Trudging
Some thoughts on the aesthetics of going uphill
I don’t do headphones. I nod at the neighbors. I’m warm enough, chugging uphill, that I only wear a T-shirt, with extra layers in the bag. There’s weary action in my legs, some mild foreboding about the next corner—I know what’s coming, and I can’t really focus on much else.
I wrote here recently about a new work gig in my life. Among its perks, the office is in my neighborhood, which means I get to leave the car at home and walk. And because I live in a part of Los Angeles that’s moderately hilly—not the mountains, not the flats, just occasionally steep—the commute to my desk is basically straight up: 26 stories over the course of half a mile. Like climbing a staircase inside a building, but with bougainvillea.
As a kid, as a teenager, I hated climbs, loved descents. The first time I broke one of my wrists was from bombing a hill on my skateboard. (The second time I simply slipped.) These days, if I go to the mountains for a weekend, I love the going-up, it’s the going-down that makes me nervous, worried I’ll slip or tweak my knee.
I mean, I’ll occasionally rewatch Kilian Jornet and Anton Krupicka running up and down the Grand Teton, but whooooooo—
Of course, sometimes it sucks, the climb, but I tell myself it’s good for the heart, good for the legs. And obviously there’s my good luck: being able to earn in a gigantic city without commuting by bus or car; being able, by virtue of my skin color and the fortune of being born where I was born, to not feel obligated to carry my passport at all times, to walk the sidewalks without fearing ICE cars prowling nearby streets.
Step by step, on the walk, I line up tasks, or I daydream. Or simply worry the fuck out. Sometimes I do a meditation where I focus on the drum beat in my feet, try to feel my feet from within my feet, or experience the motion in my knees—at least until said worries distract me. Then the incline increases—the final portion is the steepest—and there’s not much else to do but huff and puff.
Around 2005, in Paris, France, I worked for an ad agency and sometimes rode a bicycle to my desk—and once, pedaling up the Champs Elysées, I ripped the crotch out of my jeans. (There’s a book about it.) Before that, in New York City, I rented a studio in Greenwich Village and walked fifteen minutes to an office off Union Square—and once, 9/11, turning around because everyone else was turning around, I saw smoke billowing as the first tower collapsed.
I’m editing this at 7:42 a.m. on Friday morning, which means it’s nearly time to head uphill—and I don’t have a neat conclusion. Noticing more there’s perhaps value for me, the me of this minute, the me writing this meditation, in experiencing process and the texture of attempt. A strenuous mood. The narrowing of attention when there’s difficulty but not what, masochism? Headed toward something certain. Vitality in fresh air. Also, there’s the pleasure of anticipation—the tasks I trudge toward each morning are pretty difficult but pretty interesting—and maybe effort, engaged effort, has an aesthetic of its own.
Something to think about on the walk!
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“Meditations in an Emergency” is a weekly essay from author Rosecrans Baldwin about something beautiful. Paying subscribers receive a Sunday supplement with three-plus things to love, plus a monthly travel-lust ballyhoo.
Rosecrans is a correspondent for GQ, a contributor at Travel + Leisure, and the bestselling author of Everything Now, winner of the California Book Award. Other books include The Last Kid Left and Paris, I Love You but You’re Bringing Me Down. His debut novel, You Lost Me There, was a New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice.
For magazine articles, bio, contact info: rosecransbaldwin.com.
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