A ray of sun falls across my balcony floor. With my hand on the door I feel the light slowly warm my skin. I am tickled by the memory of that same sensation on my latest long walk.

I think back to when the warmth carried slight layers of comfort.

When it meant we could lean into a lunchbreak and didn’t need to keep walking to stay warm. When the morning sun on my tent held the promise of dry shelter at the end of another day’s walk as it slowly dissolved every drop of condensation. When sundown meant we had to rely on our body heat, shared in awkward embrace amidst tangles of sleeping bag, to bring warmth to our feet. Feet wrinkled by a day of treading wet bogs and waiting to be slipped into wet shoes again the next morning. I think back to when a downhill meant relief from relentless winds and when a piece of flat ground brought a good night’s sleep.

I think back to how these small things, while ever welcomed, were never guaranteed.

And then I think back to the other side of the sun. To the slight layers of discomfort that required me to tap into another light. To the moments that my only option was to show resilience. The trail the patient backdrop against which to find my way out of the shadows cast in my mind. Edged into the back of it – rule no. 9 – be happy whenever you can manage it, enjoy yourself, it’s lighter than you think.

I think back to how a full body slide off the side of the trail left me caked in mud on day one. To how the fact that I was wearing my waterproofs let me hopelessly cling onto ideas of cleanliness. To how small-town food shops resulted in half checked grocery lists as I worried of going hungry. How we’d always still find cheese or nuts packed into the corners of our bags or clung on to rumors of a roadside food truck in two days’ walk. To how a just missed bus left us standing on the side of the road seeking a ride from passersby. How the brief encounter would bring a quiet marvel at the ease of trust and presence of unassuming favors.

I think back to how in each instance my mood would first grow dark, then light. I am tempted to soften my judgment, seeing as I was wearing the fatigue of the walk. But, frankly, if not the walk I will be bearing some other weight of everyday life.

As such, the long walk and wild camp, is a useful addition to my running and movement practices. With simple cues it lets me practice reps in ways my cushty Amsterdam life doesn’t ask for. Whether I call it resilience, resourcefulness or dexterity, it helps me train my ability to endure and it helps me train my ability to find (motor) solutions for any situation and in any given condition. 

Slowly, I walk back up the trail of my thoughts towards the warm surface of my skin. I open the door and step, over my own shadow, into the sunlight that falls across my balcony floor.