Two More Miles

Only two more miles to go.

That was nothing. It was minutes to go instead of hours. And after the long morning it was time for the pain and the struggle to be over.

No one liked rucked marches, correction, no one normal or sane liked ruck marches. Putting on all you kit, adding a pack with a significant packing list, drawing a rifle from the armory, and then force marching along a path was just torture.

The time requirements were ridiculous. Three hours to march twelve miles. That's a fifteen minute pace. Doesn't seem too bad per mile. But it was just quick enough that a normal walking pace was too slow.

So what to do? How do you make the time?

There seemed to be two main strategies. The most common was the run jog. Set a distance or time, jog or run, the walk for the same distance. Rinse and repeat. Over and over. Some people swore by it. Talked about how it pushed people forward. Others hated it, talked about wear and tear on the joints. They followed a different strategy. Just step it out. Walk at the proper pace. Track your pace on a watch and pay attention to mile markers. Just get it done.

The specialist always did option number two. It just worked for him better.

So ten miles down. Two to go. On pace.

Feeling sore, the hips rubbing a bit. But the feet felt fine. So it was time for the final push. Draw deep. Find that little bit of extra energy to finish it out.

That wa s the plan. That was going to get him in well under the time mark. And making it under time meant that there was no follow on march the next Friday. There was no way he wanted to try to do this again in another week. So he pushed. For 200 more yards.

The snap was louder than it should have been. And the ruck twisted and fell rapidly from both shoulders to settling on him left hip. The inertia of the pack, his forward lean, and walking speed sent him face first onto the asphalt track. Hard.His right elbow hit first, then his kevlar helmet scraped the road, and both knees came shortly after.

"Damn it."

He started to push himself up. Feeling his knees, and his elbow. Checking his face.

As he stood he felt the rucksack shift. So he investigated.

"Shit."

The entire right strap had torn and separated from the ruck sack's frame. Dangling. His chest strap was doing nothing. All of the weight was on his hips and left shoulder. And it was deeply uncomfortable.

He set down his rifle and took off the pack. Trying to find the best to way to piece the pack together and finish the march. There wasn't much to do to make the strap function. It was easier to just tie it out of the way. Up the pack went, strap over left shoulder, chest strap undone, right strap taped out of the way, and the hip belt back on. Stand back up and start walking.

Immediately the ruck started to shift again. Sliding toward the left side.

Quickly he passed his rifle to his right hand and reached back to grab his the top of the disconnected strap over his shoulder with his right. He leaned his weight forward, and started stepping all over again.

The first three strides were fine. Then he had to start shortening his stride. Shift his weight a bit to manage the rucksack. And keep those steps going. Only about 5,000 steps to go.

Ten steps later his knee started to ache. Not a sharp pain, not shooting, very little throbbing. Just a constant ache. He'd hit it harder than he thought he had. There was no way out but through.

That was the irony of this part of the route. No vehicle came here. He was on foot to get out of here no matter what. The point of no return was a mile and half behind him, the finish line two miles ahead of him. He might as well finish.

So step by step. Push through the pain. Just breathe. Over and over and over.

He was losing time. The voices started coming.

"That sucks dude." Came one.

Followed quickly by, "Are you doing alright?"

A quick and curt head nod and keep going.

The normal loping stride, that stepping out was over. It was now a trudge. The steps were shorter. Attention had to be given to keep them sure. This wasn't time to fall again. Luckily he had some buffer to still make the cutoff. He'd put in the work to make that happen.

Monitor his breathing, and just keep walking. Shit happens. But misery ends. Over and over he stepped and the distance shrank and shrank.

His left shoulder ached. The strap just cut into him. Deeper and deeper. His hips where chaffed, he knew it. And his right hand was numb. Stopping would just make it worse.

One more mile down and he just kept moving. Pushing through was everything. He had eighteen minutes to keep it up. To make it.

Half mile more and the last two hills were ahead of him. He started working up them. The angle burned his lungs. But the steps weren't any harder. It was misery already. Then he hit the summit.

Descending hurt like hell. That knee moved from an ache to a pulsing pain. Each step was agony. Each step took everything he thought he had left. He speed fell.

The flat at the bottom of the hill felt like a relative paradise after the hell of the descent.

The next hill took what felt like an eternity. Everything was just compounding. But there was no stopping now. Coming down to the bottom of the hill he could see the finish.

Just a few minutes later it was over.

He threw his ruck in the back of a truck. Climbed up. And was ready for the rest of the work day. PT was over. And he was early. It was only 0730. He could shower before breakfast.