Flow on the Border Route

I have a problem. 

It’s the night before I’m going to try to complete the Border Route Trail, a 65 mile wilderness trail across the north woods of Minnesota and through the BWCA, in a day. I drove up from the Twin Cities today, and between Memorial Day traffic and road construction, it took me an extra hour and a lot more frustration and energy than I anticipated. Then I got to Grand Marais, where my wife and I were meeting up with the rest of my crew (my family), in the middle of a bike race.

It’s not surprising, then, that I don’t feel that I am in the right headspace for a long day on a relatively unknown, and notoriously difficult, trail tomorrow. 

I have a plan for it, though. Over dinner at the Gunflint Lodge, while I let my parents and wife hold up the conversation, I retreat into my own head, repeating over and over again in my head “Take what the trail gives you.” 

I continue that mantra throughout the next few hours as we get the last details in order and organize all the gear for the next day. I keep the phrase rolling through my head as I tossed and turned throughout the (short) night, even as my brain shows me, in vivid detail, all the ways that my run might go wrong (would undoubtably go wrong, as my tired brain would have me believe). 

Fast forward a few hours. It’s 9:00AM. I last saw my crew over an hour ago, 11 miles into my day, and I’m now several miles into the BWCA. It’s been four and a half hours since I started my run, and I’m starting to record some thoughts on my GoPro.  I can hear the surprise in my voice later when I say “I’m now 41/2 hours into my run. Funny, it doesn’t feel that long.” 

And it didn’t. Clearly, despite the day before and the limited sleep, I got into the right headspace, and I credit my resolution to “take what the trail gives [me]”, and then to stick with that mantra even when the trail wasn’t giving me the pace I wanted. 

At that point, though, 4.5 hours and some 16 (plus one accidental extra) miles into my run, the trail was giving me what I wanted: sub-15 minute pace while I was running. The navigation was not too difficult, for the most part, but it required my constant attention, both to keep on the trail and to keep from injuring myself. The trail itself told me when it was safe to run, and when I was better off walking. 

The one time I stopped to what the trail was telling me, I put my foot into a hole left by the dislodged roots of a deadfall, and nearly put an end to my attempt. But even that only shook me out of my groove for a matter of moments. 

Simply put, at this point in the day, I was flowing. Time passed easily, and the miles passed smoothly under my feet as I alternated between walking when necessary and running when possible. 

I have never had a flow experience last so long before. For a good three hours, maybe more, I moved steadily forward, time passing without much note taken, and making steady progress. I was even making up time on my “slow” splits, despite the technical nature of the “trail.” And even though I had gotten only a few hours of sleep, gotten up at 3:30, and been on the trail for some six hours now, I felt easy and strong, and more than anything, simply happy to be out in such a beautiful area on a gorgeous, if warm, spring day. 

Then came the alders. My experience of time reversed in an instant. From hours passing like minutes, the minutes started to feel like hours as I had to force my way through the intertwined branches of these blasted shrubs. My attitude soured in an instant, and I fell behind my splits for the first time all day. 

After the section with the alders, I never really got back into a flow state. I kept tabs on my pace, and despite feeling pretty solid and being in a good mental space, I was still slipping back on my goal pace. Not by much (I ended up averaging 18:40 pace, and my cutoffs were at 18 minute pace), but it was enough for me to realize that I was not going to make my self-imposed cutoffs. 

And I was ok with that. But I did get into my head “my crew will be worried.” So I didn’t slow down at all, and in fact ran my fastest pace since Magnetic Rock at mile 33 or so. This was a section of portage, so it was a much nicer, smoother trail than any other section I’d run that day, but I was still pleased that I could run well with so many difficult miles under my belt. 

I have never slipped into flow states that easily before, or for that long. I credit being as ready as I could be physically for the challenge (thanks to this book), and for a few mental tricks and techniques I learned from this one. 

Now, after the BRT, I finally picked up a book on flow, and have been reading it (slowly). Much of it confirms what I already know, but I highly recommend it, and hope to use it coaching my own athletes, once I get that going.