To read about another time that my world was changed because of running- look here.
Many people who love running can pinpoint the first time that forever changed how they view running. For many of us growing up, it's simply that natural human function that allows us to chase peers across the playground, or perhaps a means of keeping up with older, faster humans. As we age, it can start to become competitive- if we all share this basic human thing- who can do it the best? Indeed, it seems that all runners can be neatly tucked into three categories- those that run to be in shape, those that run to beat others, and those that run because they love it. Of course, any given person can be a combination of those three things, but very few of us can claim to use it for survival in the year 2020.
I currently fall into all three categories, but most importantly I love doing it. I become more irritable around other people if I haven't run in a day or two, and the way I feel about my body decreases at the same time. Yes- some days it feels like a chore, but a bad day of running normally defeats a good day of sitting on the couch. Recently, for no particular reason, I was reminded of a time that the world of running changed before my eyes, and the limitless possibilities thereof were laid bare at my feet.
It was the summer after my junior year of high school. At this point, I had just completed my first year of track and had dumped baseball and swimming as a result. I was preparing for my senior year of cross country, but at West Fargo High School, that meant captain's practices where we might run 20-30 minutes, and would more likely end up causing trouble than getting fit. Our routes would take us through neighborhoods of West Fargo- sidewalks, unknowing people's backyards, parks, etc- it was all that I knew. I went to a big school and ran with a big team through a big town while preparing to race other big schools in other big towns. We had decent success. We had just won our second conference title the previous fall and had positioned ourselves to take second place at state, where we then had a disastrous meet where I don't even recall what place we took.
My best friend lived across the street, and word traveled to me that his friend Eric and his family was coming to visit and would be interested in a run. This intrigued me. I hadn't run with Eric before, but I heard that he was pretty good, running for the Class B Langdon Area team up in the state's icebox near the Canadian border. I decided to go for it and see what would happen. My experience running around my town was limited, because I ran at the high school Monday-Saturday during the season, and usually took Sunday's off. I wondered what knowledge Eric would bring.
My town was a formerly sleepy town on the verge of an eruption. Seemingly forever a railroad town in between Kindred and Fargo, Horace, ND, sat right on the shores of the Sheyenne River and for many years served those who wanted nearness to Fargo without living there (they're called 'Bedroom Communities'). As Fargo expanded, Horace slowly became less and less isolated until you could see Fargo from town. Sure, there was only 2,000 residents, and sure, from anywhere in town you were always less than a mile or two from a gravel road that disappeared into the horizon, but Fargo was nearby. Now, years later, Horace is a full-blown suburb about to get a new high school attached to the West Fargo Public School District.
This summer's day though, was calm. The explosion had yet to get started, and Eric was here. His tall, trim runner build stood in the driveway, while my shorter, stockier frame walked across the road to meet him. After exchanging pleasantries, he announced that he was thinking about running for an hour, and asked if that was good with me. Knowing full well that I had only once in my life run more than 6 miles, and even after that I was exhausted, I accepted without hesitation. He mentioned knowing a good road to run on, and I accepted that as well. With the captain steering the ship, we started off down the road.
It was one of those perfect prairie summer days. The day had been warm and dry under the constant watch of the uninhibited sun. Thin cirrus clouds streamed through the sky, with a warm breeze blowing through the countryside. It was late afternoon rolling into early evening, and as the sun started to wane in the northwest sky, the breeze slowly backed away and the earth beneath our feet breathed a sigh of relief.
As we approached an intersection, Eric suggested we go left and run on the gravel roads. I had never run this way before. In fact, my only experience with it was the times my dad would drive this way as an alternate route to get to the interstate, thus avoiding West Fargo and Fargo. Little did I know that it would become (and still is) one of my favorite places to run, drive, walk, and exist. We crossed a small bridge over the Sheyenne and ran past a small rural development, As we passed the last house, the countryside opened up spectacularly.
Before us was the mighty Red River Valley, one of the most crop-productive and fertile stretches of land on this planet. Pancake-flat and silt-fed by regular spring flooding, this heavy clay soil is a wonderland for wheat, sugar beets, and soybeans. With the wind dying down to nothing, there was thin haze through the air from vehicles kicking up dust on the gravel roads. The drooping sunlight fractured on the dust particles and gave the air a deep orange glow, the same kind from Rocky Mountain forest fires in late summer. Mile after mile of flat farmland stretched all the way to the horizon, punctuated only by little cars in the distance, racing across the grid-system gravel roads, balling up a huge exhaust of dust that simply hovered in the air, with no wind to dictate its movement.
I started to fall in love with running right there. We ran due west down the road, which turned into a minimum-maintenance road with soft black dirt that turned to impassable mud when wet. Another mile passed and we approached a car sitting on the shoulder near the next turn. As we got closer, I noticed a boy from town, one year younger than me. He was a bulky, burly guy that always dressed in flannel, Wranglers, and cowboy boots. I still to this day don't think he actually lived or worked on a farm, but that form of dress is attached to way of life that is quite attractive to many young men in North Dakota, including yours truly at this point in the past. My wonder turned to sadness as I witnessed that he and his friend had simply come out into the countryside to have an under-18 smoke. One thing they had on me, though, is that they had discovered this gravel-road secret before I did.
We turned and started clicking away miles, one-by-one, fast enough to feel free, slow enough to maintain conversation. Every step for me was a step away from the old me and towards the me that I was to become. Every breath was fresh, every stride enlightening. We turned again and continued running without cars passing, noisy people, or city sounds that drove me nuts. It was as if the town was not the oasis on the prairie, but the open prairie itself.
At this point we were parallel to the railroad that went into Horace. Eric, with his higher knowledge of local geography, understood that our way back into town could be shortened considerably and avoid the highway if we ran on this railroad- one that rarely sees train traffic. This idea scared my conservative nature, but I followed him as we ran up to the tracks and on the rocks beside them. Within a couple hundred yards, we were pigeonholed into running on the railroad ties themselves. Trees suddenly surrounded us, and we found ourselves standing over the Sheyenne River again. I stopped; he stopped. We stood there in silence. There was not human soul who could see at that moment where we were. The water below us silently continued its long march towards the Hudson Bay, and a hum of insects filled up the silence. It was the prairie at its finest- a small, flowing river huddled by a thin layer of trees, penetrating the vast miles of broken sod in the transition zone between the more wet and humid Midwest and more dry and arid West. This is where I learned about the incredibly sights and sounds you can experience from running.
Fearing what could happen if we were caught on a railroad line over a river, we quickly ran to the other side and hopped back onto the rocks outside of the railroad ties. We followed tracks back into town, where a 4-wheeler path wore into the ground beside the tracks. We ran on the path until we were about two blocks from home, turned left one last time, and bounded down the street. My legs were tired, but my heart was alive.
It took me a few years after our run to fully comprehend that Eric was actually a state champion at 800 meters in high school. That run was first of hundreds that I have done on that exact same gravel road west of Horace, and through this experience I have sought to use running as a means to explore any area where I live. It also marks a continuation of my dangerous tendency to blur trespassing lines while exploring on the run. My attitude towards running and places changed that day, and I'm forever grateful for it.
I ate huge bowl of ice cream after we finished.
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