I hear the mountains call my name

Money

I hear the mountains calling my name

I hear the mountains calling my name.

By Rachel Silber

In my first running event, back in nursery school, I distinguished myself for two things. Finishing stone last, and waving like a princess at my mom and dad as they cheered me on from the sidelines.

That was the 100m sprint, and it was clear that I wasn't destined for a career in the fast track. By the time I got to high school, I had wisely switched sporting disciplines.

My greatest achievement was being a reserve on the bench for the C squash team. We won a single game in the season, by default, when the other team failed to pitch up.

Meanwhile, my siblings were excelling. My brother rowed for the South African squad at the Junior World Championships in Rotterdam, and my sister, a brilliant long-distance runner, has earned a silver medal in the Comrades Marathon.

I assumed those sporting genes had skipped me, and retreated happily into the world of English literature. Then, in 2023, I stumbled across a local running group on Instagram, advertising a couch-to-5km programme. On a whim, I signed up.

I didn’t know a soul, but soon enough I was out running at 5am, twice a week, with strangers who quickly became friends. When the programme ended, we aimed for 10km.

I loved the camaraderie, but felt weighed down by the culture of road running. It was always constant questions about paces, PBs, and what race was next. As a self-confessed slow runner, it took the joy out of running.

At the start of 2024, fresh from a painful breakup, I found something different. A friend kept posting photos of her trail runs in the mountains. She looked carefree and alive. I joined her one weekend, and something inside me shifted.

Trail running gave me a chance to enjoy running again and lose track of paces. I’ve run in scorching heat and pouring rain, laughed until my stomach hurt, cried when life felt too heavy, and returned each time feeling stronger.

On the hardest days, when everything else feels overwhelming, I know that the hills and mountains are waiting. Rock-steady, and ready to be explored. That constancy has been one of the greatest gifts for my mental health.

Of course, the trails come with setbacks. “No one cares about your 5km pace, as long as you finish,” is the saying. But finishing sometimes means hobbling home in tears.

A month ago, I badly sprained my ankle while flying downhill too fast. It was a huge knock to my training and my mental health, but also a reminder that progress, like the mountains, is never a straight line.

Trail running is fraught with comparison. In the early days, I constantly measured myself against my friend who first introduced me to the sport. She was so much stronger and faster than me. And in the broader community, it sometimes feels like your race is never quite big enough.

“A half marathon? Haven’t you tried an ultra yet?”, “Finished 55km?”, “What about 100km?”, “Conquered 100km?”, “When are you signing up for a miler?”. It can be exhausting.

But I’ve learned that comparison doesn’t always have to be destructive. My friend started running years before me, and watching her journey gives me a sense of where I could be in a few years’ time. Instead of discouraging me, it makes me excited about the progress still ahead.

Right now, I’m getting ready for my third 35km trail race, this time in Clarens. I’m building towards my first ultra: the Ultra-Trail Cape Town 55km in November.

Preschool me, who stopped mid-race to wave at my mom and dad, would never have believed it. But some things don’t change. I don’t need to be the fastest or the best.

I want to be the runner who knows that each climb, each descent, each breath of cold air is a privilege. Running has carried me through heartbreak and injury, comparison and self-doubt, and each time it has shown me that I am capable of more than I imagined.

Ahead of me lie bigger races, longer distances, and new barriers still to be broken. But for now, I’m content to keep moving forward, excited about the kilometers still waiting to be run.

I hear the mountains calling my name

I hear the mountains calling my name.

By Rachel Silber

In my first running event, back in nursery school, I distinguished myself for two things. Finishing stone last, and waving like a princess at my mom and dad as they cheered me on from the sidelines.

That was the 100m sprint, and it was clear that I wasn't destined for a career in the fast track. By the time I got to high school, I had wisely switched sporting disciplines.

My greatest achievement was being a reserve on the bench for the C squash team. We won a single game in the season, by default, when the other team failed to pitch up.

Meanwhile, my siblings were excelling. My brother rowed for the South African squad at the Junior World Championships in Rotterdam, and my sister, a brilliant long-distance runner, has earned a silver medal in the Comrades Marathon.

I assumed those sporting genes had skipped me, and retreated happily into the world of English literature. Then, in 2023, I stumbled across a local running group on Instagram, advertising a couch-to-5km programme. On a whim, I signed up.

I didn’t know a soul, but soon enough I was out running at 5am, twice a week, with strangers who quickly became friends. When the programme ended, we aimed for 10km.

I loved the camaraderie, but felt weighed down by the culture of road running. It was always constant questions about paces, PBs, and what race was next. As a self-confessed slow runner, it took the joy out of running.

At the start of 2024, fresh from a painful breakup, I found something different. A friend kept posting photos of her trail runs in the mountains. She looked carefree and alive. I joined her one weekend, and something inside me shifted.

Trail running gave me a chance to enjoy running again and lose track of paces. I’ve run in scorching heat and pouring rain, laughed until my stomach hurt, cried when life felt too heavy, and returned each time feeling stronger.

On the hardest days, when everything else feels overwhelming, I know that the hills and mountains are waiting. Rock-steady, and ready to be explored. That constancy has been one of the greatest gifts for my mental health.

Of course, the trails come with setbacks. “No one cares about your 5km pace, as long as you finish,” is the saying. But finishing sometimes means hobbling home in tears.

A month ago, I badly sprained my ankle while flying downhill too fast. It was a huge knock to my training and my mental health, but also a reminder that progress, like the mountains, is never a straight line.

Trail running is fraught with comparison. In the early days, I constantly measured myself against my friend who first introduced me to the sport. She was so much stronger and faster than me. And in the broader community, it sometimes feels like your race is never quite big enough.

“A half marathon? Haven’t you tried an ultra yet?”, “Finished 55km?”, “What about 100km?”, “Conquered 100km?”, “When are you signing up for a miler?”. It can be exhausting.

But I’ve learned that comparison doesn’t always have to be destructive. My friend started running years before me, and watching her journey gives me a sense of where I could be in a few years’ time. Instead of discouraging me, it makes me excited about the progress still ahead.

Right now, I’m getting ready for my third 35km trail race, this time in Clarens. I’m building towards my first ultra: the Ultra-Trail Cape Town 55km in November.

Preschool me, who stopped mid-race to wave at my mom and dad, would never have believed it. But some things don’t change. I don’t need to be the fastest or the best.

I want to be the runner who knows that each climb, each descent, each breath of cold air is a privilege. Running has carried me through heartbreak and injury, comparison and self-doubt, and each time it has shown me that I am capable of more than I imagined.

Ahead of me lie bigger races, longer distances, and new barriers still to be broken. But for now, I’m content to keep moving forward, excited about the kilometers still waiting to be run.

I hear the mountains calling my name

I hear the mountains calling my name.

By Rachel Silber

In my first running event, back in nursery school, I distinguished myself for two things. Finishing stone last, and waving like a princess at my mom and dad as they cheered me on from the sidelines.

That was the 100m sprint, and it was clear that I wasn't destined for a career in the fast track. By the time I got to high school, I had wisely switched sporting disciplines.

My greatest achievement was being a reserve on the bench for the C squash team. We won a single game in the season, by default, when the other team failed to pitch up.

Meanwhile, my siblings were excelling. My brother rowed for the South African squad at the Junior World Championships in Rotterdam, and my sister, a brilliant long-distance runner, has earned a silver medal in the Comrades Marathon.

I assumed those sporting genes had skipped me, and retreated happily into the world of English literature. Then, in 2023, I stumbled across a local running group on Instagram, advertising a couch-to-5km programme. On a whim, I signed up.

I didn’t know a soul, but soon enough I was out running at 5am, twice a week, with strangers who quickly became friends. When the programme ended, we aimed for 10km.

I loved the camaraderie, but felt weighed down by the culture of road running. It was always constant questions about paces, PBs, and what race was next. As a self-confessed slow runner, it took the joy out of running.

At the start of 2024, fresh from a painful breakup, I found something different. A friend kept posting photos of her trail runs in the mountains. She looked carefree and alive. I joined her one weekend, and something inside me shifted.

Trail running gave me a chance to enjoy running again and lose track of paces. I’ve run in scorching heat and pouring rain, laughed until my stomach hurt, cried when life felt too heavy, and returned each time feeling stronger.

On the hardest days, when everything else feels overwhelming, I know that the hills and mountains are waiting. Rock-steady, and ready to be explored. That constancy has been one of the greatest gifts for my mental health.

Of course, the trails come with setbacks. “No one cares about your 5km pace, as long as you finish,” is the saying. But finishing sometimes means hobbling home in tears.

A month ago, I badly sprained my ankle while flying downhill too fast. It was a huge knock to my training and my mental health, but also a reminder that progress, like the mountains, is never a straight line.

Trail running is fraught with comparison. In the early days, I constantly measured myself against my friend who first introduced me to the sport. She was so much stronger and faster than me. And in the broader community, it sometimes feels like your race is never quite big enough.

“A half marathon? Haven’t you tried an ultra yet?”, “Finished 55km?”, “What about 100km?”, “Conquered 100km?”, “When are you signing up for a miler?”. It can be exhausting.

But I’ve learned that comparison doesn’t always have to be destructive. My friend started running years before me, and watching her journey gives me a sense of where I could be in a few years’ time. Instead of discouraging me, it makes me excited about the progress still ahead.

Right now, I’m getting ready for my third 35km trail race, this time in Clarens. I’m building towards my first ultra: the Ultra-Trail Cape Town 55km in November.

Preschool me, who stopped mid-race to wave at my mom and dad, would never have believed it. But some things don’t change. I don’t need to be the fastest or the best.

I want to be the runner who knows that each climb, each descent, each breath of cold air is a privilege. Running has carried me through heartbreak and injury, comparison and self-doubt, and each time it has shown me that I am capable of more than I imagined.

Ahead of me lie bigger races, longer distances, and new barriers still to be broken. But for now, I’m content to keep moving forward, excited about the kilometers still waiting to be run.