Grief (I loosen my tie)

I'm feeling surprisingly good as I climb the hill. I can always tell after 2 minutes how it's going to go. Today it's overcast, not too cool, and I'm angsty. I thought I'd left angst behind, but apparently I had just left it on the other side of the world.

My calves don't burn, though I thought they might have. My breathing rate is high, but it all feels manageable. 

It's been a weird day. Gravel and rocks slip away under my feet, but the cadence means that I never lose grip. Small steps, chin up, cliffs and rocks ahead. I wonder if I'll get caught in an earthquake here some day.

I spend the morning avoiding breakfast, avoiding taxes, skipping the gym due to the need to do taxes, avoiding taxes, and feel emotional. Eventually I threw on some loud music and got a solid hour of taxes done before I decided I needed to run.

It's slightly foggy out, perhaps misty. But there's a beautiful light on the hills. There's always a beautiful yellow light here that I've seen nowhere else. Yellow tussock, yellow volcanic rocks. The rocks are grey really, and slightly red, but everything throws yellow.

It's a short, steep eleven minutes to the summit. I increase my cadence as I near the last corner, finishing strong as always. I'll later find out I'm now the 7th fastest woman on this segment, but for now I'm just proud to have succeeded a second time in a week against this steep grade.

I continue running along the summit road to let my heart rate lower, the city to my left. It's considerably flatter along the summit, and twelve years after the earthquakes, the road is still mostly closed. I relish running in the middle of the road, the same yellow light illuminating the hilltops in front of me, and the estuary below. 

I turn around again and briefly consider running towards the rockface in the distance, but suddenly realise it's now or never if I want to conquer the other side of the same hill. I'm the freshest I'll be before leaving, and I'm angsty. A winning combination.

There are two voices in my head, and I ignore the one that tells me to go home, and instead turn right down the other side of the hill. 

Downhill running has never been my strong point. I've been scared of falling ever since I was a child. I tread carefully at first, afraid of slipping, but my confidence slowly builds and I ease into a faster descent. My confidence in returning up this same slope, however, lessens.

With every corner, I realise how long this side of the hill is, and my anxiety about the return builds. 

About halfway, stitch turns up - as it always does when I run downhill. Get yo shit comes on through my headphones, and I find myself truly listening to the lyrics for the first time, and smirking along.

Black Joe Lewis still in my ears, I reach the bottom, and stretch out that descent just a little longer by continuing into the carpark.

I turn around, and begin the ascent, stitch still present, knowing it will soon be replaced by a burning in my lungs.

The run up is hard. Incredibly hard breathing, I'm certain those passing me will be concerned I'm having an asthma attack. But I feel a certain pride in overtaking those I'd passed on the descent once again.

The bargaining and cajoling begins. 

Just make it to that corner.

Okay, you've made it this far, you can keep going.

You've made it this far, you can keep going.

You're past the hardest bit.

You're killing this.

You're an athlete.

If you've got this far, you can get the whole way.

I swear, if I didn't talk to myself this way, there's no way I'd achieve what I do. I do it because it works. 

After what feels like an eternity (but in reality, is about 13 minutes of hard incline), I make it to the top again. The sea out in front of me, the misty caressing the hills. 

And I'm alone. Not a single soul at the top.

I head straight for the wall of the summit road carpark, and lie down on the cold concrete. Eyes closed, one knee up, the other leg dangling off the edge. Hands above my, my heavy breathing continues.

Eventually, my breathing slows and I sit up and look out over the harbour below. 

The water is the same teal it always is when the clouds are out. It always strikes me as amazing how far away you can be from everything when you're only 450 metres up. Already so removed from the world. 

I'm grateful it's the middle of the day, because the next thing I know I'm crying - again.

I pray, I ask out loud for a sign, and I look around for it to appear. Four little birds flit past and land on the roof of the lookout point to my left. They're beautiful, but they're not the sign.

I need a sign.

I pull my knees to my chest. If I've learned anything over the past six weeks, it's that there was a lot I needed to feel. 

I cried a week and half ago when I drove into another town I used to live in. It felt painful. I cried when I left too, but it just felt real. 

Eventually I realise the sign isn't coming. At least not yet. I'm not sure if I'm truly ready to stand up, but I resolve that it is perhaps indeed time to go home. 

I choose to walk down the hill, still breathing heavily, with no music in my ears now. As I round the second corner, four goldfinches are skitting around a rather bare bush. I've never seen their little red heads on the trail before.

It's interesting how I can feel so much joy and so much sadness at the same time.