Back to the Hills

It was the middle of the night back in February 2023 and I was working my way through western Wyoming, trying to get to Omaha for my best friend's funeral. John had been in rehab for several months stemming from complications following a stroke, but I still never thought this day would come. I was absolutely gutted and could barely make out the road through the tears in my eyes, let alone the patches of black ice through blowing and drifting snow. A raging blizzard had set in, and the highways were a mess.

As I passed the little town of Kemmerer, I heard an alert on my phone and noticed that my GPS was trying to reroute me to the north. I pulled over to see what was going on, and as I feared Interstate 80 had closed down about a hundred miles ahead. The new course would send me through some of the most remote country in the lower 48 and add at least six hours to the drive- time I couldn't spare if I was going to make it to the wake the next afternoon. I decided to chance it, continued on my original path, then stopped and got a cheap motel room in the last town before the closure. About four am the road reopened, and I was on my way again.

That morning, something seemed wrong with my phone. Despite the closure being lifted, my GPS still kept trying to route me off of Interstate 80. For several hours it continued telling me to turn north.

"Why in the hell does it keep trying to send me through Rapid City?" I finally said to myself.

Then it dawned on me... Through our late teens and early twenties John and I had travelled extensively together, taking every opportunity we could to embark on road trips throughout the west. And our first, and maybe most formative adventure outside the borders of Iowa, was a camping trip to South Dakota's Custer State Park, in the summer of '96. I couldn't help but smile at the thought that- just maybe- the malfunctioning phone was actually my good humored friend trying to cheer me up with a message from beyond.

"Screw it, buddy. Blow off the funeral. Let's go back to the Black Hills instead!"

John's death was hard on all of us who were close to him. He had such a zest for life, just the epitome of a happy-go-lucky guy. I've never known anybody with his ability to laugh in any situation or lift up everybody who was around him. He was kind, hardworking and made everyone feel like a friend. He truly was the best of all of us, and having his light taken from this world far too soon hurt really, really bad.

I remember in the days and weeks after he died how the smallest nuances suddenly seemed so profound. Every song, every smell, everywhere I looked triggered a memory of times we'd shared. You never realize how intertwined someone actually is in the core fabric of your life until every little thing brings the painful reminder that they're gone. John had been like a brother to me growing up. He was a constant presence at our family dinner table. We competed on all the same sports teams. We even goofed our way through classes taken together in college. And while life did its thing and eventually we were pulled in our separate directions and no longer daily fixtures to one another, we remained close. Always just a call or text away, with the stories and hijinks and adventures of the good old days still right there within touch. As if they'd happened yesterday.

These memories now desperately insisted that they had.

The afternoon that I returned to Utah following his funeral I decided to go to the gym, needing something positive to occupy my mind. I'd been trying to get back in shape, with the ultimate goal of getting back into running again, for quite some time. But I've also really struggled with depression and anxiety for the past several years, and it had taken a toll. Every time I'd try to get into a workout routine my efforts would eventually be derailed when I'd spiral back to a low point, and it would often take weeks or months to gain the motivation to start over again. My lifestyle had become far more sedentary than it's ever been before. I was listless and probably thirty pounds overweight. And while I was embarrassed by this and would occasionally muster a spark of determination to try and make a change, inevitably I'd fall back into the same old cycle. Over and over again.

The memories continued to wash over me as I took a seat and slowly started spinning the pedals of an exercise bike. My gym shorts inched up to reveal the scar still visible on my left thigh, remnant from when John accidentally dropped a forty-five-pound weight on my leg our freshman year in football. We were both scrawny little runts, and the next summer on the eve of two-a-day workouts we talked on the phone late into the night, confessing our disdain for those practices and conspiring to go out for cross country instead. That spontaneous move ended up being one of the best decisions of my life. I fell in love with running and took such pleasure and pride in it, with so many lessons from those experiences that still carry me today. I mean sure, I did fall short on goals of becoming a state champion, and eventually dreams of walking on with a college track program faded (they’re still not entirely gone, lol) but running became a huge part of my life that I continued to enjoy long after those youthful academic days. It was only because of persistent knee problems that I decided to step away from it for a while, and then suddenly a while became twenty years. Now I didn't know any more if I'd actually ever be able to do it again. I didn’t know if my body would hold up. I didn’t know if mentally I’d ever be able to get out of my own way.

I was still trying though. As I fell into a rhythm on the bike my gaze eventually drifted through a large window across the room, to a wintery scene outside. Light snow fell from an overcast sky, and cars rushed by in a continuous line; people occupied with their weekend errands, dutifully tending to the hustle of life.

Past the traffic I saw a figure, an older woman, almost inconspicuous against the commotion of the street. She approached her home with the aid of a walker, slowly progressing up the sidewalk before what seemed a painstaking final ascent up three cement porch steps. Her movement was deliberate and the climb clearly difficult for her. When she finally reached the top she hunched over her support for a full minute before regaining enough strength to disappear through the front door.

My heart went out to the woman. I was reminded how easy it is for many of us to take our mobility, or the ease to perform daily tasks, for granted. I hoped that she had family or friends close by that she could call on if needed. But as I thought deeper it also dawned on me that in the timeline of my own life, even if I am fortunate enough to live to old age, I was just as close to being her as I was to the flood of memories of John and I in our youth that felt so vividly still within reach. That this too, if I make it that long, will be here in the blink of an eye.

That hit me hard. And a day hasn’t passed since that I haven’t thought of the duality of that moment- the memories and the future, and the awareness of passing with lightspeed in between- with a solemn sense of urgency.

I continued to go to the gym that spring, focused mainly on elliptical and stationary bike workouts to try and build some strength back. Twenty minutes of each was all I could manage at first. In the summer I attempted to get out and start cycling, with a few short runs mixed in here and there. It was really just enough to make my knees and shins achy, and raised more questions than confidence.

Working up to a committed routine by no means took a linear path. I’d do okay for a week or two and then life would get busy, or I’d get down, and progress would abruptly halt. I had my setbacks, and I still do. But if there’s one thing I had to accept from John’s passing, solidified by the scene of the woman with her walker, it was how fragile and fast life really is. Every time I fell I got back up. There was always something deep inside of me that wasn’t going to quit, and eventually even my own insecurities couldn’t refute that.

I didn’t start running with consistency again until last November. Just one mile at a time on the treadmill at first.

By Christmas I had worked my way up to five miles. It nearly killed me. I was pleased with the achievement, but convinced that this was my ceiling.

In May I ran my first marathon. It went okay, I was fighting through some repetitive stress injuries by this point, but my only goal was to run the whole thing and finish. And I did.

This summer I joined a local trail running series. It was definitely one of the most physically challenging things I’ve done in a long time. Almost 30 years now removed from high school, and these weekly mountain races were far harder, and three times longer, than any cross-country course I’d ever run. But I stuck with it, and had a blast.

About a month ago, I finally made it back to the Black Hills. On the evening of August 16, on what would become a mostly sleepless night, I sat alone in a tiny motel room in Custer, South Dakota, ravaged with anxiety. Shaking with nerves, a Sharpie in one hand and running shoes on my lap, I sketched out the letters J-C-G, for John Christopher Gravert- on the toe of my left shoe. On the other I drew a Tiger Hawk, a tribute to our shared Iowa fandom, and wrote “Go Hawks!” It was the line John and I repeated to each other (in lieu of “goodbye” or “see you later”) at the end of every conversation. Across the heels and insteps I made a number of Seinfeld references- John’s all-time favorite show- including the quote “Yeah buddy!” -a term of endearment that was one of his most commonly recited Kramer catch phrases.

At 4:45 am the next morning I stepped on to the local high school track. About twelve and a half hours, and fifty miles later, I returned to the same spot, having completed my first ultramarathon.

Trail running, and ultra distances, have been a long-time life goal of mine. I was first introduced to the idea almost twenty years ago while thru hiking, and assumed it was something that I’d just eventually do. (Isn’t it funny how the ambiguity of “someday” works?) More recently, in probably the last five years, I’ve felt a stronger desire to pursue these goals- seeing both the opportunity to work through some of my inner turmoil, and the need to chase these dreams before they slipped away. But my mental health struggles made it really difficult to prioritize such things. It’s hard when every ounce of energy you have is spent trying to keep yourself afloat.

I’ve been back and forth on how much, if any, to share of this. As far as the run, I don’t want to come off like I’m gloating or boasting or anything like that. This was an important milestone for me though, and I do want to share the story in a way that can reach John’s extended network of family and friends as an example of how he continues to be an inspiration. Given how everything played out, I knew that I wanted to dedicate my first ultra to him, and of course it seemed equally fitting to go back and run it in the Black Hills.

But I also think there are a couple of takeaways that might be worthwhile for anyone to consider.

The first is… don’t let age be an excuse for anything. Yes, life is fleeting and of course the back half usually comes with some degree of physical decline. But as long as you have breath in your lungs and a dream in your heart, you still have time to better yourself and pursue your goals.

One phrase that I’ve become really fond of in recent years is “Meet yourself where you are.” This gives us permission to honestly assess and accept things in a realistic frame, and then decide how to move forward from there. It allows room for setbacks, growth and evolution. Okay, so maybe I’m never going to be an Olympic champion. But I can still get out on the trail and put one foot in front of the other, and in doing so learn a lot about how far hard work and perseverance can actually carry me. Fifty miles in a day, as it turns out, so far.

The other takeaway is that sometimes the best thing we can do to honor those who we have lost, is keep striving to make the most of the time they didn’t get. Grief is a son of a bitch, and when John died I had a lot of trouble making sense of things. I felt guilty. It didn’t seem right that his life be cut short when he always seemed to embrace it fully and effortlessly. I can’t imagine there was a day he spent on this Earth that he didn’t laugh with all his heart. I can’t imagine he ever took a single day for granted. And he was deeply loved and meant so much to so many people. He was a caring husband and father, a great son, brother and uncle, I’m guessing everybody’s favorite co-worker, and an awesome friend. Why was he the one taken while I felt I was none of these things; at a time when I believed my own life had become a total waste, and that I had nothing to offer anyone? I still don’t think it was fair. I know that it wasn’t. But all I can do now is take the torch and try to carry on living as he would, trying to better myself, trying to be better for others, and trying to see the blessings- and opportunity for gratitude and joy- in each day.

*******

There is one more little twist to this story that I think is worth mention. I’d actually pretty much forgotten about the whole GPS thing driving to John’s funeral until I passed the sign to Kemmerer, enroute to South Dakota a few weeks back. Just as I did, and remembered those events, I looked up and saw lettering on the back of a semi I was about to pass. It was a tongue in cheek message that the driver had placed on the door of his trailer, urging people to pay attention to the flashing lights on the side of his rig. The sign started with a simple greeting in large block print.

“Hey buddy…”



Love ya, Gravert. Go Hawks.