Run or Die (22 page)

Perhaps I run because I need to feel creative. I need to know what is inside me and then see it realized somewhere outside me. We can explore our inner selves and know what we are capable of, but perhaps we also need to externalize that and separate it out from our bodies in order to view it as spectators, in order to evaluate it and see the defects so that we can do it again, better. It is a pleasure intrinsic to the creation of beauty.

A race is like a work of art; it is a creation that requires not only technique and work but also inspiration to reach a satisfactory outcome. But, also, it is ephemeral, because like a Buddhist mandala, the enjoyment comes in the creating of it; at the moment of climax, at the point when it has reached its perfection, it disappears and will be impossible to create exactly ever again. There can be
no repeats; we can relive similar emotions and experience familiar sensations, but they will never take the same shape, because inspiration leads us to explore different forms.

From the moment a race no longer exists and we can no longer feel it, it belongs to the past. In order to feel again what we have experienced, the best we can do is relive those moments. And reliving an experience, whether it is a race or anything else, assumes a change of code, a new translation or interpretation, the elimination of what we don’t want to relive and the enhancing of what we want to cling to, the editing within our memory of the story we will tell later. This doesn’t simply mean getting rid of bad times and expanding moments of glory; it is about distorting reality. What
is
real and what is imaginary? What proportion of what we remember or feel is but a part of our dreams? Did these races and journeys really exist, or are they only the fruits of my whimsical imagination? Photos enable me to confirm that I was there, and the records mean that in a hundred years it will still be possible to remember how long I took, but I will never know for certain what I was feeling, what excited me, since my eyes aren’t a camera that simply soaks paper with colors; my eyes see what my brain lets them see, and they distort reality according to my state of mind. Did Alba really exist? Or was she an oasis in my mind distracting me from the monotony of running on long cross-country or mountain hikes? She can’t only be the fruit of my imagination. I fell in love; I suffered in love. It must have been real. However, I was also able to cry and feel excited when there were only two hours to go to La Redoute stadium on the Diagonale des Fous, when I was imagining what I would feel when I crossed the finish line. The emotion was real enough. I could see and hear the people around me, could see the grass in the stadium, got goose bumps
and cried because I was so excited, but that vision was displaced in time; it would be what I relived a few hours later when my feet crossed the finish line.

Am I form or content? Are we flesh and blood or feelings and emotions? What is more authentic: a mountain we remember because of its size and height or the distorted image we carry in our feelings when we remember it? Which life is more authentic: our body’s or our mind’s? I sometimes imagine that we lead two parallel lives that feed on each other, but no, I am sure we can live only one, the one that oscillates between the two. In essence, what sticks in life is what we have lived, what we remember in order to feel the excitement again by reliving it. So what if it becomes distorted at some point? Happiness is a goal of every human being, and it comes to us through small pleasures, big victories, strong emotions, love, and even surviving love, whether experienced by our body, by our imagination, or reformulated by our memory.

I get off the train without any baggage. A curtain of drizzle starts to fall, but the sun is shining just behind the clouds. I cross the tracks as the train moves into the distance, and I head up a trail, zigzagging between the trees that shelter me from the rain. The sun begins to light up the grass and the stones beneath my feet. Scattered drops of rain softly strike my legs and face, and my T-shirt and pants grow heavier. With each step I feel the water slopping up and down in my shoes, but that doesn’t hold me back; in fact, it drives me on, makes me run quicker, jump higher. I abandon the track, leaping over small bushes and dancing to the rhythm of the rain. I sing, shouting as loudly as I can into the sky. I am happy, and no one can stop me from smiling.

I run up and down nonstop until I emerge on a treeless plateau. I open my arms, shut my eyes, and tilt my face to the sky, letting the rain wet my face as the wind tries to blow away the drops streaming down my cheeks. I take deep breaths and launch back into a run, jumping and climbing farther up, running faster and faster. There is no boundary, no threshold, nothing that can stop me. I smell the trees, the wet grass, spring, the rich earth, all of which carry the unmistakable aroma of life. I am happy. I stop and rest for a moment, breathing hard, my hands on my knees. I am chasing no one, and no one is chasing me. I think how happiness isn’t a destination but rather a path to follow, spending time along that way and postponing its inevitable end.

My skin is cold but my body is warm, and I find that the panting revives me. As I begin to accelerate, my breaths slice out through the bitter cold, and my footprints head off into distant valleys.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To Jordi Canals, Joan Solà, and my family and friends for believing in me from day one and helping me to realize my dreams.

To my Catalan publishing house, Ara Llibres, for giving me this unique opportunity and helping me whenever I needed help.

CREDITS

Color Section Photographs

Photos
3
,
4
,
5
,
9
, and
15
Courtesy of Mónica Dalmasso

Photos
6
,
7
,
8
, and
12
Courtesy of Stephan Repke

Photo
10
Courtesy of J. P. Clatot

Photo
13
Courtesy of Miquel Marín

Photo
14
Courtesy of Pascal Tournaire

Photo
16
Courtesy of
TrailRunner
magazine

Photo
17
Courtesy of Gustav Arvidsson

Translation

Translated from Catalan by Peter Bush

The translation of this work was supported by a grant from the Institut Ramon Llull.

I climbed the Breithorn (13,661 feet) when I was 7 with my parents and my sister, Naila, who was 6.

One of my first races was the Pyrenees Walk, a 7.5-mile cross-country ski that I competed in with my mother. I was 3.

Running with companions is extremely helpful during long cross-country runs like the Tahoe Rim Trail.

I try to be efficient at rest stops. Here, on the Tahoe Rim Trail, Sònia treats my blisters while I eat a plate of pasta, wash my feet, and learn about the next section of the run.

I’ve actually fallen asleep while running because I did not want to stop. Here, a short nap snatched on the Tahoe Rim Trail.

Things began to fall apart in the last 30 miles of my Pyrenees crossing. Lotta and Sònia treat my feet while I eat to gain strength for the last stretch. A long way still to go.