I just watched a program, "Mountain Talk," on the Documentary Channel, about the speech mannerisms and unique vocabulary of the rural residents of southern Appalachia.
It made me so homesick.
An old woman stated that when she was growing up, the nearest town was Robbinsville, but she never went there until cars came into the area.
The reason I know that "Robbinsville" has two "b's" is that I've been there. It was one of my rest-and-resupply stops on the Appalachian Trail.
Breathtaking mountain views kept appearing, with swirling mist in the valleys. The kind I saw just about every day.
I could cry for those days and those miles.
In a way, it feels as though triathlon is sort of meaningless. I mean, what's the point? Swim a prescribed distance, hop soaking wet onto a bike and pedal a prescribed distance, change your shoes and run (or walk, or crawl, or whatever) a prescribed distance. Why?
I guess.... to see if I can. Or to see if I can do it again, or do it longer, or farther, or stronger.
I guess for the same reasons I want to go back to the Trail.