Relentless

About 21 years ago, I quit smoking on the last day of August. I felt euphoric for the first few days, then I had to move, and I mean move, constantly. At my office job I offered to deliver mail, run errands, do the heavy lifting. In my car I chewed gum, sang with the radio, rolled up the windows and screamed. With friends I opted for things like dancing, babysitting, swimming--anything active.

But I still had down times that had to be filled. The best thing was walking. I lived in the Fairfax district of Los Angeles, and I did all possible errands on foot. One day, I got the idea to drive up to Pasadena to a hiking trail I'd read about.

I don't know how hot it was, but it was hot, and it was noon, and I had no experience with mountain hiking. About three miles up the trail, when I saw no cover from the sun and I was so thirsty I could have chewed a cactus, I noticed no one was out there but me and decided maybe I had picked the wrong day. I stopped, looked out over the San Gabriel Valley and told myself I didn't have to kill myself to quit smoking. In fact, that was missing the point.

Years later, hiking the Sam Merrill Trail, recognition tapped me gently on the shoulder and I realized I was on the same trail, in the same spot where I'd turned around that day. It was not three miles, not even one mile up the trail. With the shape my lungs were in back then, it had only felt like I'd gone that far.

21 years later and by no means an athlete, I can still outdo my younger, smoking self. I'll prove it when the weather cools.

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