Currahee

This is a short tale about a mountain I tried to run up, twice. TL;DR, the mountain kicked my ass.

First off, let me tell you about Currahee. It’s a 1,700 foot monster, sticking up just south of the Blue Ridge mountains and, by extension, the entire Appalachian chain. It’s the biggest, baddest mountain anywhere close to where I grew up.

It’s also eminently runnable and happy to break your body and spirit, as the boys of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne discovered in this remarkably well preserved archival footage (after the jump).

The saying is, “3 miles up, 3 miles down,” except it’s more like 3.5 miles. And trust me when I say you feel every step of that last 800 meters.

My first attempt came after a week of holiday feasting and only so much regular exercise as it had taken to walk into restaurants, pick up menus, and order from them. “I’ve been running two years now; I’m sure a 3.5-mile uphill climb will be nbd,” I thought, incorrectly.

At first, the mountain was almost fun. My Army buddy and I made great time, catching up on the last year and running through a 2-mile stretch around the base of the mountain that dipped mostly downhill. It wasn’t until that last mile and half that the real work started and our conversation quietly stopped, as we rounded a bend to find a sharp, upward climb, as far as the eye could see.

“Dig deep,” I told myself, as I began to grind away at the slope, eyes fixed on the dirt path directly in front of me.

My breath strained and legs burning, I reached the top, and rounded the corner to find…another, longer climb.

“Dig deep,” I said again. And, ignoring the body’s loud protests, I beat that climb as well.

Of course, there was another steep slope after that hill – and another after that. “Dig deep” became less of a statement of resolution and more of a question, i.e. “Think we could keep digging deep on this one?” And soon the body had an answer: “Hell no!!!” 

Then I was walking, and then basically crawling. There was always another turn and another steep climb ahead, to the point that it got pretty gratuitous. Finally limping to the summit felt good, mostly because I’d managed it heart-attack free.

Basically, imagine getting trolled by hills.

There was probably a lesson in humility to found somewhere in that run, as my buddy and I lay dying at the top of Mount Currahee. But if there was, I certainly didn’t see it.

“I’m going to run this damn thing again,” I proclaimed. And two days later, I’d roped in two other friends too nice to say no.

This time, I was ready. I’d studied the path and figured out how to pace myself. I started out slow, steady, and resolute. I knew where the shit got real; where I’d find my center, lock down my zen, and plough through it in an uplifting example of mind over matter.

I gave up in the exact damn spot I did the first time.

We didn’t exactly conquer the mountain, but we still took a great picture.

If there’s some greater takeaway to be gathered from this story (and truthfully, there might not be), it’s that running gives you a superb chance to “commune with your limits.” Sometimes you push past them and sometimes (probably more often) they break you.

The point is that you see, in these moments of extreme physical duress, exactly where the edge of your willpower lays. It can be soul-crushing, but also humbling. Occasionally, it’s even helpful.

When I first began running, my Currahee was running half a mile without stopping. More recently, it was running three miles in under 30 minutes. Now, my Currahee is…literally Currahee. I’d hope one day to beat it, and see what challenge comes next.