Hoey run boy

“In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks.”

This morning, I found myself lacing up my running shoes with a mix of excitement and trepidation. Mangamahoe Forest awaited me, its trails promising both the thrill of nature and the inevitable questioning of my life choices. Why, one might ask, does a man of sound mind decide to run through a forest at dawn? The answer lies in the pursuit of preparing for a series of long trail races. The more profound question might be why anyone runs at all. Yet here I was, about to delve into the green depths of Taranaki, New Zealand.

Mangamahoe is not just a forest; it's a tapestry of natural beauty, where every step could be a page in a more adventurous, albeit sweatier, novel. As I began my run, the forest greeted me with its early morning serenity. The air was crisp, almost audibly whispering that this was the right choice. Or perhaps that was just my brain, trying to silence the protesting muscles still waking up.

Running in Mangamahoe is an exercise in mindfulness. The trail underfoot isn't a mere path; it's an intricate dance floor where roots and rocks conspire to trip the unwary. Each step is a lesson in presence, lest you find yourself acquainted with the forest floor in a rather undignified manner. And so, with each stride, I was reminded of the delicate balance between moving forward and staying upright—a metaphor for life if there ever was one.

As the trail wound deeper into the forest, the canopy overhead filtered the sunlight into a mosaic of greens and golds. This natural cathedral seemed to impart a sense of tranquility, even as my heart rate suggested otherwise. I found myself pondering the odd juxtaposition of such beauty with the physical strain I was willingly inflicting upon myself. Why do we pursue these challenges? Perhaps it is the search for a fleeting moment of transcendence, a brief escape from the mundane.

Yet, there is an undeniable wit to nature's design. Just as I found my rhythm, feeling almost at one with the universe, the trail took an abrupt uphill turn. Here, Mangamahoe's humor became apparent. It was as if the forest itself was testing my resolve, asking, "Are you truly committed to this endeavor?" I responded with labored breath and a determination that bordered on stubbornness. After all, no epic tale of endurance is complete without a few uphill battles.

Descending the trail brought a different kind of challenge. Gravity, ever the persistent force, urged me onward with a speed that my legs weren't entirely comfortable with. Here, the forest's dry wit emerged once more, reminding me that control is an illusion. I could almost hear a silent chuckle as I navigated the descent, balancing the exhilaration of speed with the caution of self-preservation.

As I completed my run, the forest slowly released its hold, opening back to the trailhead. Mangamahoe, with its blend of beauty and challenge, had provided not just a physical workout but a mental one as well. The experience was a reminder of the interconnectedness of effort and reward, of the quiet humor that nature bestows upon those who dare to venture within.

Returning to my starting point, I felt a mix of exhaustion and fulfillment. The trail races ahead loomed large, but with each run, they seemed a bit more surmountable. Mangamahoe had given me more than just a training ground; it had offered a moment of clarity amidst the chaos of preparation. And as I stretched my weary muscles, I couldn't help but appreciate the subtle wit of it all—nature's way of reminding us that every journey, no matter how arduous, has its moments of grace and humor.