Run or Die by Kilian Jornet Page A

indigenous tribes. Away from the few paths that cross the park, animals live peacefully, far from the dangers represented by modern man, where nature can breathe and reproduce without being choked by clouds of smog from big cities. Hundreds of acres enjoy a cycle of existence imposed by the passage of time and confront only the aggression of snow in winter, rain in spring, and heat in summer. However, just 60 miles to the west, trees have disappeared and animals die trying to cross the labyrinths of asphalt where a world circulates that is alien to the forces of nature, where rock has ceased to be what is hardest, where water no longer flows along the bottom of valleys, and where food isn’t under the ground, doesn’t hang from a tree, or doesn’t lie hidden in a den, but is wrapped in plastic and displayed on supermarket shelves.
    Nature has been trapped in islands surrounded by a sea of fakery and artifice, where people can contemplate its wonders and take photos with its inhabitants, be they animals, plants, trees, rocks, rivers, or mountains, as if they were strange exhibits in a museum, never understanding that in times past, those rocks, valleys, and rivers were not a heritage that had to be protected, but were our homes, our supermarkets, our schools.
    Immersed in this spectacle of nature, we have run more than 37 miles almost without noticing and have left the northern side of the lake behind us. The sight of the highest peaks and the best possible views over the lake have been a real tonic as they enabled me to see the entire route for the first time—and it doesn’t seemthat long. I’ve already run a fifth of the way, and the prospect of repeating four more times what I have already done doesn’t strike me as so difficult.
    Six hours in, the sun has taken possession of the sky and I’m beginning to feel hungry. The moment I reach Tahoe Meadows, I down a small plate of macaroni dressed with oil and salt before starting on the second part of the route through the mountains on the east side of the lake.
    The track continues its monotonous alternation of gentle dips and ascents, never steep enough to force me to walk or so stony that I must consider the best way to place my feet to clear the hurdles. The passage of time has brought with it fatigue and an end to the feeling of light legs that never touch the ground and eager eyes that catch every small movement around me. I still feel well and strong, but the first signs that this strength will end sooner rather than later are starting to show. Big driving strides have given way to steps close to the ground to avoid wasting energy. My gaze is only focused on the stretch of path in front of me, distancing me from the surrounding landscapes and my roaming thoughts of the past. I start to wonder why I was so stupid to have wasted so much precious energy at the start. My average speed was very high, and my running, along with my instincts and heart, is beginning to suffer the consequences. I still have a long way to go, and even though I’m not losing pace, I anticipate that I will soon. I try to ignore these thoughts and conceal them from my pacers and from myself by engaging in animated debate with Adam and Kevin and playing games with the wind that has picked up as the day has progressed.
    Yet again my feet sink into the sand on the path, but I force myself to keep running and puffing. When I look up from the ground, I see we are running between two lakes. To our right, a half mile downhill, is the eastern shore of Lake Tahoe, and to theleft, a large lake spreads out and follows the path for hundreds of yards. I smile when I see this beautiful spectacle, but I don’t want to expend energy talking about how pleased I am to be running in such scenery. So we follow the route in silence, with Kevin behind me. We are running along a broad ridge into a strong headwind that makes each step more difficult, as if the 120 pounds I weigh have suddenly become 150. I try