Finding Small Joys On and Off the Trail

"Run with joy" takes some effort and attention

Today’s post is inspired by

Suleika Jaouad

. I’ve followed her newsletter ever since reading her incredible memoir three years ago, Between Two Kingdoms: A Memoir of a Life Interrupted. Her recent post prompted me to focus on small moments and observations.

Feeling a little joy in the early miles of a long, hot desert training run with a 20-pound pack one week ago, part of training for the Sept. 22 - 28 Grand to Grand Ultra self-supported desert stage race.

I was thinking skeptically about the advice someone gave to “run with joy,” as if joy is an imaginary friend you can invite and bring along in your head and heart. I run with a lot of things—such as water, podcasts, snacks, sunscreen, toilet paper, sometimes bear spray—but joy? I don’t know if I’ve run with a great deal of joy in the sense of happiness recently.

I’d like to run with joy, of course. I try to get stoked with enthusiasm and mentally be my own cheerleader as I start a training run. I feel grateful when my knees feel normal, when my legs feel fresh, and when I settle into a steady rhythm that feels not-bad. This day-to-day routine of running mostly nurtures determination, acceptance, fatigue, a lot of mental activity, and ultimately satisfaction when I feel tired from the workout and know that my fitness and strength have maintained, maybe even increased.

But am I feeling joy? Are we having fun yet?

In last Sunday’s post in her newsletter, Suleika Jaouad revealed the return of her leukemia and another round of chemo. She chronicled things that brought her small bits of joy during the experience, such as her husband, the musician Jon Batiste, shaking his hips and acting silly when the nurse turned her back. She wrote:

“For the last few months, small joys have been my sustenance… Often these small moments fade from view with the passage of time. What makes it into our memory banks are the bigger things—either the zeniths or the nadirs—but what we end up longing for and leaning on in hard times are the little quotidian comforts and delights; they lift and carry us from day to day. Noting these joys is a muscle I’ve been consciously trying to exercise: training the eye to see them and training the mind to hold onto them.”

Her note felt like splashing cold water on my face, making me snap to attention. I haven’t been consciously noting and appreciating joys as much as I could, especially when running. Because I’m in a peak-training mode for a big goal, I’ve fallen into a task-oriented mindset of treating runs as the purposeful, prescribed workouts that they are.

I thought back over summer. What small moments will I remember that brought me joy? She is right, we tend to remember highs and lows more than daily comforts and delights.

I would like to remember the thrill of spotting a pika after hearing its sharp chirp above timberline, its tiny brownish-gray body camouflaged in a talus field. Concern colors this joy, however, because the pika population is in decline due to habitat loss and climate change (they’re highly susceptible to a rise in temperature). Is this little critter related to a mouse, or to a rabbit? I can’t remember, I just know it’s so damn cute with its round ears, and I was so happy to see it there, living proof that the ecosystem is thriving even if threatened.

A little pika.

Joy sometimes comes from humor, which in turn comes from the unexpected. I’d like to remember the time last month when I was in the living room, sitting in a chair while absorbed in a book, and I vaguely noticed a clomp-clomp on the deck outside. Suddenly I felt as if I were being watched, so I looked up and behind me. My horse was staring at me through the window, and I swear he might have been reading over my shoulder. He and I have a relationship that brings me joy, and his evident curiosity and desire to come inside to be with me reinforced that bond.

Cobalt curious about my book.

Joy also comes from natural beauty and a feeling of hope or optimism. Those feelings collided last weekend when I observed my daughter and her boyfriend next to a jewel-toned alpine lake. Their young love and beauty, shimmering like the water’s surface, made me nearly teary with appreciation that she is all grown up and on a good track.

My girl in a good place.

But what about joyful running?

As Suleika wrote, “Noting these joys is a muscle I’ve been consciously trying to exercise: training the eye to see them and training the mind to hold onto them.” Could I work this “muscle” of observation? On recent runs, I tried.

During last week’s six-hour hot slog of a run/hike with a 20-pound pack, on mountain bike trails through the desert landscape north of Fruita, I felt the stress of depletion and kept my mind business-like to get through the arduous miles without dehydrating. I was all alone out there, so I had to be extra mindful of safety in the heat. It was hardly enjoyable—just plain hard.

But then, I marveled at the earth underfoot, transformed by recent rain. The sun had dried and cracked the earth into thin layers that lifted and curled upward, creating delicate shavings that crunched underfoot. They looked like chocolate shavings spread over a giant cake top. I knew I was seeing something special and fleeting, and thinking about chocolate—specifically, the time my kids and I visited chocolate shops in Argentina in 2009, looking at cupcakes with shavings like this—lifted my spirits.

Sometimes, we experience joy because we recognize something is better than usual. That happened to me last week when I went on a run that felt good. I noticed that I could run segments of uphill slopes where I normally take walking breaks, and I had a spring in my step that boosted agility navigating rocks. Since an uptempo, strong stride tends to be an exception for me more than the norm now, it brought me joy to feel like a younger, fresher runner.

And just yesterday, I got a double-whammy of joy (plus adrenaline) while running solo through woods near our home, no other trail users within sight or earshot. First I paused to notice and appreciate a sturdy bridge created from a hand-hewn split trunk. I observed all the hatchet marks and silently thanked whoever had created this backcountry bridge, which fit into the banks as if it were meant to be horizontal.

Some five minutes later, heading up the trail, I looked up to take in the views and noticed another trail user coming my way—a dark-brown fuzzy one with ursine ears. No doubt about it, I was approaching a bear and it was approaching me, about 30 feet between us.

I caught a glimpse of his little eyes and expression, and he looked as surprised as me. Instinctively, I shouted “hey” and clapped my hands. He spun around and ran a few strides up the trail, then turned left and ambled up the mountainside. I marveled that such a burly large creature, with fat and muscle rippling under its fur, could run up a mountainside with such speed and strength. I thought, “You go, Bear!”

Joy flooded me, along with relief. This is how large-animal encounters are supposed to be, and always have been in my case—the creature looks spooked and goes away. I felt gratified to witness this animal with no negative consequences. I decided to be respectful and turn around too, rather than continuing on the trail and risking another run-in.

It all happened so fast, I didn’t get a photo. But I don’t need one, because I remember the moment clearly.

I’m trying to work this atrophied muscle of noticing small joys, and be more joyful for it.

Can you share a small joy in the comments below, from running or regular life?

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Next week I’ll return with an essay about why the Grand to Grand Ultra means so much to me and has affected me deeply. I’ll also share an update about the work of the Conservation Lands Foundation (CLF). My fundraising goal of $5000 for CLF has passed the halfway point, thanks to 28 generous donors. I hope you will learn more by clicking through to my fundraiser page or the button below and support the cause!

In two weeks—Wednesday, September 18, 5pm Mountain—I’ll host the monthly chat on Zoom for paid subscribers. If you’d like an invitation to this meetup, plus occasional bonus posts, please consider upgrading your subscription to the supporter level.

One more joy: studying a grasshopper’s pulsating belly and nimble limbs as it crawls up my window.

My bad, the camera focused on the background. But you get the idea.