“I guess I’m in a bit of a funk. I just need to get my trail-stoke back, you know?”
While dealing with a constant (and quite literal) pain in my side and juggling my life events last year, I often found myself halfheartedly reciting this line to myself and others.
Even as I declared my “funk” for all to hear, I was never sure it was the true expression of what was going on – I hardly even knew what I meant when I said it. I knew that I was uncomfortable, both physically and existentially, but I was certain that if I just put my nose to the grindstone and waded through all of the suck, I’d make it back to the days when every run was an adventure that my entire day was built around.
I didn’t feel burnt out or anything. I still got excited when I talked about the trail, when I spent time with other runners, and when I researched new gear. I still eagerly sought out new races to train for and hunted for new lines through the mountains to explore. The problem wasn’t being excited or feeling some sort of way about getting out the door. The problem was, instead, that I simply wasn’t getting out the door.
I was, in the currently accepted use of the word, stoked about trail running. Despite how excited I was, though, my flame was weak and dwindling.