in which i don't know my own strength

Oy, am I tired.

I’m in Santa Fe this week doing a soft adventure trip. Except it’s only soft if you let it be soft and cain’t say no.

Yesterday was soft. We took a trail ride at Bishop’s Lodge-- long pleasant plod--then I had a two hour and spa treatment at Absolute Nirvana (and it was that—truly exceptional) then dinner. Easy cheesy.

Today, started with mountain biking. I’m not a big fan of mountain biking but I do what I’m told. We were supposed to bike for about three hours but because of our own dilly-dallying, we ended up short on time. We managed to bike from the parking lot to the beginning of the main trail, do a couple of roller-coaster hills on the proper trail, then bike back.

The trail leading to the proper trail was all loose, rutted gravel and the ride was tough for me, especially with my sea-level lungs. Oy, was I tired. It’s sad, because once we hit the good, hard-packed hilly trail, it was lots of fun—-much more fun than I expected since I’m a nervous biker. But alas, alas, most of our biking was on the gravel. At least going back was easier than going out. We didn’t even realize that the ride out was a long, slow climb until we headed back and it was a long, pleasant coast.

But oy, was I tired.

Then, we went to Bandolier National Monument, spectacular ruins of ancient Pueblo dwellings. (See here.)

It was an hour drive there, we hiked of maybe 30-40 minutes to see some of the ruins and climb up into some of the cave dwellings, then an hour drive back. Worth the effort, must go back with more time. Make a note…

The day ended with a hike and outdoor cooking class (a nifty joint production of the Santa Fe School of Cooking and Santa Fe Mountain Adventures).

The hike, in the Santa Fe National Forest was lovely but long after a long day. And then, when much of the group decided they were tired and wanted to turn back, my machisma kicked in and I decided I would stick with the self-described Type A woman and her lovely teenage daughter (and a guide) who wanted to speed walk to the end of the trail and back.

Big, big mistake. When I say I don’t know my own strength, I mean I’m not as strong as I think. Especially at altitude. The hike down to the end of the trail was easy enough and ended at a pretty river.

The hike back…

All uphill.

Oy, am I tired.

I fell far behind, which irked the crap out of me. And every time I saw the other three take a switchback and continue climbing, I cursed my own ego. I had to stop frequently and gasp for air. My heart was pounding so hard I suspect my head was visibly throbbing. Every time the others stopped to wait for me, I felt ashamed. (Shame. It’s what’s for dinner.)

I was never so glad to see a trail’s end in my life.

Why didn’t I just turn around with the rest of them? Why was I compelled to keep going? What did I have to prove?

It’s like a canoeing trip I took in Canada a few years ago. We canoed about seven miles a day, for three days. I got all tough-bitch about and kept up, feeling like a big-ass studette. Then I got home and my shoulder locked into a painful spasm for weeks. I was on painkillers and muscle relaxants and it still woke me up in the middle of the night. Finally I went to a masseuse, the talented Laura Heubner, who found one small knot and pressed down on it until every hair on my body was standing on end and I was shrieking in pain. And then I was better.

You would think that would have taught me a lesson. Today, when I heard myself say, “I’ll keep going.” I should have slapped myself. But no.

Oh well. I did make it--gasping and sweating and hurting. The outdoor cooking class was a blast. I made a tortilla. Dinner was paella, grilled shrimp and peach cobbler cooked in a Dutch over. Outstanding.

And now, I’ve had a hot shower and I’m in bed, listening to rain on the roof. (We lucked out there—we were on the road just as the rain moved in.)

I’m so happy not to still be on that trail, watching those other three women climb while I fight for breath.

I’m probably going to hurt tomorrow.