A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

— Lao-tzu

It seemed like it must be lunchtime.  I couldn’t tell for sure.  I didn’t have a watch. I had lost track of the hours.  But I had that vague uneasiness I sometimes get when there’s a chance I might miss a meal.

“Mile 23” the sign said.  How did I get here I wondered.

My hip flexors were angry.

I looked up.  The sun seemed high in the sky.

The soles of my feet argued with me.

My mind drifted back to the sound that they had made in the snow on summit day. There had been no wind that night.  Just the crunch of my boots as I walked the last 300 feet on that narrow corniced ridge, the great south face of Denali dropping off 5000′ to my right, 1000′ of air to my left.

Then suddenly I was beside the pool at the Hotel Aconcagua in Mendoza, celebrating the New Year in the warm Argentine summer.  A gentle breeze.  Ann and I.  Talking about Malbec and tango.  And our audacious goals for 2010: summit Denali and run a marathon.  

“Mile 25” the sign said.  “Really?” I said out loud.

Brutal cold. Heavy packs. Thin air. Nineteen days. So hard to breathe.

So much preparation.  So many months.  So many miles.

So many steps.

Denali.  A dream for forty years.  Achieved.

How long ago had I passed the twenty-mile marker?  It reminded me of the view from just below the summit ridge. The moment I felt certain. The moment that doubt dropped away. The moment that I knew that I would “do it.”

I thought of the long runs through the Farmington Valley and along the Irish coast. All the way back to months and months ago when the “long runs” were four miles; and the stretch to ten seemed an impossibility.

Slowly. Deliberately. Mile after mile.  We built it.

The tiny details. The strength training. The weight training.  The cross training.

I thought about The Compound Effect.  A great book by Darren Hardy.  An inspiration for me in times of darkness and discouragement. A compelling reminder for me that small efforts applied consistently over time make all the difference in the world.

I thought about my great partner, Ann, and her meticulous training regimen.  About the splatter of the rain on our bedroom skylight as we tugged at yesterday’s smelly socks.  About the dark dawns.  About the cold slush that seeped into our running shoes.  About the days we didn’t want to lift another load or see another stair stepper.

And I thought about the joyous day that mile sixteen slid by as easily as mile four.

And about the glory of standing on the roof of North America with my best friend under the midnight sun.

I talked my hip flexors “off the ledge.”  “Mile 26,” the sign announced.  “No fucking way,” I said.

I could hear the music in the distance.  And then I saw it:  the finish line. It was most certainly time for lunch.