There's a common assumption about "outdoorsy" types that goes something like this: Outdoor enthusiasts were either born with the outdoor gene or dragged outside by their parents early in life.
Hopefully I am not alone here, but there is a third type -- the bizarre human, brain fully developed and able to spend a full weekend on the couch, who decides to trek outside and learn to like it. Actually, learn to love it.
The steps toward that feeling, and a desire to be outdoors, offer a mixed bag of emotions. To be blunt: some moments in the outdoors are euphoric; others are awful. Being outside is not typically a neutral experience, unless maybe you're in a temperature-controlled swimming pool or picking up the mail.
So, why go outside? Is it possible to learn to love it, even as an adult?
Step by step
My first memorable experience spending much time outdoors was my first overnight backpacking trip. It was both horrible and wonderful. I wheezed my entire way up a mountain in New Hampshire, feeling ashamed because I was so slow and sweaty, needing to take a lot of breaks.
Finally, the torture stopped. At the top, I pitched a tent, changed clothes and started to set up dinner with a friend before dusk. The alpine air smelled like Christmas trees and small birds hopped around our camp curious about dinner. I realized I'd walked to this high place in the mountains with my own legs, step by grueling step.
It was an incredible feeling of accomplishment. I was also incredibly sore the next day.
Later, this experience translated into running. I didn't push myself too hard at first -- I just tried to get to my goal at whatever pace. First it was half walking, half running down my block for 20 minutes. Then it was two miles at a very slow pace. Then more and more.
At the end of each run, I had a version of the alpine-air, Christmas-tree feeling. Everything felt new, including myself in this new reality where I could run or climb a mountain. I was still very sore.
I remembered advice a DJ had given me once: Always leave the party while it's still going strong. I was careful about not driving myself into misery by going too hard without breaks. I wanted to train my mind to love being outdoors, so I tried to end whatever I was doing on a high note.
Look where I want to go
A friend once told me at the top of a steep ski hill full of moguls: look at where you want to go, two steps ahead. Your body will figure it out.
I had been looking at my feet.
I took his advice and instead of making it down half a mogul before falling down, I made it down two. This was an improvement.
When I'm outside, I often feel like everything is about to break (my bike, my body, my spirit -- or all three). Spending energy is difficult. Goals seem unattainable. Yet if I look ahead, my body catches up. I run, swim or bike a bit farther. I am inherently capable of this, and in the long term it makes me stronger and braver. I've learned to trust myself to do things I didn't realize I could accomplish.
I don't really do moguls anymore, but I imagine if I did I could still swing at least those two before falling.
Avoid looking where I dont want to go
I used to wonder why, when on my bike, if I stared intently at a crack in the sidewalk or big rock on the trail I would run right into it.
How was this possible? I was so fully aware of the obstacle in my way.
Then one day I remembered my friend's advice about the moguls and decided to focus my attention on where I wanted my bike to go instead of what I was trying to avoid. Imagine: I skirted gracefully around obstacles, leaving them in my peripheral vision.
Going outside presents challenges I don't face in temperature-controlled settings like my office or home. There could be wind, rain, too little sun, too much sun. Focusing on what's making me uncomfortable usually makes me crabby and I'll often stop whatever I'm doing, or just stop enjoying it.
But focusing on what's working feeds on itself. It takes mental energy not to stare at the crack or focus on the ache. But putting that energy toward thinking about how amazing it is that my body can do anything, how good it is to breathe, the smells outside, the way the sky looks -- that feeds on itself.
Learning to be outside and loving it has helped me learn to experience my life more fully --working within my limitations, not fixating on obstacles, ending things on a high note and, yes, the Christmas-tree-up-in-the-alpine smell of realizing I made it here.
Alli Harvey lives, works and plays in Anchorage.