Where the Road Ends

The gun goes off. As the smoke is gently whisked away by the South Carolina sea breeze, 15 bodies take off down the backstretch, jockeying for position. As members of the crowd holler encouragement to the athletes, elbows attack chests, and spikes attack shins. Everybody looks for the inside on the corners and open space on the straights. Each time the group comes around the start line, coaches are screaming numbers at their athletes, followed by advice in the few seconds they get to make a statement before the group is gone again. With 300 meters to go, I start moving up onto the shoulder of the leader, fixing to get my final kick going at any moment. I have the second-fastest seed time, but that means nothing right now. Another runner moves up on my shoulder and the race is on. We are sprinting around the corner- 200 to go, 150, 100- there's the finish line. I'm getting tunnel vision now as I sprint towards the finish. If I can just get there....

I snap back to attention. I'm actually about 1600 miles north and west of this race, sitting at the funeral of my grandfather. We are back in Horace, surrounded by family and friends. My second family took off for South Carolina two days ago, but unexpectedly I was not with them. I can't help but imagine what the race I was scheduled to take part in would have been like, but that's not important now. I look down my row, at my mom, dad, brothers, grandparents, uncle, cousins, and girlfriend. It's crazy how everything can be put on hold when family has a need. Not only was I scheduled to go to South Carolina, but one of my brothers was planning on being in Florida for a mission trip, while the other had a high school band trip to Denver. The adults all had jobs that needed to be disrupted temporarily, but employers seem to be quite forgiving when there is a death in the family. It's understood. It's something everybody knows.

This is one of those times I'm thankful for having running in my life, because I can head out down the road and try to collect my thoughts. This is the closest death has ever been to me, and I'm trying to figure out what it all means. One second a person can be there, while the next they are gone. Even though I wasn't super-close with him, I can still hear his hearty laugh replaying over and over in my head. During my runs, I think back to when I was much, much younger, and I would get to spend some time out at the farm with Grandma and Grandpa. I would get to ride the tractor, play around in the shed, go visit the cats in the old barn on the north side of the farmstead, try to stalk deer through the trees (even if they weren't there), watch pheasants pick at the rocks on the gravel driveway, ride the 4-wheeler with Grandpa to go get the mail, play catch where we would try to throw the baseball over the powerline and to the other person, and be afraid of the basement like every kid is. I remember there was this little path through the trees (10 yards long maybe?) that I would run through instead of the taking the gravel road around the trees to get to the shed. I thought it was the coolest thing. It still is.

They eventually sold the farmstead and retired in West Fargo. I remember the day of the auction. I spent considerable time wandering through the trees and fields around the farm, because I knew I had to cherish the memories while they lasted. Now I look back at those memories. It's interesting how our brains work sometimes. I remember watching the movie 'Mr and Mrs Smith' one time, and literally the only thing I can remember from it was this quote: "I guess in the end you think about the beginning." It was profound then, and it is profound now. Whether it's the last day of school, the last day of camp, the last day of track, the last day of a job, or the last whatever of anything, we tend to look back on our experiences and how far we've come since the beginning. If we climb a mountain, we turn around to see how far we've come and what the start looks like. Another quote I recall is from a song by the artist 'Listener' who said "we only have what we remember".  We can amass all of these crazy items and possessions, but in the end it seems our memories are what prevail and captivate us. It makes me wonder if at funerals people think back to their weddings. Such a tragedy can lead some to dig into their memory bank for that intensely happy day in their lives. I'm sure my Grandma looks back and even though she has pain from her loss, smiles at what was.

This fall we were out deer hunting at the farm, because we've kept most of the farm and ranch land, even though the house was sold. At the end of one day, I went for a run down in the Sheyenne River Valley. I ran down the steep black dirt trail made by the ruts of pickup tires, weaving around corners and having my legs brushed with, well...brush. I made it to the valley floor, surrounded by hills and woods, when I came upon the old homestead my grandpa grew up in. As I came past the decrepit building that has since caved in, I recall stories grandpa told about vehicles actually driving across the rocks on the Sheyenne River due to how low the water level was; in fact, there was a county highway that supposedly went through there. They had a clearing where crops could be raised, which immediately went into the hills of the valley, covered with trees and scattered about with cattle. As I run the cattle trail into the woods and up the hill following the fence line, I disappear from everything. I come to a tree with a tiny little creek gently flowing past it, and I rest. The sun is beginning to set off in the distance, the evening glow in the sky does not disappoint. The wind is calm and even the nearby gravel pit trucks have stopped working- all is quiet and peaceful. I think of my dad working out here as a kid, fixing fence and loving the beauty. I think of my grandpa many years before- how quiet it must have been and what the landscape looked like. Things were different back then. I sit there and think about what it must have been like for grandpa as a kid out here. The weather is so beautiful and the stream gently flows past.

My thoughts come back to me at the church. As I sit at the funeral, I'm well aware that my body is asking me for food and water, reminding me of my morning long run already. Sitting here makes me think about what I'm actually doing. I suppose I could look at my running in two ways: on one hand, I could say that all of my pursuits are feeble, because I'll eventually die, as evidenced by where I'm at currently, and that it's not worth all of the work; I could also say that it's clear that our days are limited, so why not make the most of every moment? Performances will fade out of memory (remember who won the 10k at the 1980 Olympics? Yeah, me neither), but the way that we affect people will stick (I'm sure anybody alive in 1980 could tell you someone who impacted their life at that time). I've had some great talks with fellows runners lately, and I love the community that this sport can bring. I'd love to share as many of my experiences as I can, because having people to love this sport with me is what I search for. Because where the road ends, who will be with you?

So Rest in Peace in Heaven Grandpa. I know you positively impacted people in your life and you will be missed. But your memories will live on. Your childhood homestead down by the river may be in shambles now, the new farm technology may be unlike anything you ever knew, the people you grew up with might be scattered everywhere, but memories travel with us.

I can still hear you laughing.