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The
Loneliness of the Long Distance Rucker
K.
S. Anthony
ฉ Copyright 2025 by K. S.
Anthony
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Photo courtesy of the author. |
The
first three miles always suck. It's not that they're painful; it's
that they're uncomfortable. There's no amount of strap or waist belt
adjusting that helps. It's just a question of getting used to your
ruck digging into your shoulders and moving the weight
your new weight
and the rest of you forward, upward, outward... away from
conventional comfort and towards the quiet embrace of
discomfort.
Nobody
tells you how boring rucking for distance
is, especially if you're doing down and backs. The brain likes
novelty and there's nothing terribly novel about watching a crescent
of light from your headlamp illuminate a dirt trail for 30 miles in
the middle of a cold, wet night in the middle of nowhere. During
the D.C. Star Course, I watched as my lamp turned the
raindrops
into sparks and tried to dodge the thicker mud puddles along the
Chesapeake and Ohio Canal as the storm-swollen Potomac roared by,
shrouded from vision by brush and night. After the first few miles,
there was nothing to see but mud and the rain-streaked faces of my
teammates. At one point, perhaps two or three miles from the
turnaround point, the trail seemed to narrow along a path was mostly
rock with clear, fresh water trickling down onto the trail. It seemed
brighter than the rest of trail, lit by a moon that I couldn't see.
It was the only place I remember that didn't have any sludge and I
let the crystalline water that ran off the rocks run over my shoes,
giving me a brief respite from the mud. It was a uniquely sublime
moment, at once surreal and beautiful. It left me with a sense of awe
that I have carried with me since the event. There is beauty, even in
the dark corners of suffering.
In
the absence of novelty, the
wandering brain can be tamed through repetition. Repetition offers
some relief from the mind-dulling boredom of slogging forward for
miles and miles with a ruck on your back and gravel beneath your
feet. Sometimes I will count to ten over and over and over again, for
hours, finding a certain indifference to pain and weather and
everything else as I simply push on. Sometimes I'll remember a
fragment of a poem or song and recite or replay it in my head. These
distractions can be unexpectedly strange. In D.C., Beyonc้'s
"Halo" was stuck in my head for over 12 hours: nothing I
would've admitted to my teammates at the time, but a solitary,
private source of comfort.
You
notice things about yourself
and others in the midst of the indifference. Some are tangible, like
the way that some people seem to make as much noise as possible when
moving, breaking every branch, crushing every shrub, kicking every
bottle. Others walk heel-step, seeking the dark spots and Earth
underfoot, moving almost silently down the sidewalk or a trail.
Others are less tangible: they are less about doing than not-doing.
You notice very quickly who does not volunteer to shoulder a sandbag
or weight during a rotation during a GORUCK event and how those who
follow that course of action or inaction literally
seem to become gray men, existing only on the fringes of the group
off in the shadows, permitted to stay only by the grace of the group:
the community in miniature that is forged by duress, the society that
understands and even permits failure, but that cannot abide
not-trying. They either disappear or prove themselves. You notice
every new ache and pain and embrace it as a novelty: I like to see if
I can forget about the pain in my back or feet or shoulders by
shifting my focus to some nascent pain beginning to beg my attention.
I like that remedies appear in things as simple as breathing "into"
a knot or shifting my ruck. I marvel at the way my muscles can fail
even the simplest command of "rucks
overhead" or
"push-ups"
and the way that the grass smells when I end up face-down in
it.
I've
arrived at events wondering if I'll be able to hold
my own, do my part. I've never tied my shoes without a nagging
anxiety that I will be the worst, most out of shape, most wildly
unprepared person there. I've worried about people not liking me,
childish though that sounds: I am worried that I'll be rejected, once
again the last kid picked for a team. I've signed up out of fear
fear that I will never know what I am capable of, fear of failure,
fear of fear, fear of rejection far more often than daring.
There is something in me, however, that thrives on that fear and
uncertainty, that consumes it; that doesn't just endure it, but loves
it.
That
psychological quirk should not be confused with
bravado or any innate confidence. I have felt useless and bumbling
during events, surrounded by men and women far physically stronger
than me, desperately convinced that I am the weakest link and that my
pitiable performance is being met with inner sighs and silent disgust
by both Cadre and teammates, all of whom, of course, are not thinking
about me at
all.
It is during those fleeting moments of self-pity and it is
always a form of self-pity, especially masquerading as concern for
the group that I am forced to smile and confront my
limitations. The underlying purpose of these events is to illustrate
nay, force the necessity of teamwork, of
selflessness. You cannot be selfless if you're feeling sorry for
yourself. You're not expected to be Superman, nor are you expected to
become him. GORUCK teaches resilience through humility. If these
events were easy if no one ever felt as though they were
being crushed, that they needed help, that their personal weaknesses
were being exposed, leaving them raw and vulnerable and soft
then no one would leave an event any tougher than if they had shown
up at a Starbucks, ordered a latt้, and left.
When
you're forced to look into the mirror of your weaknesses, whether at
mile three or mile thirty, it is not the time to look for an exit. It
is also not the time to self-assess. It is, however, the time to look
to those around you and ask "what
else can I do?"
I can't yet PT like some guys do. I can, however, grind out miles and
miles and miles. I can't yet move an 80 pound sandbag without slowing
the speed of the group. I can, however, shoulder a 60 pound sandbag.
It's not about what you can't do,
but rather about what you can.
Ultimately, however, it's not about you at all. Your strength, your
muscles, your endurance, your brain whatever you bring to an
event is there to serve your team. Indulgent self-pity over
weakness, whether real or perceived, only serves itself. But it
doesn't have to stop there. The
philosopher Alain de Botton writes,
"The
path out of self-pity involves an arc of development. We come to
recognise that other people are not always being especially hard on
us when they find us wanting. And we come to realise that our
sufferings take place within a broad context of unhappiness. Far from
meaning that our suffering doesnt matter, its rather
the case that all suffering matters and can unite the afflicted into
a giant collective... Suffering doesnt have to isolate, it can
also bring us together."
Every challenge
undergone with a team is a rite of initiation: or at least has the
potential to be one. I assert that there are few experiences in
civilian life that genuinely and meaningfully prescribe initiation.
Most of the contemporary rituals we undergo, however grandiose, often
prove sterile: empty of any meaning that outlast the moment. They do
not change us. They do not engender growth. They do not show us what
else is possible.
My
argument is evidenced by the number of
civilians and I include non-veterans and non-first responders
in this that sign up for GORUCK events and willingly undergo
abbreviated experiences of the physical training that warfighters
volunteer for. The stakes are far lower, yes. But the spirit
the desire is one that yearns for camaraderie, community,
friendship, and kinship based on something deeper than the ones we
locate in school or at work. As a young man in my 20s, then pursuing
a career in law enforcement and working in contract security, I
learned that there's a real sense of tribe that forms very quickly
among those who endure the same kinds of suffering and stress
together.
The
"why" of it isn't interesting to me.
I've read criticisms from people who consider it a sign of
consumerist decadence that people sign up for these miniature
sufferfests.
As
one of the ostensibly guilty, I can't be
objective, but I think that like most criticisms of our
community is a shortsighted conclusion. In some participants,
I know there is a sort of regret in not having enlisted or
volunteered: a persistent questioning in which they wonder whether or
not they would have had what it takes to become a warfighter, a
warrior. Dr.
Johnson summarized
it neatly when he wrote that "Every man thinks meanly of himself
for not having been a soldier, or not having been at sea."
There's a ring of truth to that. While I do not regret that paths
I've taken in my life, I have sometimes wondered if I would have been
an able soldier, sailor, marine, or airman; what my life would have
looked like had I discerned a different calling. And make no mistake:
to volunteer for the military is to answer a calling: to
be a warfighter is to have a profession and not merely a job. Look
at The
Soldier's Creed:
I
am an American Soldier.
I
am a warrior and a member of a team.
I
serve the people of the United States, and live the Army Values.
I
will always place the mission first.
I
will never accept defeat.
I
will never quit.
I
will never leave a fallen comrade.
I
am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained and proficient
in my warrior tasks and drills.
I
always maintain my arms, my equipment and myself.
I
am an expert and I am a professional.
I
stand ready to deploy, engage, and destroy, the enemies of the United
States of America in close combat.
I
am a guardian of freedom and the American way of life.
I
am an American Soldier.
There
is nary a trace of ambivalence in its declaration. It is absolute. It
is unequivocal. As such, it is a far cry nearly foreign to
many from the excuses and platitudes we too often encounter
from friends and co-workers... and in ourselves. The verbiage does
not half-heartedly insist, "I will try." It states "I
am"
and "I
will."
It places accountability for upholding that standard at the foot of
each individual, each member of a team. Those "I
wills"
form the heart of the creed: the warrior ethos. At its core, the
creed represents an indictment of the will to self-preservation: a
willingness not merely an acceptance to die; in other
words, courage. As Steven
Pressfield succinctly
puts it,
"The
Warrior Ethos evolved to counter the instinct of
self-preservation.
Against
this natural impulse to flee from danger (specifically from an armed
and organized human enemy), the Warrior Ethos enlists three other
equally innate and powerful human impulses:
Shame.
Honor.
And
love."
This
ethos isn't merely stated. It is
lived. "The
soldier's prayer," Pressfield
notes, "...remains
not 'Lord, spare me,' but 'Lord, let me not prove unworthy of my
brothers.'" That
prayer, regardless of verbiage or acknowledgement, is a prayer that
asks that one be tested: a prayer for courage. Not for oneself, but
for one's teammates.
There
is a psychological component
atavistic and primal, dating to our pasts as hunters and fighters and
voyagers and protectors to our civilized selves that craves
testing, initiation, and integration into a community. We crave the
acceptance and acknowledgement of those we judge our peers, but
especially of those we judge our superiors: not only those who've
earned our admiration through accomplishments that have exceeded
ours, but especially those that bring out the very best in us: the
Cadre. As Pressfield writes, "ordeals
of initiation are undergone not as individuals, but as teams, as
units."
The
veterans who created continue to build GORUCK intimately understand
that. They understand that there is an inherent value in the warrior
ethos that has the power to make people better
people. That
is the portion of the bridge that they build across the
epistemological and experiential gap that divides the civilian and
military spheres in America.
I
can't tell you what it was that
I was looking for when I signed up for my first event in September of
2016: I wasn't an OCR guy. I wasn't a Crossfit guy. I just showed up,
poisonously hungover, to a park in Brooklyn with my Rucker and
weight. The sum of my rucking experience was relegated to destroying
a 5.11 with plates in Runyon Canyon when I lived in Hollywood during
one of the loneliest times of my life. I have no idea what I was
looking for. I had no idea what to expect.
What
I can tell you
is what I found.
I
found what I thought were my limits and
exceeded them.
I
found a sense of community of tribe
that demands not that I succeed at everything I try, but that I give
all I've got and that I get up every time I fail.
I
found a
sense of accomplishment sated and then ignited again as I ask myself
after every event, "what
else is possible?"
I
found leaders who, through their courage, their examples, and the
values embedded in the stories they've shared, kindled a love of
country that I did not know could burn with such intensity in me.
I
found myself shuffling down a storm-blasted mud trail in the rain,
sleep-deprived and exhausted, with people I barely knew, pausing to
watch a doe and her fawns look at us with soft, dark eyes before
disappearing into the grass.
I
found friends: people who make
those first three miles and every mile thereafter
worth embracing, whether they are by my side or in my
thoughts.
Lord,
let me not prove unworthy of them.
It
took months for
my feet to heal. It was worth it.
*****
Authors
Note: In fall
2018, I
successfully completed the GORUCK 50+ Mile Philadelphia Star Course
(56 miles), the MCM 10k Ruck, and the GORUCK 50+ Mile NYC Star Course
(also 56 miles IIRC) in three consecutive weeks (might have been
four, would have to check).
Contact
K. S.
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