It was well after 11 by t he time I headed out for the run. This would be the first thing I did for myself all day, the pool having been closed by the time I arrived this morning for a swim. I'd accompanied my sister on a long bike ride at a leisurely pace at her request, and when we were done, she wanted me to cook dinner and asked that I wait to run later. She was hungry and didn't want to wait. I was here to take care of her after all, so I agreed.
The night run was probably better. It doesn't get dark here until after eight pm this time of year-- something that I've just started getting used to-- and I wanted to perform this one little ritual, the pilgrimage of sorts, with as little fanfare and attention as possible. I was still slightly embarrassed by the idea of it. Twelve years ago it would have been one thing. I was younger, more easily given to romantic notions, and a real runner back then. Now I'm not even a has been; not even a wanna be; just a never was.
I headed out the gate and took two quick rights to head east on fifteenth street. I remembered the hard concrete surface from my last run, but this was the direct route and would take me everywhere I wanted to be, past the house parties and drunken college students. Past restaurants bikers: by Friday, Eugene was finally showing itself to have a nightlife, albeit one consisting mainly of frat parties and dorm room keggers. No one shouted though, no one stared or made rude comments about my too short shorts or my too skinny legs. They were used to the runners, no doubt. This was Track Town USA.
Up the hill and into campus... I hadn't looked at this part on the map and didn't realize that 15th street dead-ended at a campus building. I had to loop around the place, then cut diagonally across the field past he library and back out to 15th on the other side. Buses lined up outside the athletic fields, maybe dropping athletes off from an away meet-- I'm not sure. They were empty and still no one paid attention to the lone runner. Here, especially, they would be used to it. I am doubtless not the first to take this pilgrimage at night.
I came up upon the stadium and rounded the corner to the front entrance, hoping, at least, to get a glimpse inside through the bars. I was surprised to see the gate open, even the inner fence to the track itself unlocked. Hayward field for all to use... and it was empty. I walked in and leaned my arms over the gate, giving my out of shape legs a little break. In the distance, down the track, I saw two figures walking-- security guards perhaps. I decided I'd better wait for them to get a little closer before I went onto the track itself. I was half expecting them to shoo me away angrily, but when they got close-- a man in a security guard uniform and a woman in what appeared to be a janitorial outfit-- he merely greeted me in a low, booming voice:
"Beautiful night for a run."
"Yes. yes it is."
"We decided just to walk."
"Well, that's probably better for you."
He laughed, "I doubt it! But it's better to us."
"That is is. Have a good night."
"You do the same."
and with that I turned lightly away and ran off. He would have let me on the track if I wanted, but running laps there was a conceit I couldn't permit myself. I wasn't a runner anymore, was never a very good one, and that track held the sweat of those far greater than me. It was enough just to see it. I wouldn't be coming by on my way back.
I sped out the gates with a little renewed energy, and pushed East. I must be getting close now. The lights grew further apart, the street more remote and after a few blocks, I saw my turn off. Even before I saw a street name, or the "Dead End" sign ahead that indicated where I was, I knew this had to be it. It has that feel to it. I turned right and tried to remember the name of the next left I had to take, running by it a few feet before I realized my mistake. I doubled back and started up a long, dark hill. This was going to be rough. The woods closed in on me, dark, almost a little spooky. I was going to a place of death, I thought. That is a little scary, but no this was Steve. It wasn't that type of place, not that type of death, solemn, I'm sure, but not scary. Along the road, laughter and clicking of glasses seemed to come from every other house, perched above me on the embankment. This was the fancy part of town. These were not college parties-- professors perhaps, or rich benefactors of the university and town? Their merriment cheered me on. Up I ran.
I am in no shape for this. My calves ached by now and my hip flexors still had not recovered from the run a few days before. I had had a mild side stitch since a few minutes after starting. I thought for perhaps the tenth time about stopping to walk. There was no reason for me not too. I was training for nothing. There were no races left for me to win. All that was over. I pressed on as the road wound, through alternating patches of light and dark under streetlights and trees. A sign pointing to my destination confirmed my next turn and I headed right again, still twisting uphill, past more parties, up far further than I had thought from the map, the road getting smaller, darker and scarier, undulating up and down, the sounds of parties further away, until I had looped full circle and found myself on a stretch of road I'd already run on before.
I must have passed it. I ran all the way back down, passing party goers calling cabs, still paying me no heed. Especially here, they must be used to it, I thought. Especially in this neighborhood. I ran all the way down, back to the sign, staring at the embankment inside the road, trying to find it. Nothing. I stopped, running, turned back around and walked along the other side, and a few feet in, there it was: A rock wall with a small plaque on the ground in front of it. There was Pre.
I crouched down in front of it and read the inscription, though I already knew what it said. In front of it, runners had placed their bib numbers under rocks. Roses had been left by many, as well as other offerings. I searched through them, trying to be respectful, but curious at the same time. I almost threw out what I thought was a cigarette butt, till I realized it was hand rolled, just for him. Not quite the right idea, but somebody's gesture nonetheless. And what had I brought. I searched my person, but had nothing on me but my clothing and the key to my sister's house. I had nothing to give. On the way here, I had considered taking some stones or pebbles from the site, but after scratching about in the dirt and finding only lumbs of asphalt, I realized that I shouldn't take something from Steve without leaving part of myself behind. I whispered a few words to him there in the dark, stood up, my shadow from the nearby car lights casting long over embankment, and looked once last time into those haunting eyes, before stroking my hand across the top of the marker and heading back home.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Out Running Somewhere
I left the house sometime between 5 and 5:30, heading out the Pre's trail. I was in Eugene after all. I'd measured the distance to the trail on an online map, and the trails themselves were already measured. I'd be running just under five in the steady, but light Oregon rain.
Everyone bikes here and at 5:00, it seemed, rather than a rush hour of SUVs and BMWs, Eugene's is one of commuter bikes and rain slickers. College students, old couples, middle age women, grandmothers, they all drove past me in the other direction on the damp streets leading up to my destination. There's a gentleness here that one feels is inherent in this sort of lifestyle. It speaks of farmer's markets and recycling and community projects. Nobody honked. None of the cars tried to cut me off. The rain softens the hard edges of normal life.
I found the bicycle bridge across the Willamette-- a fine river to have running through your city; wide and dotted with rocks, trees and islands-- and crossed it into Alton Baker Park and onto the footpath that cut through the trees. The path connected with another layered with soft wood chip-- just as Pre had envisioned it. I'd run just over two miles at this point on roads that were mostly concrete slab-- murder on my joints. My knees quivered slightly and my right hip was aching worse than usual, but I swear I heard them breathe a collective sigh of relief when I set foot on that surface. There was a subtle energy to this place that was undeniable, even to me who tends to deny things like places having energies to them. I pressed on with improved stride and strength.
at the first fork I chose left, trying to remember the trial map I'd viewed online before the run. Seeing something in aerial view and actually being down upon it are two different things entirely. I'm usually good at navigation in the wild, unless it's navigation over man made trails running in arbitrary directions. I got lost several times, but somehow ended up at a map at one of the mile-markers, trying to piece out how I got there and which section of my planned run I had skipped. It was raining harder now and I could only stop and read until my body heat started to dissipate. San Diego has made me soft and it's colder on this June evening than the deepest winter night in Southern California. My hands ached a little from the shock of it. I chose a direction and carried on, across a small tributary
I wound up back near a familiar intersection of the path. I'd run through here before. This was not necessarily a bad thing, as the trial is a series of 3 interconnected loops that I'd plan to run through in figure eights. I was where I was supposed to be and there was another mile marker and sign post to confirm this, but when I arrived at the same place a third time, I knew something was amiss. I had traced the path along fields, past a stadium next to an oddly colored building-- a science center that I'd stopped to investigate before moving on. Mustn't stay still too long in this damp. Need to keep running to prevent chill. I'd taken a small shortcut through a natural tunnel formed by the interlocking branches of trees that I'm sure my friend could identify, but I knew nothing about them, only that they trapped the warmth and steam from the earth and the temperature rose slightly, but perceptibly once inside. I don't think the shortcut was the issue, I'd taken a wrong turn somewhere and missed the big, two-mile loop.
I stared at the map for a while before realizing that this was a good thing. I had underestimated the distance to the trail, and also forgotten to account for the run back in my mileage calculations. I could walk back, but in the cold rain, it would be more miserable than running, despite my aching joints. I had been feeling it in my hip since I hit the trail. My calves were bunched in knots and I'd had a cramp since early on. I was winded, wet, and muddy. Even my knees were beginning to ache. I hadn't run much more than four miles in over two years, and this run would total nearly eight. I was terribly out of shape and smashing myself to bits. No matter. It wouldn't do too much damage in the long term, and I could still, even after all these years, pull a long run out of nowhere and survive, even if it was on pure mental energy and memory of faint glory. It was worth it. This was Eugene. This was my time. It was what I needed.
I took a right at the next fork and headed home.
Everyone bikes here and at 5:00, it seemed, rather than a rush hour of SUVs and BMWs, Eugene's is one of commuter bikes and rain slickers. College students, old couples, middle age women, grandmothers, they all drove past me in the other direction on the damp streets leading up to my destination. There's a gentleness here that one feels is inherent in this sort of lifestyle. It speaks of farmer's markets and recycling and community projects. Nobody honked. None of the cars tried to cut me off. The rain softens the hard edges of normal life.
I found the bicycle bridge across the Willamette-- a fine river to have running through your city; wide and dotted with rocks, trees and islands-- and crossed it into Alton Baker Park and onto the footpath that cut through the trees. The path connected with another layered with soft wood chip-- just as Pre had envisioned it. I'd run just over two miles at this point on roads that were mostly concrete slab-- murder on my joints. My knees quivered slightly and my right hip was aching worse than usual, but I swear I heard them breathe a collective sigh of relief when I set foot on that surface. There was a subtle energy to this place that was undeniable, even to me who tends to deny things like places having energies to them. I pressed on with improved stride and strength.
at the first fork I chose left, trying to remember the trial map I'd viewed online before the run. Seeing something in aerial view and actually being down upon it are two different things entirely. I'm usually good at navigation in the wild, unless it's navigation over man made trails running in arbitrary directions. I got lost several times, but somehow ended up at a map at one of the mile-markers, trying to piece out how I got there and which section of my planned run I had skipped. It was raining harder now and I could only stop and read until my body heat started to dissipate. San Diego has made me soft and it's colder on this June evening than the deepest winter night in Southern California. My hands ached a little from the shock of it. I chose a direction and carried on, across a small tributary
I wound up back near a familiar intersection of the path. I'd run through here before. This was not necessarily a bad thing, as the trial is a series of 3 interconnected loops that I'd plan to run through in figure eights. I was where I was supposed to be and there was another mile marker and sign post to confirm this, but when I arrived at the same place a third time, I knew something was amiss. I had traced the path along fields, past a stadium next to an oddly colored building-- a science center that I'd stopped to investigate before moving on. Mustn't stay still too long in this damp. Need to keep running to prevent chill. I'd taken a small shortcut through a natural tunnel formed by the interlocking branches of trees that I'm sure my friend could identify, but I knew nothing about them, only that they trapped the warmth and steam from the earth and the temperature rose slightly, but perceptibly once inside. I don't think the shortcut was the issue, I'd taken a wrong turn somewhere and missed the big, two-mile loop.
I stared at the map for a while before realizing that this was a good thing. I had underestimated the distance to the trail, and also forgotten to account for the run back in my mileage calculations. I could walk back, but in the cold rain, it would be more miserable than running, despite my aching joints. I had been feeling it in my hip since I hit the trail. My calves were bunched in knots and I'd had a cramp since early on. I was winded, wet, and muddy. Even my knees were beginning to ache. I hadn't run much more than four miles in over two years, and this run would total nearly eight. I was terribly out of shape and smashing myself to bits. No matter. It wouldn't do too much damage in the long term, and I could still, even after all these years, pull a long run out of nowhere and survive, even if it was on pure mental energy and memory of faint glory. It was worth it. This was Eugene. This was my time. It was what I needed.
I took a right at the next fork and headed home.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
When I first moved to San Diego, I was lost under its endless sky.
It was the end of what was already a very long week when my sister called. I'd been house-sitting for my friend and taking care of her dogs in her filthy condo across town. Now usually, even if you don't so much care what people think, you clean up a little before you have someone over-- especially if that someone is doing you a favor. She'd left a full garbage bag on the kitchen floor along with scattered papers, the vegetable crisper and a used litter box. The counters will cluttered with empty food containers, used paper towels, glassware, make-up containers, pet snacks, candles and two fish tanks all of which spilled over onto the stovetop, slimed with food. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes. The bed was unmade, the laundry left out on the couch, the bathroom dingy. Dirty underwear lay strewn about the floor. The place smelled like cat piss and dogs. It was almost like the was thumbing her nose and politeness and convention deliberately.
I was headed back there for my last, reluctant overnight stay from Saturday to Sunday, when my phone rang. It was two am. I was tired and wanted my regular life back. My sister was sobbing so much I could barely understand her. Words trickled out between burbling and tears, "don't want to die," ... "can't take care of myself" ... "fired from Grad school." ... "Need you to come up." We talked for close to an hour. I was already exhausted. It had been enough of a trying week at work, followed by some difficult conversations with the woman I'd been dating, who turned out to be an alcoholic with a penchant for poor decisions and drunk driving. I was looking forward to spending Sunday night largely alone. I agreed to fly up to Oregon. She's my sister, what else could I do?
I've always liked airports. They are the in-between places. I like to sit in the terminal, reading all the departing flights on the big board and imagine myself getting on one of them and not coming back. This habit started when I first moved out west, but wasn't quite ready to accept it for what it is. I didn't like my job. I didn't like strip malls and driving everywhere I wanted to go. It was a string of one bad relationship after another. I wasn't making good decisions. I got over it, but the love of airports stuck with me-- places where you are forced to unplug. Where you no longer have to be accountable for lateness or stupidity, because the ineptitude is casually handled for you by the airlines themselves.
For a time, I was able to convince myself that this was such a trip. Though I no longer wish to flee my home in San Diego, I have been feeling like I needed a vacation and, hey, this was a free day off, after all. I read my friend's book on the first leg of the flight and didn't really mind when I found the second leg had been overbooked. I had a story, and time to kill. The women here in Portland were more fun to look at then in San Diego, there clothes were darker, makeup too-- if they wore any. They looked more down to earth. People watching was good.
It wasn't until much later that it hit me. I had made my flight to Eugene and my sister picked me up at the airport. It was pleasant enough at first. Things started to go south when I realized once my work phone had fallen out of my bag on the plane. I made calls and scrambled to find it, but my sister demanded my attention. We had lists of chores to go through and she needed me to prioritize them for her, but of course, she was going to argue with me about the importance of each one, every step of the way. A ten minute task would take nearly two hours. By the time we were ready to leave for dinner, it was clear. I was here, basically, to do my sister's bidding, under the auspices of her fragile mental condition, I would need to take care of her, but she wasn't going to make it easy. I would have to do it exactly her way, and any arguments would result in, at best, threats to burst into tears. This wasn't going to be any fun at all. I hoped I wouldn't kill her.
I left to buy paint for her spare bedroom and check in at the airport about my phone (they said it would be there at eight, but it was not) just before eight, having wasted most of the productive hours of the day with her lists. As soon as I was away from her, I felt a little better. I love my sister, and in the best of times we get along great, but she could be incredibly emotionally draining, and I was already pretty low by the time I'd left. It was nice to be somewhere green though. I was unused to a horizon broken my trees. It used to make me feel protected and safe. I'm not sure what it made me feel this time around, not uneasy, but definitely like an interloper in a strange land. Funny how things change.
It was the end of what was already a very long week when my sister called. I'd been house-sitting for my friend and taking care of her dogs in her filthy condo across town. Now usually, even if you don't so much care what people think, you clean up a little before you have someone over-- especially if that someone is doing you a favor. She'd left a full garbage bag on the kitchen floor along with scattered papers, the vegetable crisper and a used litter box. The counters will cluttered with empty food containers, used paper towels, glassware, make-up containers, pet snacks, candles and two fish tanks all of which spilled over onto the stovetop, slimed with food. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes. The bed was unmade, the laundry left out on the couch, the bathroom dingy. Dirty underwear lay strewn about the floor. The place smelled like cat piss and dogs. It was almost like the was thumbing her nose and politeness and convention deliberately.
I was headed back there for my last, reluctant overnight stay from Saturday to Sunday, when my phone rang. It was two am. I was tired and wanted my regular life back. My sister was sobbing so much I could barely understand her. Words trickled out between burbling and tears, "don't want to die," ... "can't take care of myself" ... "fired from Grad school." ... "Need you to come up." We talked for close to an hour. I was already exhausted. It had been enough of a trying week at work, followed by some difficult conversations with the woman I'd been dating, who turned out to be an alcoholic with a penchant for poor decisions and drunk driving. I was looking forward to spending Sunday night largely alone. I agreed to fly up to Oregon. She's my sister, what else could I do?
I've always liked airports. They are the in-between places. I like to sit in the terminal, reading all the departing flights on the big board and imagine myself getting on one of them and not coming back. This habit started when I first moved out west, but wasn't quite ready to accept it for what it is. I didn't like my job. I didn't like strip malls and driving everywhere I wanted to go. It was a string of one bad relationship after another. I wasn't making good decisions. I got over it, but the love of airports stuck with me-- places where you are forced to unplug. Where you no longer have to be accountable for lateness or stupidity, because the ineptitude is casually handled for you by the airlines themselves.
For a time, I was able to convince myself that this was such a trip. Though I no longer wish to flee my home in San Diego, I have been feeling like I needed a vacation and, hey, this was a free day off, after all. I read my friend's book on the first leg of the flight and didn't really mind when I found the second leg had been overbooked. I had a story, and time to kill. The women here in Portland were more fun to look at then in San Diego, there clothes were darker, makeup too-- if they wore any. They looked more down to earth. People watching was good.
It wasn't until much later that it hit me. I had made my flight to Eugene and my sister picked me up at the airport. It was pleasant enough at first. Things started to go south when I realized once my work phone had fallen out of my bag on the plane. I made calls and scrambled to find it, but my sister demanded my attention. We had lists of chores to go through and she needed me to prioritize them for her, but of course, she was going to argue with me about the importance of each one, every step of the way. A ten minute task would take nearly two hours. By the time we were ready to leave for dinner, it was clear. I was here, basically, to do my sister's bidding, under the auspices of her fragile mental condition, I would need to take care of her, but she wasn't going to make it easy. I would have to do it exactly her way, and any arguments would result in, at best, threats to burst into tears. This wasn't going to be any fun at all. I hoped I wouldn't kill her.
***
I left to buy paint for her spare bedroom and check in at the airport about my phone (they said it would be there at eight, but it was not) just before eight, having wasted most of the productive hours of the day with her lists. As soon as I was away from her, I felt a little better. I love my sister, and in the best of times we get along great, but she could be incredibly emotionally draining, and I was already pretty low by the time I'd left. It was nice to be somewhere green though. I was unused to a horizon broken my trees. It used to make me feel protected and safe. I'm not sure what it made me feel this time around, not uneasy, but definitely like an interloper in a strange land. Funny how things change.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
