I’m no fan of cardiovascular exercise under any circumstance, but I do it anyway because it’s good for me and I’m self-disciplined. Of all the forms of cardio available, I detest jogging the least so that's what I do the most. I'm a simple man, and jogging is about as simple as exercise gets. To wit:
Step 1: Run out front door
Step 2: Continue for 15 minutes
Step 3: Turn around; retrace steps
I’m trying. I really am. But when I walk my local routes instead of running them, it takes more than twice as long and burns less than half the calories. That inverted ratio offends my time management sensibility. And, as Monica will attest, I have a formidable time management sensibility. In fact, it's my superpower.
Faster than a speeding deadline.
More powerful than idle procrastination.
Able to leap tall To-Do lists in a single bound.
It’s...Taskman!
That said, Deirdre’s logic, though unwelcome, is unimpeachable. We must train our bodies to do what we’ll be doing on Kilimanjaro, and that’s walking. On the mountain we’ll be covering a total of 45 miles in 8 days, and even though that averages only 5.6 miles per day we’ll also be gaining 12,000’ in elevation (then losing it again!) in the process. That’s a burly hike no matter where you happen to be doing it. Factor in the oxygen deprivation, the extreme altitude, and the arctic conditions on the summit, and you’re talking about an expedition that's way beyond anything Monica and I have experienced in our years of backpacking.
Denial is a process. Like high elevation, one must adapt to it slowly.
I have to keep reminding myself that our training program isn’t intended so much to ensure a successful summit as it is to increase our chances of enjoying the climb. A great many people don’t – enjoy the climb, that is. I’ve heard from many reliable sources that the last couple of days on the mountain, especially summit day, can feel like a death march. It’s apparently not uncommon for trekkers to pass a number of sobbing, retching, demoralized would-be summiteers on the way to the top. It’s not at all unlikely, in fact, that Mo’ or I could be among them.
As I ruminate over that last distressing sentence, Mo’ enters the room, drops into the chair next to me, and pointedly laces up her hiking boots. I’ve never heard anyone lace so noisily. She’s making a point. We've agreed to hike the Billy Goat Trail today and my blogging is causing us to get a late start. “Let’s go, Whitmer,” she says, nodding sardonically at the pedometer on my motionless hip. “That mountain's not going to climb itself.”