Ten Miles In Narnia

I have the propensity to get lost in the woods.

Bradley Palmer. Appleton. And Narnia. My backyard across the brook.

When I was young, I used to sprint off the bus with my best friend and neighbor Justin, wherein we would capture those precious last hours of sunlight in the deep mud and snow and bark of an eternal landscape we just called “The Paths”

We would build signs, create forts, and embellish the compound we referred to as the laboratory, pronounced “la-bor-a-torie” All it was, was a hollowed out foundation to a former dwelling, with several roots which had subsequently grown in an arch over it. It’s still there the last time I checked. We ran through a large open field which had once been used for farming, as the tilling troughs and valleys were still carved into the soil, encrusted in frost. This was called the “Field of Illusions” None of this was lawful, for it was not our land, and years later when I still played here as a pre-teen, armed with more mature toys, I would pay a heavy price.

We did this every day of the week, merely because once we traversed that small brook with whatever engineering tool we found in the earth, we were in a different world. Wholly subjugated from our backyards. We were now in the paths.

We connected with our “bases” through obsolete baby monitors that hardly worked over 100 feet. We would use the more advanced method of Fisher Price when the baby monitors would die. In any event, we still would get lost.

I found myself doing nearly the same thing today, only closer to a larger city, and our backyards were not visible, and I couldn’t run back in five minutes if one of us cut our legs really badly, or twisted an ankle, and couldn’t walk.

It can empirically be stated that I have the propensity to get lost in the woods.

Today I embarked into the woods of Narnia with the full ambition and hope of covering the mid-distance of 10 miles, the benchmark of a marathon training program.

Absent Fuel Belt or PowerGel, I began to test my bearings since Saturday’s sixteen miler at the lake.

Much mud, slush and crusted snow remained. Witness Anthony’s contentment grow exponentially.

All went well until around the one hour mark, wherein, on my return to the start, I hurdled a large tree with remaining branch, tearing the flesh from my left knee. I then fell, stumbling onto rock face. Scarred and bruised, I resolved to find my way back.

I lost my sense of direction, which was not out of the ordinary. I began to stop sweating, my legs grew heavier, and the snow became deeper. These obstacles not withstanding, my watch read over 1:30:00 – Far longer than my anticipated time.

I eventually exited the woods, only to ascend the largest paved climb I have found thus far on my bike rides. My good friend Trevor nearly was side swipped by a rampant school bus at the bottom of said hill in autumn.

In the total of all these acts, I returned to my vehicle, no longer my backyard. And I now adore that place ever more. The Paths.