Held by the Wind, Moving Anyway

Daily miles: 32.68 | Total miles: 14,418.67

I got up at 6:20am, ready to run just before 8. I already knew the wind would be there—I just didn’t know yet how much of a role it would play.

The first two miles felt almost gentle. I could pass a town parallel to the highway, easing into the day. But then the options narrowed, and the only way north—besides the highway—became a winding gravel road, weaving back and forth alongside it.

And that’s when it began.

The gravel was relentless. Every step, every push of the buggy sent small shocks through my arms and into my whole body. It’s a kind of exhaustion that builds quietly but persistently. And then the wind picked up. After just a couple of miles, I could feel it—this wasn’t going to be an easy day. The resistance, the uneven ground, the constant corrections… it all added up.

Well, I thought to myself, it’s time to put all the learned lessons to use. To see if I can mentally stay calm and relaxed amidst the storm. To practice, moment by moment, not judging all the factors that make it difficult to move forward.

I believe it worked—at least to a certain degree. The exhaustion still came in waves, as it always does, but there was something underneath it. A quiet steadiness. A willingness to keep going without adding extra resistance on top of what was already there.

It’s interesting to notice this over hours. I often think now that to walk in such conditions is something one has to experience to truly understand. It’s that kind of experimental learning that expands the spectrum of what can exist in one’s mind. And I believe that is very precious—to have a wide range of experiences in order to grasp and understand the human condition more deeply.

The wind stayed with me all day. Constant, loud, and demanding. Sometimes, because of certain structures acting as shelter, there were brief moments of calm—small windows where everything softened. But mostly, it was just the persistent noise, the resistance, the gusts.

There was no way to run. In this kind of wind, it’s even hard just to walk. Pushing a buggy against it feels almost miraculous.

My body adapted in strange ways—leaning forward, adjusting constantly. It probably looked quite ridiculous, but there was no other way. The wind was tough on the eyes, the skin, every muscle in my body. I tried to loosen up every now and then, but it’s difficult not to tense over such a long period of time.

At mile 24, I met the first hiker on the Camino de Santiago—Paula from Colombia. I saw her from afar and thought how interesting it is that even a hiker looks like a drunk person, zigzagging in the wind. When I passed her, I introduced myself. We took a quick picture and exchanged a few words. A small, human moment in the middle of a very demanding day. But I still had eight miles to go, so I walked on.

The last stretch was along a road with very heavy truck traffic. And when the wind is this extreme—it reminded me of the Nullarbor—every truck that passes becomes an experience of its own. When they come from the opposite direction, they bring you to a complete standstill. When they pass from behind, they push you forward with force.

By now, I know what to expect. But to be brought to a standstill again and again—countless times—is something you really have to let sink in.

Some experiences simply cannot be conveyed with words. They have to be lived.

When I finally reached Magallón, the road led uphill. I needed to go into town for groceries—more uphill—and then made my way through a few streets until I reached the hotel. I called the woman, and she explained how to get in. I’m staying on the second floor.

Already on the phone, I realized I didn’t have much capacity left to talk. My eyes were burning, my body and mind completely exhausted. While I was organizing my things, her sister came in and was incredibly kind. But I have to admit, I just couldn’t find the energy to engage. I always find that a bit surprising, but it simply shows me that I had reached my limit in that moment.

I carried my things upstairs, prepared dinner downstairs, had a nice coffee, and later a shower. Slowly coming back, piece by piece.

Days like this stretch something inside of me. Not in a dramatic way, but quietly. Expanding the edges of what I think I can endure, what I can accept, and how I can move through it.

And now I’m finishing this.

Thank you for checking in. Andrea