fourth was a tiny stump that he lost to an accident perhaps. And so the meeting was as expected. He snuck up next to me, and plonked down as if saying, “here, love me as much as you want.” And I did, through his mud covered belly, and his floppy ears, and his wet nose, and repeat all over again 😊.

I had no idea what the next day’s plan was. All I knew was that it involved a “walk up a ridge.” Okaaaay, how tough can that be. And so our return to Leh was through a different route, through a salt lake called Tso Kar, Debring, and then through Tanglang La which is where that “ridge” was. I remembered Tanglang La from 2019, where I saw the beautiful ice stalactites that hung like chandeliers along the mountain faces. The ridge was my first.

Back to being on bumpy, gravely, paved & unpaved roads, sandy stretches, some road constructions, through detours, and “I don’t know how long” stretches of time which was also becoming a regular feature here, I was beginning to wonder if there would be an end in sight. In a place like Ladakh, even if the mind, by mistake, or even through a spirit of audacity, brings up a sense of impatience, or the urge to see the destination soon, it is soon quashed by what your eyes are treated to. Hot springs again, wild asses prancing around, the huge expanse of salt seen in an almost dried up Tso Kar, and a few dust devils. You are gently guided back to being in the present moment.

As we were approaching Tanglang La, Chetan pointed out to that ridge from a distance. I looked at it, and then I looked at him with disbelief, and back at it again, taking in the ginormous wall like ridge that I was being asked to climb; a km long, it rose from 17,480 feet to I didn’t even know what height, when I saw it inching closer.

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“This is your victory lap after your 55 kms,” he said.

Now, when you say something like this, how can you not get charged up by that? And so I decided to take this on, hoping the pass would let me. You can’t trifle with mountain sickness however well acclimatized you may feel.

It was a climb worth remembering, all along bunkers and trenches made by the Indian Army in 1962. Slow and steady, I reached the top, an altitude of 18,000 feet, the highest I have ever been on. The panoramic view of the mountains all around me was my reward, and felt so much more than a victory lap. Nothing beats the exhilaration, the indescribable joy of being cradled in the arms of nature. Of truly knowing that you are capable of so much more than you settle for. I thought the 55 kms ultra was my peak, but here was yet another internal summit that I climbed, which pushed my limit even further. The sky is truly limitless, and so was I, the horizon was never ending, and the thirst in me to go on was just getting more unquenchable.

It was time to bid Ladakh a farewell, with a heart filled with gratitude for all that the place and its people offered me, for being with me as I paid a silent tribute to Mom, for helping me see grief in a new light, as one of restoration and moving forward. A befitting farewell with a promise to return, to make newer discoveries, bring about internal shifts towards a better self, to let go, to carry the spirit of surrender, of being in the here and now, of life lessons that stay, and remind me that you carry all that you need, within you.

As I finished writing this today, I happened to see my “Memories” from this date, two years ago on Facebook (Oct 5th 2019), where I had been a contributor to a weekly running column in the newspaper. The topic was “Running Can Help Cope With The Loss Of A Loved One.” It dawned on me that just then I felt a strong sense of closure. I will share the post from that day here in its entirety so you know what I mean.

WHEN AIR BECOMES BREATH

While I grieved and tried to cope with Mom's loss to a progressive lung disorder last year, I realized that running took on a whole new meaning for me this year. My marathons have been in her memory, and will continue to be from here on, keeping her alive in me with each breath that I take.

As her struggles to breathe increased around this time a year before that date, she would often in despair say to me, "May one never to have to fight for one’s breath so much, baba (she used to call me that).”

And then, as if her illness wasn't enough, I was diagnosed with a mild ventilatory defect and I thought my running had come to an end. The pulmonary function test that both Mom and I had to do (hers was more frequent) was a tough one for her. She struggled in that glass box trying to breathe deep and hold her inhalations and exhalations as part of the test and I felt so helpless watching her while the technician told me to stop from going up to her. Mom came out and said she would never do that test again, and I agreed. She didn’t have to because a month later she passed on.

A few months after, I had to go through that test again for an annual review to see how my lungs were doing, especially with the strong family history. That same hospital, the same technician, that same glass box. I was filled with tears and a rage remembering what Mom went through, and I decided to kick that test’s butt, just for her. I had been working on strengthening my lung capacity so I was hopeful that the mild ventilatory defect wouldn’t have progressed. If anything, I should have gotten better. I just wanted to continue running, maybe even take it up a notch higher. With each breath I thought of her, fighting for her, thinking I was breathing for her. For all those breaths she struggled with in her last year, I wanted to take a million of those in for her.

And kick butt I did. My lung function test came out normal. I shed a few more tears reading the report.

“This one’s for you, Mom,” I whispered.

This is my tenth year of running, but this time I took to it with a vengeance. I started running more, training better and more sensibly, and returning to the basics of breathing. Now each time a breath pulsates through my body, it is for Mom. If ever I feel like giving up, I would remember her and would imagine her smiling face, egging me to go on. It isn’t even about crossing that finish line anymore, it is about taking that one step forward, keeping that momentum of moving onwards. It is about being at peace with myself, reconnecting with myself, feeling one with her.

Have you read, “When Breath Becomes Air” by Paul Kalanithi? A surgeon, Paul wrote his story while battling with an inoperable stage IV lung cancer, and was faced with his own mortality, with finite days to live. He couldn’t complete the book but it was released after his passing with an epilogue from his wife. I wondered what the title meant when I read it years ago. It now made sense. As he struggled with his own breathing, having to use a BiPap at night to help him, he refused to be hooked to more life-saving machines so that he could spend time with his wife and kids. The title was based on a line from a poem by Baron Brooke in 1628.

“You that seek what life is in death,
Now find it air that once was breath.
New names unknown, old names gone.
Till time end bodies, but souls none.
Reader! Then make time while you be,
But steps to your eternity."

What does it symbolize? What is the difference between “air” and “breath?” Breath is what flows through us as living beings, and so when breath becomes air, it signifies the act of dying, with breath being the life force that comes to an end. Breathing is so automatic for most of us, we don’t even give it a second thought, till someone struggles with it often due to an illness. And we are now known to take life for granted. We don’t think of how meaningful our lives have been, of what difference we made to the world, be it with our words or our actions, whether we lived true to ourselves. It’s only when we are faced with our own mortality do these questions arise. Why wait for the face off with finite days? Why not live each moment now?

It’s two weeks to my full marathon for Mom. And I know who I will be thinking of when I run…

My breath, always for you, Mom…always for you.”

Onwards and upwards…off the beaten track

Divya Parashar

October 1, 2021

Where The Spirit Soars, The Feet Follow

Divya Parashar

October 1, 2021

(Part 3 of 4 of the story of my tryst with destiny in running my first ultramarathon, in Ladakh. Part 1 & 2 here)

“Four wheels can move the body across the planet. Two feet can move the soul across universes.”

In some sense, an ultramarathon is a bit of a ramble across time and distance, sometimes with deep conversations with yourself, sometimes with soul-satisfying silences where there is no need to fill the void with anything, where the void feels anything but empty, and a transcendence and oneness is felt that has never been experienced before.

I guess I had settled into a similar rhythm with life in the days leading up to the run itself.

We were two days away from the ultramarathon, and our relationships with the locals were deepening. We paused to have meaningful conversations with them, to know them better. Tsewang ley, the owner of the guest house was so hands-on with his work as a host that we would chit-chat with him on our way in and out of his home. In a way, he became our proxy older brother.

A lama had visited their family’s temple earlier that morning and I asked Tsewang ley if there was something significant to that day. He guided us a bit about the Buddhist practice they follow, the differences in their approaches to self and extending compassion to others, and in passing, he invited us to sit and meditate in their temple anytime. I took that up opportunity and before leaving for Sakti village—the start line of our run—we spent a few minutes in the serenity of the temple. Inside, it looked like any of the many beautiful monasteries we had visited in the past few days, with different manifestations of the Buddha, glorious in ornately colorful woodwork, with red ruling as a reminder of the vividness of life amidst the otherwise stark landscape all around.

Tsewang ley’s warmth and hospitality extended further that day, as his wife and he invited us into their home for butter tea, a Ladakhi speciality. Conversations were effortless, with an intent to connect and bind hearts to one another, to shower with kindness, rather than just to fill the silent spaces, that didn’t really need any filling. Such is the charisma of the mountain people. We took their blessings and left for Sakti, a tiny village an hour’s drive from Leh town, at the base of the mountain that ascends to Wari La Pass, the midway point of our run.

I was surprised at how calm I was feeling. There were some smatterings of nervousness that crept up in between but I attributed those feelings to the fact that I cared so much for this run. The prep was in place after all, and I was prepared to tackle anything unexpected that came up during the race.

“Woh kehte hai hum haarenge
Woh kehte hai hum haarenge
Hum kehte hai ya hum jeetenge ya hum seekhenge.”

“They say we will lose
They say we will lose
We say either we will win or we will learn.”

I must tell you about the debacle of the hill training run I did two weeks prior to leaving for Ladakh. If ever I felt like a complete failure on a course, despite finishing it, it was on this training run. At the end of the run, on the day, my emotions were a mixed bag of humiliation, embarrassment, pain, fatigue, self-deprecation, and the rueful feeling of a complete lack of control in myself.

It was a 33 km, mostly uphill run in Mussoorie of which 10 kms was a very steep ascent (in my opinion for sure). Not very far into that ascent, my mind started giving up. I could barely walk 10 steps without stopping, and there was no reason why I couldn’t go on physically. It was also the first time I was trying out the use of hiking poles as an accessory to hill running. Let me just say that was a failure. The poles felt heavy, unwieldy, and I over-relied on them—unfamiliar as they were to me—which made me adopt the wrong form for the ascent.

“I can’t do this anymore.” I lamented, with my breath becoming shallow because of the anxiety I was feeling and not the ascent, and I ended up having two strong emotional moments, bursting into tears and taking a long while to compose myself.

The beauty of the surroundings was completely lost on me. I didn’t notice the misty morning, the rolling hills, the silence, and the scores of butterflies in the forest surrounding me.

I was a mess once the run finished, having taken way longer than I had anticipated to complete it, because of the stress I had experienced for the most part. I was warned that being emotionally zapped on the actual race day in Ladakh would not let me finish it, because of the longer distances and the lack of oxygen that high up, where anxiety would further compromise the already labored breathing.

I was quiet for the rest of my two day trip in Mussoorie, processing the run and how I performed on the course. People can take failure in so many ways, often leading to a downward spiral which impacts their self-worth and makes them give up even trying. While I initially beat myself up over how badly I did, once I calmed down the lessons from the experience served as a spring board. I knew just what I needed to do in Ladakh, and so I looked at the Mussoorie experience with gratitude and a way to move forward.

“No spirits needed here to make the spirit soar.”

Back to the start line at Sakti village.

The evening before the run, we walked on the village roads, did a parikrama of the ubiquitous prayer wheel, looked at the winding road up to Wari-La pass, and reminded ourselves that we were ready for the run.

I had a few process goals set in place as mental and physical strategies to break the run down into manageable chunks. And I had the recorded wishes sent by friends and family to lift my spirits in case they sagged on the course. 😊

Shishir told me to run for Mom and for “all of us.” I knew who “all of us” were. The many people with spinal cord injuries who I had worked with as a therapist, and who became an integral part of my life. I had dedicated my runs to them earlier, knowing that they would never be able to walk, let alone run, after the life-altering accidents that left them paralyzed neck or waist down.

And so when I heard Jassi’s message, tears streamed down, and as I wiped them, the resolve to cross that finish line multiplied exponentially.

He said and I quote, “I don’t think I have ever told you, but I was really passionate about running and marathons were something that excited me, but somehow like most of the things, this was put on a back burner to be done on a later date, and unfortunately it never came. So, I would really love you to reach that 55 km mark and listen to all about it when we meet next time over a drink. So ya, do it.”

The running gear, ranging from shorts, to base layers, a down jacket, gloves, and heavy track pants were packed that night, because one just never knows what the day would look like from an ascent of 12,500 feet to 17,500 feet. Snow had greeted us at Wari La pass when we had visited it earlier in the week. Our own stock of food to fuel us on the run was arranged for. I called it a night at 8:30 PM, with the alarm set for 4 AM. As I drifted off to sleep I had promised myself that I would have a good time, and would enjoy myself. After all, how often does one get to run in the Himalayas, and that too, when this was on my bucket list?

Of course I wouldn’t be able to sleep, with excitement getting the better of me, and so I was wide-eyed and awake at 3 AM, ready to start early!

I had also promised myself that I would use all my senses to engage with my surroundings. What did I see, feel, hear, smell, or touch while I was on the course? This was going to be my ally, my grounding and centering strategy, to consciously use mindfulness to my advantage. I had promised myself that I would take one step, and then another, and steadily cover the distance, with each bend passed signalling that I was getting closer to the summit. That if breathing became tough, I would take 100-200 steps and pause for 15 deep breaths, and march on. That I would not once on the course say, “I can’t do this,” but instead say, “What can I do to keep me moving?” That this was not a competition even with myself, that I could take it slow and steady and complete this run in the memory of the many people I love, and in the spirit of knowing that I have it in me to push my limits, to move all these mountains that stood in my way within, to see them outside only as gentle giants who egged me on, walked along with me, and told me that I had it within me to change my perspectives, or to take action, or to just be, without fear and worry, and let life show me the way.

“Arise, awake, and stop not till the goal is reached.”

I had read and heard these words from Swami Vivekananda countless times in school, but I don’t think they could have been more relevant for me than at the start line of my ultramarathon.

With a 5:30 AM start, and our head torches on, we started the climb, as the long, winding road ahead greeted us and said, “Welcome! This way to Wari La pass.”

Overhead, the sun was just coming up, and the peaks turned from a shining white to a slight pink, as the feet in contact with the earth did their bit of putting one step in front of the other. The eyes took on the responsibility of taking in the sights around us; warming the heart and bringing a smile.

The initial kilometres seemingly went by quickly. We ran and walked and breathed with ease. I paused here and there to see a running rabbit with a puffy white tail, or a rodent I had never seen before called the marmot, or to take in the swooshing sound of a flock of birds that glided by in the V-shaped formation that I have always found fascinating. The bends kept coming and going, my mind was silent, and the senses were engaged with the vistas around me.

And our mobile, 5 star fueling station :)

Our dear friend Shikha, who is my inspiration when it comes to running and persistence, was there to cheer us on, and to provide us with some fuel for the run. The hugs we exchanged, and the simple, “I had to come see you guys!” was the turbo charge that I needed. Meanwhile, Stobgail ley, the owner of the guest house we were staying in at Sakti village, brought soup and lunch, and a table and two chairs to just prop up wherever we needed a break. As Shikha called it, the most 5-star treatment one could get at this altitude!

We marched on, and what seemed like patches of grass from down below soon turned out to be a huge herd of yaks grazing on the mountains. I paused, and if they could speak I am sure I would have heard, “What you looking at?” as they continued to slowly masticate.

You might wonder what my speed was, how much pace was I maintaining, what were the race cut-offs I had crossed. None of those were on my radar because I knew I was doing my best and that was all that mattered.

“Your goal for your first ultra is not to compete, but to complete it,” were some of the words of advice from a pro ultra-runner, and my sight was set on that.

This was no competition. I was not rushing to cross the finish line within a time frame or to even attempt to set a personal record, but yes, this run was personal, it was sacred. It was filled with love, and a sense of aliveness, and every step was a determined one to move forward, to give it my all.

And so, with that spirit as my constant companion, I had absolutely no idea how much time had passed, not once did I ask what time of the day it was, and neither did the body nor the mind protest on how long it had been since we were on our feet. The sun blazed, and then hid behind the mountains to bring some respite from the heat, and we climbed higher.

“There is no fun in an ultra without a struggle.”

Shikha’s words came to mind later on, and made complete sense. Because the struggle came soon after. And what a moment it chose to make its presence felt, at the 22 kms mark, 5 kms shy of Wari La Pass, at an altitude of about 16000 feet.

I had trained physically for months, had trained to acclimatize, psychologically worked on myself to keep going, to stay calm, to overcome the mental barriers that may make me stall, so that when (not if) something unexpected came my way, I knew the only option I would have would be to roll with the punches there and then.

The unexpected came in the shape of something I ate on the course to fuel myself, which didn’t agree with my stomach. Yep, bad, bad feeling. My stomach hurt like it has never before. A wave of nausea would strike with literally every 8-10 steps I would take, and even the shortest bend of the road seemed never-ending.

I clutched the side of my stomach, attempted to count 100 steps and then pause for 15 deep breaths, but was forced to stop at 10 steps, and pause for longer. It was excruciatingly painful, both physically and mentally, but I didn’t want to give up.

Chetan gently asked “D, can you go on?”

He saw me in pain, and witnessed the struggle, made me sit down and did some mobilizing, which helped tremendously, but the stomach issue kept getting from bad to worse.

“Yes, I have to do this,” I said.

“Do this for Mom, for Jassi,” he said. And I nodded, because they were the two who had been on my mind, during the entire struggle.

I could hear Mom say, “Shabaash, Baba. Kadam kadam badhaaye ja. (Well done, baba. Keep marching on steadily).” And my boy, well, just his “Yo, you got this,” was enough.

No, I wasn’t hallucinating, as is common when one is super fatigued and at high altitudes, but I have heard Mom say this to her school kids at Sports Days. 😊 I was happy being that one kid today.

And so, with the slowest ever 2.5 km “run” to Wari La pass, which in my opinion took…forever…I marched on, baby steps, slow and steady, making sure I didn’t cry or get anxious, because that would cause my throat to constrict and breathing to become more of an issue, at the 17,200 feet altitude that we would soon be touching.

The moment I saw the flags at the pass, I was overwhelmed. We had finally reached the highest altitude, the half-way point, and I had persisted, despite the agony and distress.

“Mom, I made it,” I whispered to the winds that cross these high passes.

I was amazed at how through it all time just faded into the background, as if it didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things in the mountains.

“What’s the rush, where do you have to go, isn’t everything in the here and now?” they posed eternally.

And I marched on. My hands were swollen till the skin couldn’t stretch anymore, and yet, I marched on.

Stobgail ley kept checking on me on when I would like to eat something, and would encourage me to keep going on. Such was his gentle spirit, compassion, and presence. We had only asked him to bring us food at a certain time, and didn’t in any way expect him to stay with us through the run, along with his daughter and fur baby Ollie, but he did. For his unconditional support and kindness, I will forever be indebted.

I managed to have some soup after being on my feet for I don’t know how many hours. That is all I could stomach, along with water and ORS. The pace picked up organically, and before I knew it, the familiar yaks, the BRO road roller, high camp, and the bends were re-visited on the descent, as these living-and-non-living companions still went about doing their work, or no-work and just being. 😊

The feet knew what they had to do, and they fell into a rhythm, tirelessly, effortlessly. The pain and the nausea gradually eased out, the mind continued to be mesmerized by the beauty of the mountains around me, the blue canvas of a sky, the passing clouds, and the silence outside and within. The march continued.

At the 48th km mark, and with 8 kms to go, it almost felt like the road kept getting longer, the finish line seemed further, even though we were as brisk on our feet as we were at the 28th km mark. The ankles hurt a tad bit, and the fatigue was finally setting in, but not enough to threaten being off course. I still never glanced at the tracker to see how much time had gone by, and how slow traversing each kilometre now seemed to be. The head torches came out again as dusk set in.

The sky was a brilliant shade of pink, blue, orange, as if fireworks were being lit somewhere, and the cosmos came out to celebrate the essence of life: the human spirit, in all its shades. Through a spectrum of emotions ranging from love, compassion, empathy, support, determination, persistence, breaking down and coming back up, vulnerabilities, ugly messes of a struggle, letting the mind rule over the body, the unshackling of grief which brought tears and pain, failure, victory, we felt so strongly that it was a defining moment for us, forever etched in our hearts and minds.

“Life is old there, older than the trees
Younger than the mountains, growin’ like a breeze

Country roads, take me home
To the place I belong”

Two kilometres to go, and the stars were twinkling, as they kept revealing themselves more and more with each step we took. The canvas was changing yet again, and I remembered that line from Harry Potter “I Open at the Close,” that I had alluded to when I had written about crewing for La Ultra the High in 2019. Let me share that again over here:

“Typically, when things come to an end, when you cross a finish line, when a story comes to its conclusion, you look for closure. In this case though, the opposite happened—for me and for everyone who was a part of La Ultra – The High, Edition X. Our minds opened up to a whole different way of being, one where impossible had no place in the dictionary. Maybe it’s because my soul has bottled up the stillness of the mountains and taught me this above everything else: find your place in this world and hold steady. Then, no comings or goings will disturb your peace, not even that of time.

I opened at the close.”

I read these words again. “Impossible” definitely found no place in my dictionary, and the mind had expanded its horizon so far ahead that any signal of pain or distress was superseded by a determination and a will to reach the goal. The focus was laser sharp, and the resolve generated in the face of obstacles so that I could continue, so that I could march forward, so that I could fulfill my dream, I realized, is what moving mountains within meant.

Five hundred metres to go as we jogged to the finish line.

One may expect a glorious end to a race like this—with people cheering, claps and whoops of joy, a handshake, a hug, and a medal to greet us at the end of a race that tests you this much, but there were just the two of us, and I looked at Chetan with relief and of course teary eyes, and said, “We did it,” and retreating into a calm silence again.

And that was my glorious, triumphant finish to the 55 kms run that tested my endurance and revealed so much more about me than I have ever known.

How much time did it take, you may ask. After all, aren’t all these runs about time, and personal records for some, and crossing that finish line within a cut off or within minutes and hours to spare?

Not this time. This time, I would like to laud the ordinary people amongst us with extraordinary spirits, who train diligently, whose lives revolve around their dream to run an ultra, whose reasons for running were so deeply personal that it didn’t matter whether they had it in them to do the distance in terms of muscular strength, or were lean mean machines where every fibre fires just right, or were “elite” to take on the challenge knowing they could complete it within the stipulated time, otherwise well, what is the point?

I would like to laud the ones amongst us who juggled lives, careers, families, who didn’t have just the run to focus on, but still kept it as an equally important part of their aspirations.

The ones amongst us who despite all the training, still fell short of the “optimal requirements” to run well, but never lacked in spirit, endurance, or drive to go that extra mile, despite their physical limitations, despite the mind screaming “Stop!” We learnt from the shortcomings, and promised to work harder, rather than being told that we couldn’t go on.

A disqualification can be heart breaking, where the shattering of a dream into a thousand pieces can ring so loud that it gives you countless sleepless nights, where the mind screams “Failure, what were you thinking attempting this?” or “Really, that’s all it took you to quit?” The spirit of the runner wants to go on, but the rules come in the way. Race organizers as impersonal as that, and yet, I will take that as a way competitive runs happen, because this is how they have been from the time marathons have been organized. It’s about time, and pace, and personal records, but rarely about celebrating the ordinary human, who beats the odds to cross that finish line, who dared to dream, and put their heart and souls into it, with struggles only known to them, with the fight of the mind and body tugging at them within, only to see them cross the finish line after the cut off, but never seeing how the mind triumphed over the pain to do just that. How their dreams goaded them to finish, and what an amazing feeling that is. Success can mean so many different things to people. We need to honor that.

Celebrate the already celebrated amongst us who check all the boxes, but for me, the real heroes are also those who persisted, whose bodies are just about transforming to take on such feats in a better way, who gave it their all, who had a dream that was relentlessly pursued, and for whom this run was more a personal discovery and breakthrough than another run done, another medal on the wall.

As I sat in the car to head back to Leh town post the run, I saw the mountains, my constant companions, bathed in a cloak of white. It was to be a full moon two days later.

“Happy?” I felt them asking me.

“Wait, the best is yet to come,” they replied.

And the adventures promised to continue. Even to me, they only got revealed as we went along, but I wasn’t in a rush. I had learnt that life just unfolded here.

What exactly unfolded next? That’s in the concluding post, coming up shortly. 😊

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