Joshua Barringer

Wild

By InnerVoice

September 15^th, 2017

DARK DAYS OF EXILE

Life in tension breeds intention. After the collapse of yet another biotech startup, I was presented with the challenge of figuring out my future whilst living out of my car in Vancouver. I had moved to Canada for my dream science job, but it was becoming more apparent to me that your studied profession is not necessarily your passion. I struggled a lot during those days. My soul ached at the thought of abandoning the life I’d built in the Pacific Northwest to pursue another potentially doomed job in the lab. Yet I felt driven to fight for this space. Would I have made a career shift on my own initiative? I’d like to think I’m that courageous but if I’m honest, I doubt it.

During the dark days of exile, my solace of running was becoming a chore, a calendar of tasks preparing me for a specific arbitrary distance on a pre-planned course. I began seeking opportunities within running which offered escape through the emulation of the life I found myself living. Racing was not a part of that. Races are events which exist to bring our fringe minority of long distance trail runners together. There is beauty and equality abounding, but it is too controlled of an environment. Sure, a race allows you to push your body alongside other people and I am deeply grateful for the experience I’ve gained through them, but take away the pageantry and it’s just a contrived distance over sometimes uninspiring terrain.

By recognizing my challenging situation, I found a new tenacity for things I love; traversing through trepidation allowed me to find what I needed to hold on to and what is chaff to be blown away. Without intention, I feel aimless.

jumping in puddles

I began running to kill time during graduate school while my experiments were running. Sometimes a reaction would be multi-step and take almost 40 hours, so to stay awake I would go for a run. Over time, running became a consistent in my life. It offered me the ability to sharpen my approaches to problems in the lab and also provide fresh air from being around some pretty gnarly chemicals. If I didn’t want to focus on experiments, I could use my time running to reset, setting my mind on each footfall and nothing else.

Towards the end of my masters, I had made the decision to move to Seattle to pursue my dream of playing guitar in a metal band. Scary as it was, I didn’t want to be in my 60’s and regret not following my heart. The day after I graduated, I packed my car and drove west. I couldn’t explain the draw to Seattle specifically, but I figured I’d find out along the way. I feared failure and having to return home, but the excitement of possibilities far outweighed what doubts arose. I was moving across the country to a city where I knew no one, had no job prospects, and a roommate I’d met on Craigslist and only spoken to a few times. As it turns out, my roommate was training for the Chicago Marathon and given my recent venture into running I decided to sign up for the Seattle Marathon and train with him. Running became my way of exploring a new city and developing ideas and songs for my band.

I eventually took a job and a colleague introduced me to trail running. I was immediately hooked. It was the most free I’d ever felt. Bounding around the trails and mountains, getting to jump in every puddle. Growing up in Louisiana, I was denied these opportunities as I didn’t have mountains to run in. Even though it was sad to watch my dream of touring in a metal band die, I never felt a loss. Everything music had done for me was now passing the baton to trail running. Passion for passion. I never felt that void of failure because I gave all I had into music. It didn’t work out, and that’s okay. If we don’t try we don’t know. But like my time in the lab, not all experiments are successes. You learn what you can from it and move forward, otherwise you end up stagnant. And stagnation is my biggest fear.

“Problem solving trumps stress; and running long distances teases those skills out of me.”

My dad recently kicked cancer’s ass

I felt at my most helpless during his treatment as I was only able to join for the initial week of diagnostics. It pushed me to think of creative ways to not only support him, but the rest of my family, who were able to be present. This was the first major medical crisis to happen to my family. We would sit and play cards while waiting on another scan. A young family would pass by, a father not too much older than me being wheelchaired around by his daughters wearing “Team Dad” shirts. My dad and I went to get a coffee and there was guy standing in front of me, my age, wheeling his IV drip around as he stood in line with his mom. Being at the hospital for that diagnostic week made me realize how lucky I am to have the health I do. It makes me want to go as far with it as I can, while I can. One of my best friends says “YOLO? No. You only die once, you live every day.”

I went home for Christmas, shortly after Dad finished his treatment. We made a bonfire, gathered around and watched his radiation mask be consumed by the flames as we sang hymns and carols. Difficult months of recovery turned my dad more lively than ever and is still pronounced cancer-free.

there's no strava for your soul

I tend to remain on the edge of the running community. Running still provides me space to process, sort, and explore my thoughts. I crave solo time in the mountains; no distractions, no watches, just the simplicity of movement. There’s no Strava for your soul. I don’t give a damn how far I went or how fast it took me. I run in the mountains to be rejuvenated. I was inspired by a friend who’d traveled to Iceland and did not post a single photo. If you wanted to see and hear about the trip, you needed to personally connect. Remember growing up, before the digital age, when you’d have to go visit someone for a dinner night to hear about an experience? Not everything needs to be presented and posted for the internet world. I tried to curate this with my trip to Tasmania. Sure, I posted some things, but it was very minimal. There are stories from that trip I’ve only told. Tasmania is such an uncovered gem I want to keep its hidden rugged beauty a secret.

The less time I spend on my own in the mountains, the more anxious I get. Not anxious about anything specific, just that deep feeling in my gut that I need to get away, alone; feel the breeze pass over my face, have pine needle filtered rain cover me and be immersed in the magic of the monochromatic misty ethereal surroundings.

I’m more likely to meet up for sushi or a beer with someone after a run than have them join. Those I do go adventuring with are incredibly important to me.

“Since I train so much on my own, I’ve had to make greater efforts to have time for those around me. Carving out time for metal shows or whiskey and pizza nights is a struggle but always worth it. I remind myself that it’s ok to miss a run, people matter more.”

vagabonding

After HURT 100, I struggled to get out of bed. I was a complete wreck. I’d reached my breaking point in my wait to obtain a decision on Permanent Residency; vagabonding my way around Vancouver. I’d drained every ounce of mental fortitude to cross that finish line. My feet were trashed and throbbed every night for over a week - it hurt so much that I couldn’t sleep. I began to wonder if I’d ever want to run in the mountains again. Who would I be without running? Would I be without running? This time I didn’t have another passion to redirect my energy towards. I feared stagnancy was coming to knock on the door and I’d be too weak to turn him away. I was an essentially homeless, unemployed chemist in another country and no way to relieve my mind. At some point desire is overtaken by capability. Over time, inability (for whatever reason) strips you of desire.

But like my decision to stay in Canada, with no exact reason but an undeniable draw, I determined I wasn’t ready to give up on running. I had to get creative on my return. It seemed the best approach would be what I used in music. I looked at runs like etudes. Each outing had a specific purpose and objective. Piece by piece, joy returned. After months of this approach I was able to compose runs again.

the common thread of humanity

During the tough moments, I seek to find the freedom to explore within the confines presented. Perspective and gratitude can extinguish the incessant creeping of consternation. I focus on immediacy; what I can see in front of me. Like my life, the only way to move forward is to take the next step and see where it leads. I can keep taking more steps until I’m where I need to be. What I love about long distances is they teach you to appreciate the little things: a beautiful flower or patch of moss, a massive tree and stories it must be able to tell, dramatic clouds and the promise of cleansing. I am just passing through as I dance with the mountain, but our interaction invites me to freedom.

I think the common thread of humanity is the pursuit of freedom. It looks differently for everyone but the sentiments are the same. So when things get tough I think of people through a number of circumstances who are not able to enjoy this freedom of movement. I want to keep pushing myself because I can; because for some reason I’ve been given the ability.

tasmania was my true test

I’ve now completed 7 hundred-milers and numerous other ultra-distance races, most of which were sufferfests. Western States in 2013 was the 2nd hottest year in the race’s history. HURT 100 in 2015, where I sweated so much in the humidity I gave myself trench foot. Determined to just get a mental gold star, I ran Orcas 100 in 2016, days after fairly severely spraining my ankle.

Tasmania was my true test though. Something outside of the controlled race setting. I wanted to be a part of every aspect of the adventure, even down to everything I had on me. For months, I worked late nights with designers at Arc’teryx helping me modify and design my gear and clothes. It was daunting, sitting in front of sewing machine, making my fastpack run vest knowing every press of the pedal is what’s going to potentially save my life.

My final piece of advice is to add intention to what you do. Unplug and don’t track every movement. Focusing on a race is fine, and good to give motivation to some; but don’t let a finish line be the place you find happiness. It can take over and every day, every workout leads to this one moment. I don’t think life was meant to be lived as a series of countdowns – it detracts from extracting from the present.