From Myanmar to the PCT: chasing miles and voices

Every adventure has its turning points. For me, getting my PCT permit was the biggest moment: the moment when months of daydreaming suddenly became reality. Well… that, and running my second full marathon. It may not seem obvious at first, but the two are connected in some way.

But first things first: I’m Delphine, I just turned 41, I’m French, and I’ve spent the last fifteen years living and working abroad as a humanitarian. My last job was in Yangon, Burma, my last “official address” before I start working on the PCT in a few weeks.

And second, yes, you got it right: I’m a runner. Or more accurately, a mountain runner. I’m not sure how that happened: I blame poor decision-making, peer pressure, and my inability to say no to anything that seems like an adventure. You probably know the type: outdoorsy, never afraid of dust or mud, eating a high-protein diet, able to snack on the move, with a questionable fashion sense (anything flashy and lightweight will do!), and strangely connoisseur of muscles you didn’t even know existed a couple of years ago. Anyway, that’s enough introductions.

From running to hiking?

Back on topic: how I ended up applying for my PCT permit on the back of a night bus at exactly 1:15am (thanks, time difference between Pacific and Burma). But hey, I was actually lucky: I was among the first 15 applicants, so no complaints. And all of this happened literally in the middle of nowhere, on my way to run 42 kilometers in the not at all world-famous Bagan Temples Marathon for the second year in a row.

Why run the same marathon twice?

Partly because of the views: more than a thousand pagodas rising from the landscape at dawn.
Partly for the people: runners, non-runners, old friends, unknown acquaintances: the kind of community where people you barely know shout your name, cheer you on, and somehow feel like family.

But above all I came back because the first time I didn’t feel finished. I crossed the finish line injured, walking the last 8 kilometers, and spent the next year wondering:
Could I do it again? Could I do better?

Not for performance, just for that silent, stubborn defiance between me and me.

There I was, around 10pm, leaving Yangon. My friends were already asleep, preparing for the 11-hour bus ride. I was shifting awkwardly in my seat, trying (and failing) to get comfortable, when I remembered something crucial:

The internet signal north of Yangon is terrible.

PCT Permit Time: 1:15 am
Sign: nowhere to be seen.

It’s not ideal.

After a brief moment of panic, I did the only thing I could do: set an alarm for 1:00 am and hope for the best. Worst case scenario, I would lose my position and try again later. What you can’t fight, you should embrace, right?

The bus stopped several times (meal breaks, bathroom breaks, even a beer stop) and eventually the noise of the engine and the rhythm of the road became a lullaby.

I fell asleep.

And then, plot twist, I woke up snoring.

1:08 a.m.

I checked my phone. Then the signal. I couldn’t believe it!

1:12am, I was wide awake, phone in hand, ready.

1:15 am – leave.

Damn, I need a start date… that’s getting serious!

And then something unexpected happened: I froze.

All dates were open. Each.

My “plan” had been vague at best: late April, early May. Suddenly, I had to choose the exact day on which my trip would begin, at the South Terminal, near the border with Mexico.

Of course, I overthought it: not too early, not too late, not on a Sunday, not on a… DAMN AGAIN! Too much thinking. In the end I chose the most random date: May 6th. Yeah, well, why not…?

And that was it. I had a date. The stars had aligned (in the back of that bus, on the road, in the middle of a Burmese night) as I was excited and anxious for the marathon ahead and, now, its 4,200-kilometer stretch next year. Needless to say, I didn’t fall asleep again.

The great adventure…

I’ve always loved the pure simplicity of hiking: just yourself, your body, and what really matters. After years working in fast-paced humanitarian contexts, time has become the rarest luxury. Slowing down the pace seems almost radical. So is spending days outdoors, moving forward step by step.

I love the feeling of accomplishment at the end of every walk, whether long or short. Looking back on the first day and noticing the small changes in myself throughout the changing landscape. Leaving one version of myself behind and embracing the new one, step by step. I’ve been lucky enough to hike the French portion of the Camino, some high altitude treks in Nepal (the Annapurna Circuit, Langtang Valley, etc.), and the MacLehose Trail in Hong Kong, among others.

Maybe that’s also what led me to trail running, to fit more adventures into weekends or even a day, and still come home with lifelong memories and that familiar feeling of accomplishment.

I love being my own vehicle, moving at the rhythm of my legs, neither faster nor slower. I love the smell of the trail, the breeze on my face, the sun on my skin. I love the adventure itself: living with my backpack, carrying the minimum I need and the most I can carry. And, of course, I love people: the strangers you meet, the friends you share the journey with.

I love the challenge too. I was not a sporty person for most of my life, always hiding behind a slight “asthma problem” as an excuse or a weak knee (well, that wasn’t an excuse, I did suffer from it for a long time). Until I realized that moving and pushing myself was exactly what I needed and what I loved most. My parents reminded me, laughing, that they never imagined I would become this person… well, neither did I, dad!)

Where it may lead
The PCT is not about being an elite athlete. If anything, I think it’s about adaptability: being present, day in and day out, especially on the bad days.
Trail running taught me that your legs can take you further than your mind believes. But it also taught me that doubt will always be there, that little voice that questions everything.

Maybe what I’m really chasing on the PCT is what’s on the other side of that voice.

I’ve also reached a point in my life where I’m running out of excuses not to do it. I found a window to take a gap year, put things in order and managed to spend some time at home, not exactly as I expected, as much of that time was due to the recent passing of my father. However, even that strengthened my resolve. This journey is a dream, a once in a lifetime challenge, he always supported it, no matter the outcome.

Maybe the vast United States—the deserts, the valleys, the mountains, the forests, and the lakes—places he never got to see, could be it. Not as a place to cry, but as a celebration. A tribute to the sense of adventure that he and I had in common, to the beauty that still remains in this world: nature.

Whatever happens, I will do it step by step. After all, you can only count the miles you’ve walked, not the miles you still have ahead of you.

See you soon on the road…