Three-alarm Wake up

It's nearly a month since I started walking--or training for the Camino; gently at first, more vigorously lately leading up to the 14 miles I accomplished yesterday--in two shifts.


The “take your tylenol” alarm sounds at 4:30. In the Corps we call this it 'O-dark-thirty,' but in civilian life it's just early. The plan is to go back to sleep and let the pain relievers do the job and wake on the second alarm--but I'm already up. The more I exercise the less sleep I seem to need. I rise and get my 'gear' on--another term I haven't used for 30 years. The third alarm, “You should be out the door by now,” sounds 30-minutes later. Starting early increases my chances of catching the coolest part of what will become another blistering hot day in the low desert.

I'm not sure what the Camino will demand of me. Yet somehow I know the physical preparation for this undertaking is more urgent than the mental prep. Thankfully, some of the mental prep began over three years ago when I journeyed to Southeast Asia. My ego judgmentally says, “Not really.” I'll resist the urge to argue.

These days the early morning hours are for getting as many miles under my feet as possible before returning to my daily endeavors. But before I show up for a coaching session, or go to a coffee shop to write, I tie a bandana around my head, saving me valuable time doing my hair--after all I'll be sweating again in just a few hours. Sometimes I get distracted by egoic thoughts of how I'll keep my hair looking good while I walk the Way. "I'll shave it off?" I say aloud--the ego retreats.

I have to make time to whittle down my list of trekking supplies I'm told I need to embark on such a journey. Today the short list takes me to the drug store for light-weight pedicure flip-flops that will serve as a barrier between my feet and the dirty floors of the albergues. Then off to the sporting good store for a puncture-proof bladder cover—if they make such a beast--making my hydration bag safe to be carried in my big backpack. I started a box for receipts and tags from all that I buy, out of a curiosity for what this journey ends up costing me. I'm in the middle of the book, 'To Walk Far, Carry Less' as I acquire more gear. In it the author shares the advice from an aging pilgrim of the Camino, who says, “We pack our fears, our what-if's, our just in case's.” I purchase an item, get it home and later realize it's an 'just-in-case' and return it a few days later. The box of tags and receipts has serves a dual purpose.

I look at my watch--it's almost 6 pm. I pack up my belongings, say my goodbye's to baristas and return to the house I'm sitting. After checking to see that the cats are present and accounted for, check their food and water supply, I change into my trekking clothes. I lather my feet with vaseline—a protective measure I picked up from an online video posted by a serious trekker—put two pairs of socks on and lace my boots up the way my friend, the figure-skater, taught me. I tie the laces with different tensions to achieve the best fit--this changes daily. My learning curve is as steep as the mountains I'll soon be treading on. I wear weightlifting gloves to protect my hands from the grip of my walking sticks. The last thing I do before locking the door is thread the cord of the headphones through the chest strap of the backpack—I've listened to four audiobooks in as many days; maybe that's part of my mental prep? The audiobooks help this pilgrim in training focus on the content and less on the challenge of walking for many hours. However, while on the Camino, I plan to listen carefully to the journey...