Not but a week ago this lot was bustling and full of vehicles and people, with announcers booming across the valley and athletes chasing their dreams. It was much hotter those days, but that didn't stop energy from permeating through every pore of this stunning place. People cried, people screamed, people sweated, and people liberally applied copious amounts of sunscreen. Colored tents dotted the east side of the stadium, and the throwing areas were secluded and removed from the rest of the 'meet'. The national anthem started after some field events were almost finishing up, and the stands were full of families and fans wearing the colors of their home teams. State records fell, champions stood above the competition, and coaches went home either satisfied or distressed.
It's quiet now though.
He, not being from the Bismarck area currently, still needed to change into his running clothes. It's always an interesting surprise to see how different runners respond to these situations: finding a bathroom, changing ahead of time at a gas station, wearing clothes all day, or- in the case of this particular man- opening up the car door and hiding behind it, many times looking through the window to make sure nobody across the parking lot could see. It's a short and effective way to almost get arrested for indecent exposure.
After changing comes the ritual of emptying the tank of all impurities before the run begins. This is another reason that thick tree cover is a runner's best friend. Now, he was ready to run.
Every runner has a place where they put their car keys while they're running. Some choose to place them in pockets in running jackets or shorts, but this man sweats to much for that to be a reality; Some choose to place it near trees or in tall grass nearby, where nobody but the runner would think to look; Some choose to place it inside the gas cover on top of the gas cap, but that only works for vehicles whose gas caps can be opened while the vehicle is locked; and yet Some choose to simply place the keys on top of the rear tire, or on the ground behind the tire. Every runner has their choice, and this man made his choice and preceded to acquire satellites.
GPS watches are rapidly becoming all runner's best friends. The runners attach themselves to exact pace and distance, unwilling to finish a run at 7.98 miles, or unwilling to be ok with hitting the first mile in 8:45 because it's too 'slow'. The amount of gadgets and settings on fancy, $200 GPS watches can be overwhelming at times, and workouts can even be saved and created in some models. Nevertheless, all runners still need to take off and move with both legs.
This man's legs started moving down the road, through the parking lot, and across the street. Next came what he had driven almost an hour and a half for- he quickly stepped through a short stretch of tall grass (while praying to the Divine for no ticks to appear), and landed on a single-track dirt bike trail. This tiny, partially overgrown trail- located a stones-throw from I-94 across the Missouri River- was exactly what he was looking for.
As the man continued running, the path opened up beautifully before him. The overgrown grass suddenly became full of prairie flowers and cacti, with buzzing bees feeding on local, organic pollen. The trail sped around switchbacks and through small groves of both bushes and trees. A rabbit disappeared from the trail and a meadowlark sang a tune as it flew overhead. The trail was quiet and empty, yet so full of life.
As he ran, the memories of previous years couldn't help but overtake his thoughts; a run on these trails had almost become a sacred yearly tradition, sometimes with others, and sometimes not. His first introduction to the trails was senior year of high school state track. A competitor by the name of Paul offered to do cool down with him after the 800 final was finished. They wandered off the site of the track and hit the dirt. Being both from the flatlands of eastern North Dakota, both struggled a little on the rugged Missouri River terrain, especially after a grueling state meet. Not to help any, the winds were gusting up to 40mph on that day, with little-to-no protection from its exploits.
And yet, this man was enthralled. These definitely weren't concrete sidewalks around West Fargo, and these definitely weren't rural gravel roads outside of Horace. This was something new entirely- a new way to experience running altogether. The Red River Valley is suspiciously empty of single track dirt trails, and yet here, right by the interstate and practically on the campus of Bismarck State College, was something spectacular in not only its difficulty and beauty, but also it's incredible uniqueness.
As the man now entered the tree-covered area of the trail, it brought him back to the last few years of running. It seems that many North Dakota college runners come back to state track not only to watch, but also to get in a good run with friends. The college runners would tear through the turns, sprint down the hills, and push up the steep terrain. Last year they actually found that the trails connect with more trail that heads north into the expensive part of Bismarck. The houses there are magnificent! (or wasteful, depending on opinion). It's seemed to always be hot, with the heat of the day rising forcefully up from the dry dirt underneath their feet. After the run, the runners would simply sit around and get to enjoy state track.
As the man climbed up a steep hill, he entered into a softly-mown grassy area with markers scattered around in a circle. Each marker was some sort of informational kiosk, and he stepped over briefly to
The man now headed back downhill, with the magnitude of steepness being overwhelming at times (needing to walk), and always trying to avoid little bike bunny-hills at the bottom. He encountered one biker out grinding up the trail, but otherwise, it was before 5pm on a workday, so not much activity. He continued running back, slowly running out of energy with each grueling hill; his shirt eventually comes off to reveal a bright, glowing whiteness that contrasts with the darker tan-ness of his lower arms. His running shoes and lower legs became more and more covered with a light brown dirt that hovers off the dry, hot ground. His breathing increases, and the hum of the interstate hangs overhead like a summer thundershower.
But there are no clouds on this day. Not until he finishes back to his vehicle and hides in the shade that now stretches over a couple of parking spots in the empty lot, will he find rest. The cool breeze whispers through the pines and helps to evaporate the intense amount of perspiration on his body. He quickly downs a banana and some water. He saunters over to the tall fence surrounding the community bowl, and looks down on the previously empty, newly-quiet space. Now there are young families and their kids running in structured races. Volunteers line kids up and have them run down the straightaway on this warm summer's day, and others find respite in the shade underneath the scoreboard, in the exact same spot that- 9 days previously- the man had sought the same shade while watching high jump at state track. The man watches the kids sprinting down the track, all-out for victory, and he smiles.
The man finishes stretching and enters his vehicle. He continues out of the lot and drives towards the interstate, headed home. His front window is down and his radio is off. Life slows down and seems pleasant, if just for this time. He pictures getting home to see his wife and relax for a while. ...but first he has to go get garbage bags. And maybe some pasta sauce. Probably a powerade too....
The parking lot now again sits quietly on top of the valley. The shadows cast by trees slowly creep across the spaces, covering one at a time. The sun lazily starts to sit down in the northwest sky. A light haze hovers in the valley and reflects sunlight. The young families and kids clear out of the hallowed space, and all becomes still as the wind retreats back from whence it came. In the silence the announcer's voice boomed through the stadium: "And they're coming around the corner- she's got 10 meters on the field! The record is 56.68 CAN SHE GET IT??" The crowd roars in a wave, the first section followed by the second section, all the way down the track. We all watch from the grass hillside screaming "OH!!! OH!!!" SHE'S GONNA GET IT!"...She crosses the line in 56.5 and pumps her fist. Shivers go up and down my arms and back, for about the 15th time that day. The atmosphere is overwhelming!
But today it's quiet.
