Just do it.

I’m reminded of our twelve-mile tactical road march to finish Basic Training.

The term “Road March” is way off the mark. For openers, there was no road.

There was a rough path through the woods.

And being from Colorado, I thought I knew hills.

Trust me, the hills in Colorado and the hills in Alabama are two different things. Of course, I’d never done the Colorado hills wearing full combat gear, carrying a 65-lb ruck on my back and an M-16.

We started out early, leaving the company area shortly after breakfast. The first mile or so wasn’t too bad. Then we took a turn into unexplored territory. And from there, it was up one hill and down the other. Leaning into the hills, sometimes using my free hand to steady myself. I remember looking at the drills who did the march with us and thinking, these guys do this at least twice, maybe even four or five times a year.

Something had to be wrong with them.

I shook my head and kept going.

Hill.

Valley.

Hill.

Valley.

Up.

Down.

One foot in front of the other.

Occasionally, I’d sneak a peek at the summit of the hill we were ascending. A few minutes later, I’d look again. Like something out of the Twilight Zone, the summit seemed no closer. Indeed, it seemed further away.

But after an eternity, we got over one more hill, went down the other side, and a paved road waited for us. We were almost through.

A few more miles, still done in tactical formation, and we were back in the company area. If memory serves, we fell into marching formation and finished the last miles singing cadence, our sore feet, and ankles thrilling to something easy and familiar. We marched into the company area feeling as if we’d just won gold at the Olympics.

Once back in the company, we turned in our weapons, stowed our gear, and came back downstairs to the bay. And every time one of the other platoons finished, we greeted them with cheers.

The biggest cheers went to a small team who started and finished on crutches. Some girls who were on crutches were treated like the superheroes they were. We hoisted them up on our shoulders and carried them in like the champions they’d just proven themselves to be.

It was a moment of triumph for us. A communal overcoming of an obstacle.

 We were days away from graduating. And we were finally real, live American soldiers.

The company commander had brought in trash cans full of canned soda and ice were scattered them about the area. We were told to grab a soda and relax until lunchtime.

As we sat in the bay, we all took off our boots. We rubbed our sore feet, powdered them, tended to any blisters that might have developed, and put on dry socks.

And we drank ice-cold soda and said, “That wasn’t so bad.”

Moral of the story: We overcome by doing.