On August 14th, 2014, I unknowingly took the first step of a long ascent. Nearly eleven years later, sharply 1089 runs later, I’ve reached an elevation gain of 84,448 metres — almost ten Everests. This isn’t the story of a single mountain climbed, but of a slow, deliberate series of efforts, some before dawn, raining cats and dogs, snowing, escaping from dogs, freezing like hell, others after long days, all contributing to a quiet accumulation of altitude and, more importantly, confidence.
There’s something deeply human in measuring oneself against a slope. Whether it’s a real hill rising before you or the invisible gradient of self-doubt, the act of confronting resistance fosters resilience. Every elevation gain represents a decision not to stop — not when it rains, not when the calendar fills up, not even when no one is watching.
Challenges like these are rarely about numbers, yet numbers have a way of revealing truth. Ten Everests may sound dramatic, but they happened in moments: early morning runs through Madrid’s suburbs, lonely stretches of cold in Lima, or during any of my three marathons where the finish line only existed because I placed it there. These moments — captured now and then on a map, or distilled into a few lines after a race — form the hidden terrain of a journey that reshaped more than my legs.
Because the real elevation gained isn’t physical. It’s psychological. Moving through space builds a sense of orientation in time, in self. Every route repeated reinforces commitment. Every route improvised nurtures adaptability. Over time, you grow not just fitter, but more grounded. More reliable. And in a world that prizes acceleration and volume, there is quiet value in endurance and consistency.
This isn’t a victory lap. It’s a pause on the trail to acknowledge that the climb, however unremarkable day to day, has meaning. That there’s strength in persistence. And that there are still more peaks to come — even if none of them need to be named.
Alberto C.
Geovisualization.net 