This article originally appeared on Trail Runner
During the first lockdowns of the pandemic, an exercise program of 50km runs provided much-needed structure to my life. Although the race ended up being canceled, I still ran 50 miles around Snoqualmie Pass in central Washington with two of my closest friends. It was a perfect collision of place, people and purpose.
After the race, however, it was a slow burn of injuries and fatigue. Persistent pain kept me from returning to training, and in the absence of a tangible new goal, I sank into the aimless abyss of post-competition blues.
No one is forcing this sport on me. But day after day I willingly choose to enter the cave of burning, all-fours, heart-pounding pain. Why does it make my heart beat when I spend a few hours a day trying to move through landscapes a little faster (the more mountains the better)? And why did I feel so helpless in his absence?
In this uncertain space I discovered woodwork.
I grew up watching Phil, a family friend and master carpenter, shape wood into delicate curves, safe lines and strong shapes. I always wondered how they rounded off rectangular pieces of wood and envied the crooked hands that were evidence of days spent in the woodworking shop. I was desperate for something to get me out of my post-race slump and Phil was kind enough to take me on as an intern.
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Carpenter's workshop
I fell in love with woodworking with a strength I could not have predicted. Through the faint cedar smell of the carpentry shop, arms stretched against the weight of heavy blocks of wood, forearms holding the buzz of a puzzle, and fingers full of junk growing rough and rotten.
The work was hard and humbling, but also fun, like solving a crossword problem combined with the spatial challenge of a puzzle. Unlike the abstract intellectual work my liberal arts education required, woodworking was refreshing. I tasted the reality of it.
Woodworking, I learned, is mental, physical and purposeful. The material is simple, but the creative possibilities are endless. Phil and I spent a week building an intricately designed barn door, a day assembling shelves, a few days making large cut trees for a woodworking project, and a few weeks building a sauna . .
Successes and failures in the timber industry are obvious and indisputable. Do the shelves hold up or not? keep the barn or not? I once cut some wooden beams to the wrong length, which is not a mistake that can be fixed or covered up. Such a mistake required starting from scratch or adapting the project to the material at hand. There were days when I felt like I was going backwards. But I kept showing up.
Woodworking grounded me in the tactile world, requiring me to interact with the textures and shapes around me. My hands have mastered the shapes of the handles of various tools; the handle of a fine Japanese blade next to the precarious weight of a set of table clamps. And I began to recognize wood by its distinctive grain patterns and colors; a slightly reddish and smooth grain of bright cherry, next to a dark, fine-grained walnut. Woodworking took me out of my brain and into my body; it required me not to think abstractly and perceive my world, but to touch and feel that world.
Woodworking grounded me in the tactile world, requiring me to interact with the textures and shapes around me.
One day, while waiting for the glue to dry, I wandered among the tables and machines scattered throughout the spacious woodworking shop, tracing the rough edges of the cedar beams with my hands, touching the open corners, and sheet lifted. of pointed walnut, which would soon become a table. This tangibility brought me closer to the world around me and grounded me through it.
Was this what I missed by not competing?
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Run again
When I slowly started running again, I couldn't wait to get back on my favorite trails. On my first few descents, my feet navigated the familiar rocks and roots of home trails, my quads protested as I explored my favorite mountains. I loved not only seeing but also feeling the environments I moved into. I found that even though I missed running, woodworking became a convenient substitute, reminding me and expanding my understanding of running.
Running is a unique alchemy between breath, muscles, mind and place. When I returned to training, I found myself playing with the different components of running: stride, speed, terrain, and our ever-dynamic bodies. Some days I ran short jogs with crooked steps, other days I swam a spiral path in the mountains around my house. Although the transience of a unique trail differs from the permanence of a finished wood project, each trail offers an opportunity to create a new experience from existing materials.
That didn't mean I liked every race. There were days when my legs felt heavy, my lungs small and inefficient. I gave up a few drops and ran into speed goals I couldn't meet. Some days I couldn't cut the beams to the right length. Every race I felt my strengths and weaknesses and had to adjust accordingly.
I enjoy the reality of racing as much as I enjoy the tactility of woodworking. Running on mountain paths, city streets and riverbanks connects me with my surroundings, to not only see my landscapes, but also to experience them.
The sports we do, the crafts we do
Working with wood allowed me to embody three-dimensional thinking and creative thinking. In addition, running invites me into a dialogue with my environment, which requires the involvement of my senses and increases my perception of the world around me.
Woodworking and running together are now in conversation, informing and enriching each other. Looking back at the funk I was in when I started woodworking, I am so grateful that they made me stop and think about why I love running, that I can now bring the awareness I found through woodworking . practice my race
Woodworking and running together are now in conversation, informing and enriching each other
Recently I woke up at 6am, had a cup of coffee, put on some layers and then hit my local river trail as the sun came out. As I followed the bends of the river, the path precariously close to the water, I noticed that the colors had changed. Freshly fallen leaves made the road soft and pliable. The wind blowing off the water had the texture of wood grain, and all around was the smell of piles of wood. This wooden plane, this racing kit... here they were talking to each other again.
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