That big hill
That big hill and the heat were always there. From the beach, relaxing in the warm waters on the Atlantic side of St. Kitts, the big hill was always within view. Occasionally you could hear the low roar of a truck or bus climbing its way to the top, but mostly it sat silently. It didn’t look that big from the beach. We walked by it daily, heading to a small beach on the Caribbean side that had some local restaurants and the sunset. It looked like a hill, but nothing insurmountable.
Then there was the heat and humidity; around 80 degrees at 7 AM with the sun a fireball in the sky. But it really didn’t get much hotter, and with the cool breeze on the beach, it was a perfect temperature on the sand.
After a day of staring at this hill and running a small route that provided decent mileage but exempted us from any serious exertion but left us sweating out our toxins, the thought was inevitable: Up for it? It took the form of a question but in reality, it was just a statement or maybe prior notice that my future included a date with this incline. See, in this particular relationship, I am the needy one. I am perhaps physically the stronger runner, but I want the time and the bonding inherent in the runs. I make suggestions and comments, but I am always flexible on time, distance, pace and route. I generally don’t complain if the run changes in the middle: “2 more miles?” or “Let’s stretch”, or “Let’s turn here.” I say okay to a run on my rest day. I run short when I need more mileage for the week and more often than that, I run long when I should go short. But I choose that because these are my favorite runs.
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So, when told that we should work the hill in, I said yes. I didn’t know if I could make it up without stopping, but I felt pretty sure that we would both give it our best and that it should be a little easier for me.
Let me describe the hill. In running, there seem to be a lot of ready-made descriptors for hills. Maybe the most common is “mountain goat “ or “goat man” hill. This describes both the steepness of the hill and delves into the psychology of the runner: determined, strong, muscular, unchallenged, and perhaps, unthinking. So in describing the hill, should I talk about it or us. Let’s start with the base of the hill. In a typical Caribbean fashion, the base lies on an open flat area at sea level. You start at zero, so the math would be easy for your GPS, if you had one. This hill was like a large mound of dirt in that it was more or less round, rose up equally on each side and covered all available land from the sea on one side to the ocean on the other.
A single two-lane road with no shoulders but with a few gravel driveways traversed the shrub- covered landscape. It ran about three-fourths of the climb in a straight line with a twist then to circle around and head back down to sea level on the far side. The total distance to a scenic overlook at the twist was only three-quarters of a mile and made the challenge even greater, because anyone could conquer such a short distance.
I write all of this now out of respect for the hill. At the time, I must admit that although we expected a strain, we didn’t expect it to be so much fun. As such, on day one, we had joked about turning and heading up the hill as we ran past the turnoff. “Hey, let’s add on the hill.” “Okay, maybe on the way back.”
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Run two started the same way, but Maria wanted the challenge. Heck she always wants the challenge. Easy way, no way. Let’s do the hard stuff beyond our capabilities and after we have done that, let’s do something else. So it wasn’t unexpected that as we approached the turnoff she said, “Let’s run up it today.” I may have muttered something other than okay, but while yesterday I had jokingly suggested a summit, it was obvious by her tone and history that this was an order, not a joke. Not that I didn’t laugh!
Running with a partner requires some compromise. Even people that have run years together encounter unfamiliar situations that require adjustments to their natural cadence. What is a good pace? What is speed? “I am dehydrated.” Well, the same applied here. Maria had been running stadiums in the snow during the “Spring” and I had finished a marathon, so we were both in good shape. But the steepness of the hill removed all of the familiarity from our strides. It was difficult to calculate the length of a stride and consequently to have much of an idea about speed or even more importantly, the level of exertion. A heart rate monitor would obviously have helped regulate our effort to keep it level, if it hadn’t exploded. In the absence of that, much like lawyers and doctors, we regulated ourselves. We did this by immediately reaching our maximum heart rate and holding it there.
Basically, we ran like you would. We put our heads down, tucked in our arms and put one foot in front of the other. Speed declined in importance as the incline continued. The mission was to maintain forward motion. And that we did. Soon we were 50 feet up the hill and then, 52, 53... My unfunny jokes that were sometimes acknowledged were simply ignored. I
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became self-aware of my conversation, realizing that only positive statements would fit the current need for motivation and even those might interfere with the inner core’s focus and generation of mental and physical power. We were machines.
Up and up we went, with only one bus and one truck to avoid, along with a few locals headed down the hill to their morning jobs. What had been beads of sweat glistening on our faces became fountains feeding future salt ponds. The temperature hadn’t changed as much as the amount of fuel being consumed.
I find that in many challenging runs, I segment my effort. This is often a recommended strategy designed by the professionals, but for me it is subconscious and unintended. I try to lie to myself about my plans, but somehow I always know the truth. And so it was here. We stared 10 feet ahead thinking that if we could make it that far we might stop. I probably would have, but Maria kept pushing on. I mentioned compromise: I would have had a faster pace than Maria on this run. I might never have made it very far, but I would not have not gotten there faster. Maria kept pushing forward and I held myself with her. Does it take more energy to run another person’s pace? Am I forcing her pace? How far can I go? How far will she go? She has already exceeded the reasonable. But she is not reasonable. Could she have any genetic material for a “goat woman?” How do you get a DNA test done on the island? Who paved this road? What kind of flower is that? Check out the view of the ocean. How far have we been? How much FARTHER?
Finally, the perceived lack of oxygen from the altitude (we were now hundreds of feet above sea level
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– obvious at a single glance), the heat and humidity, and the hill, yes the hill, told us that it would be prudent to take a break. So we did. We were about two- thirds of the way up the hill. Looking down, it didn’t seem such a great accomplishment. It afforded us a good view of the hotel zone and no indication of an exhausting challenge, but with the promise of refreshing breezes and a dip in the cool waters.
Looking up, the twist in the road (generally a curve when it serves as a metaphor) and our finishing point looked nearby. It seemed only a few hundred yards ahead. Granted, the terrain continued unchanged. This would have made a great sledding spot for a long unobstructed run – if it snowed in this area of the world. I silently, and then out loud wondered why we had stopped when we were so close. My mistake, as the immediate response is “Let’s do it” and we are off.
Our heart rates instantly return to their maximums, skipping the gradual buildup of the preliminaries. The profuse sweat that sprang from my pores resumed after having slowed during the break. The steepness remained and our pace had not quickened. But something had changed; this was familiar territory now. We knew the hill. We knew the symptoms manifested in wet bodies and throbbing chests; and they felt good because we knew that we were on the verge of conquering this hill. I didn’t think it then, though I had quoted it to my kids for years: “I am the road. I am the hill,” but we both felt it. That doesn’t mean that we didn’t have to run it; it was still there. It just meant that our mental breakthrough helped us make the physical breakthrough. This was not agony or a challenge or a workout. This was fun. This is what we had chosen to do. This is why we had
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chosen to do it. We had only a vague sense at the bottom of the hill of why we would make that turn, and there were no victory signs awaiting us as we crested, but internal satisfaction would be enough. Even if we didn’t fully realize the implications, we basked in the morning sun at the overlook, talked about small things and knew that one more small fiber had been woven in that bond between us. We also knew that we were (are) champions and that we can face other big hills off the running course. Then, well, we did the inevitable and the necessary: we ran as slowly as possible down the hill trying to avoid cartilage damage from the pounding forced on our knees by the elevation loss. Our time down was exactly half of our time up and the entire run not counting the stops had been only 15 minutes. I probably would never have made that turn up the hill if I had been running alone.
So that seems a good place to end the story, but that was not to be. As we swam in the ocean, the hill was always visible and inviting us back. Maria remembered only the high from the run and seemed insulted that we had needed a short break in the climb. We must go back tomorrow. We could easily conquer that hill. And so as we walked past the turnoff on the way to lunch, we vocally informed the hill that we would be back the following morning and that we would own it. It had all day and night to prepare for what would be its epic test – to cast its shadow over our determination and abilities. We repeated the challenge even more vociferously as we returned from lunch and so there would be no backing down. And of course we were not allowed to cheat by going to bed early or eating bland food or skipping rum-laced drinks
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starting at sunset – which came early just to step up the challenge.
The alarm sounded early the following morning: a beeping on the running watch seldom on my arm. I needed my normal preparation time while Maria rolled out of bed almost an hour later, laced her shoes, rearranged her smile, and donned some sunglasses for their coolness factor. The run from the hotel to the turn was only a half-mile, barely enough time to elevate our heart rates from their sleeping levels and certainly not enough time to stretch or warm-up our muscles. Still, without any hesitation, the turn was made, and with no transition time, the climb had begun again. Our body temperature rose, heart rates jumped, but the hill, rather than reacting angrily to our taunting the previous day, had that jovial friendliness somewhat common in the islands. It welcomed us back. Maybe most don’t return, so it has a complex after so many failed friendships and desertions.
“Come on, mon.” “You can do it, mon.” “Looking good, mon.” “Check it out, mon.” “Keep it up, mon.” Well some of these were the hill talking to us and others were just me trying to imitate an island accent. Usually though, I sound like I am doing a poor imitation of the Indian (Mumbai?) accent. Today though, Maria is not only acknowledging my comments, she adds supposedly funny comments to the mix. “Tis a big hill, mon” sounds like a native. Why can’t I say it like that? Even her imitations of MY Indian accent sound more authentic when she says them.
We notice small landmarks: there’s a driveway, here’s a mark on the road. Soon we arrive at the small
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overlook where we had rested the day before. “Want a break?” I ask. I am on vacation and happy with my middle-of-the-pack running abilities and out here to run with Maria, so I am less affected by a rest break in the middle of a big hill. The look that Maria shoots at me – without even lifting her head from its steady gaze 10 feet ahead – says it all. This is a challenging run. There are no hills along the river in Boston. I am going to succeed, so don’t wimp out on me now. And how she did it I don’t know. It was sheer determination: a trait that I associate with stubbornness. But unlike many of us, this was a positive stubbornness used when motivation had evaporated or been called upon too extensively, not the kind where you refuse to change your mind or won’t listen to reason. This is a personality plus, not a fault.
So we skip the break and continue on up the hill. Our pace is slow but we keep moving, and soon we begin to measure the distance remaining until the top of the hill. It represents not success and victory, but on a more basic level it is identified as the stopping point, the place where we can rest, where the push up this hill can be abandoned without shame or recollection. That distance keeps shortening, and the reality that we will make it begins to overpower the accumulating fatigue, and we struggle to control this fresh flow of adrenaline and channel it into a reservoir to be tapped equally and as needed over the remaining distance. Almost there, almost.
How do you reach a goal and stop? What makes us suddenly switch from moving to a walk or non-movement? There are no buttons, controls or levers. Well, in this case, we were moving slowly and had, as I said, moved forward by putting one foot in
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front of the other. And so, then, as if on command, we both stopped by just not putting the next foot in front. We grabbed our legs & bent over for a minute to refill our bloodstream with oxygen. We had inhaled deeply and frequently on the way up, but apparently the natural efficiency had ebbed a bit and not transferred quite enough quite fast enough to the other parts of the body. In any case, we didn’t do that long because the exhilaration and the beautiful view both claimed their rightful places in the spotlight. That spotlight being the morning sun, that by now had climbed a few degrees higher and provided a reason for Maria’s sunglasses. Cool she was. We lingered a moment and had a swallow of water before heading back down. Our summit today had taken only 9:30, a minute faster than yesterday. How could such a short run be the focus of a day or a vacation, of a story or even a moment?
I blame Maria for many things, particularly those that might push me out of my comfort zone. But I sometimes respond. Knowing that she will say yes to a run or workout, I am more likely to fantasize and suggest a hard workout than if I were on my own. I might take off from running while on vacation. But if she is along, the workout can make the vacation. So I’ll take credit for, if you are keeping up with the story, what was the logical next step.
I started bragging to the local taxi drivers about Maria’s sprint up the hill. Most drivers found this unbelievable. They saw the hill not just as steep, but also as the edge of civilization. In a sense, the hill divided the island into the populated and larger portion and the extreme side with only a few beaches and foreigners’ beach homes at the other end. In between, there was little. Still, one driver was both impressed
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and intrigued by our exploits and said (what I later learned to be untrue) that one local ran over the hill every day and continued to the end of the island. He suggested that we do the same and finish at a well- known but not crowded beach known as Reggae Beach. Once there, we could take a (pre-arranged) taxi back. When questioned about the distance, he estimated 16-20 miles: more than a casual run in the heat with hills on vacation.
The idea fascinated me at once: running a good distance, seeing the island as few tourists do, hanging out with Maria and finishing up with a swim in the placid waters of an empty Caribbean beach. So I kept asking drivers and no one really knew an accurate distance. Nevertheless, by looking at taxi fares, asking questions, and measuring inches on a not-to-scale map, I determined the likely distance to be around 9 miles, but almost certainly less than 10 miles. Doable. Under the guise of romanticism and sharing our experience, I had a taxi driver detour to the top of the hill (seemed easy in a car!) where we got the great view and I was able to look North towards the end of the island. I counted 4 ups & 4 downs. Wow, four of these? That is only one every two miles. And surely they didn’t all go back down to sea level. I began to think that not only was this possible, it was mandatory.
And so early on our final day, we started the routine again: alarm, sun block, sunglasses and out the door. We had asked Eva to start 1 hour 30 minutes behind us in a taxi to meet us at Reggae Beach. If the run were significantly longer than anticipated, we would hop in the taxi & ride to the beach with her. If shorter or about as expected, we would meet her there. There is only one road, so she would see us if we were
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there. We stopped at the hotel store and bought a 20- ounce bottle of water each. I drank 3 cups from their water pitchers in the lobby – one flavored with chunks of pineapple and the other with watermelon. I wasn’t thirsty but I am a heavy sweater, particularly in the sun and on “The Hill.”
Out the door & down the street we head. We make the turn and head up the hill. With the strength in our legs from the prior two runs and a longer goal, the hill was not to be a problem today. We were respectful and minded our pace so as not to tempt fate. We knew that we had to climb this hill before the rest of the adventure could play out. We huffed and puffed, but in no time we were standing at the overview watching the sunrise with two British tourists. Trying to get a feel for our pace, I asked them the time. They had just missed sunrise because they were an hour off on their watches. This was funny since we had made a similar mistake a few days earlier when meeting a local driver. In any case, it gave us a chuckle and propelled us back onto the road.
Our immediate next concern was the backside of the hill which in fact wound down towards a straight stretch of road with beaches on both sides. This was easy and we stored our strength for the rebound up the next hill. I don’t think that it was as tall, or maybe we had zoned out. We had views on both sides and the sun at our back. For this hill, we were sufficiently warmed up and once we reached the top, we questioned whether we might have skipped part of it or overestimated it. Furthermore, in terms of hills, we were half way.
Halfway down the second hill, the road curves
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and then winds back and forth around and on several smaller hills. It does this without rolling much and the net effect is that we eventually begin the third hill already about halfway up, and feel that we have been a little cheated. But that feeling passes with the elation of being three-fourths of the way there. In hills, that is, as we have only covered only about 4 miles, and we settle in to a longer reasonably level section.
Our good feeling gets even better as we soak in the sun (water was a good idea), the blue expanses of sea just off the rugged coast, and even recognize dive sites from the previous day. We also feel good because we are running. We are running at a steady pace. It feels normal. For the moment, this is not a workout, it is our daily run. We resume normal running thoughts and chatter. We each point out things to the other: some obvious and some that are good finds. The muscles feel good as they move, the sweat flows to help, not to punish, and it just feels like a normal run.
Not to say that there were no weird moments or moments of giddiness. We saw maybe 4 cars during the entire run, but we encountered, at various distances, almost every kind of animal life indigenous or otherwise located on the island. The fact books (sic) state that there are more monkeys on St. Kitts than people, and we found that to be true in the dawn hours. We had multiple spottings of large groups in the trees or even crossing the roads. Fortunately, we were (incorrectly) not viewed as competitors for the mangoes and had no direct confrontations with this admittedly smarter and faster animal.
A mongoose skirted across the road ahead of us. In my world, these are fairly rare and summon up
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attempts to recall the story of Rikki Tikki somebody. Maria seemed to know it and told me some story about a valiant young mongoose that I have since “misplaced.” I still haven’t called Maria a “goat woman” to her face, but we encountered easily a hundred goats during the run and they provided ample evidence of their capabilities to move with speed and agility on seeming impossible ascents. They also preferred to be uphill from us. Several iguanas had ignored the advice to avoid UVA and UVB rays, and were enjoying the early morning sun. Several horses, mules and even a donkey randomly appeared with little or no clue as to their ownership. Of course there were gulls and other birds, but chickens were also given free range to certain areas. There were more animals, but they have now blended into the collective memory of the run.
Cows? What do you know about cows? No, I mean what do you know about the nature of cows? Do they have personalities? When driving near home, you are generally safer because you think more or less like other drivers do and can anticipate their actions and reactions. This is harder in a different culture. And that is how I viewed the cows that we found in our running path – or should I say the cows that were where they spent every morning as we intruded on their solitude, their space and their breakfast. Goats want to be uphill from you. Do cows? Horses are scared and run away. Will cows? Birds will fly away. Okay, so I know that cows won’t fly away. But when there is a cow – by pretty much all measures bigger than me or even us – standing in front of you, what is it thinking? How do you get into its mind? This was no idle question as we came upon one after another: some on the road and
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some just off the road on the lower side that headed down to the cliff over the sea.
Even now I can’t give you any definitive answer. We dealt with each one individually. In fact, Maria and I would sometimes choose different responses. It is worth noting that the cows were individuals and also chose different responses. Some would do no more than stare. Others would snort. Some would start walking away while others walked towards us. More than once we would change sides of the road and seek to run by, only to freeze instantaneously when the cow would turn towards us only a single lane away. In the end, this merely distracted us from the run and a few more miles slipped by. We started the climb up the final hill that really couldn’t compare with the first two. But like Heartbreak Hill in the Boston Marathon, location is everything. With the heat and the earlier hills trying to sap our strength, our comfort zone narrowed on this hill. But we knew that we could conquer this little hill and that we were getting closer to the end, so without much fanfare, we kicked into a lower gear and headed up and over.
Once over the hill we could see the end of the island, but it was not a point but several points as the island widened at its foot (head, since we were running north?) We were puzzled but not concerned. Since everyone had talked about it as the end of the road, we would just follow it to the end. About a mile before the end of the island (about 2 miles after our water had been consumed), we saw a small sign pointing down a dirt road advertising a restaurant at Reggae Beach. So we turned and ran with the chickens a bit until the road
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divided again. Not seeing a sign, we continued forward and about a half mile later arrived to an empty, isolated and lovely beach. It had 2 restaurants but both were closed at 8:15 AM. We were thirsty, but that would have to wait.
Wait; yes there is a car. It is a mom dropping 2 college-age lovebirds off for an early morning make-out session. We decide to take advantage of them and confirm the name of the beach. Turtle Beach. Oh. Reggae Beach is closed for construction. Oh. How do you get there anyway? Another 1.5 miles, ok. Well, we are runners. We can do that. We have no choice because that is where we plan to meet Eva and have no method of communicating a change. So off we trudge at a vacation pace back to the division in the road and take the other one in hopes that it will make all the difference. We are a few hundred yards down that road when we hear a horn and it is Eva chasing us down. It seems that the taxi driver (a female this time) knew that the access to Reggae Beach had been suspended and came looking for us. I give the credit to Eva, who against long odds, is pretty (&) reliable.
The swim is everything I imagined. The beach remains virtually empty until about 10 AM when a store opens and we toss down some liquids. Wilber, the gigantic pig that has relocated from Reggae Beach, moves to a shady spot, pausing to devour an apple offered by the young couple now applying sunscreen. We hop into the van & head back to the room for a quick shower followed by a Roti and beer for lunch and the airport. That is how The Hill became one of my “rave” runs.
