Last weekend was an adventure where family life goes running. With my wife out of town, I decided to take both of my girls along on my Saturday long run. As I plodded down the path first to ballet practice, then a park, the zoo, a playground, and a muddy stream, I realized that this day was just as much of an adventure as my solo cross-state treks. I'm not giving up my goal to cross all fifty states on foot by trails, but I also think it's important to point out that you don't have to do a monumental trek to enjoy the adventure that distance running has to offer. Where do you need to go? Can you plan ahead to run there? Adventure Found! Therefore, I've registered a second web address: www.journeyrunner.com
I'll eventually rearrange my site to show an interest in both. For the time being, however, that address simply points to my statesrunner.com site.
Here's a video I shot of our 8 hour, 150 pound cart over the 22 mile ordeal. This video proves I need to upgrade my camera resolution - sorry for that. Improvements on the way this summer.
Sunday, I needed to do my second long run of the weekend and again headed out to follow the Arizona Canal to its near terminus at the dam in Mesa. As I was crossing the Salt River Indian Community, there were a few moments where I wasn't sure if I should be worried. A car parked near me at the end of a road, quite a distance from any obvious destination. Gunshots were heard in the distance, for the second week in a row. Later, a white passenger van came driving on the canal path towards me. Behind it was a second one of identical design, followed by a third. Then they all lined up on the path and parked in front of me. The doors opened and many people got out. As I jogged closer, I could tell they were Native American kids in running clothes. Also, each had some sort of stick with feathers at the top. Since picking up two turkey feathers on the side of the road in Nebraska last summer, I've always felt a little self-conscious about running with two quills in my cap. I hope that people don't think I'm a born-again hippie, even if it is partly accurate. Truth is, I like the way I can feel the force of the wind when the ends of the quills press against my head. It makes me think I'm flying on thermals when I feel them start to wiggle in the breeze. So as I headed toward this pack of kids with ceremonial feathers on their sticks, surely connecting them to many generations of elders before them, here comes this beard wearin' hippy guy with turkey feathers in his hat, crossing an Indian Reservation nonetheless, listening to his Ipod. There's a problem right there.
I passed without incident but as I continued on, I came across two more runners every half mile, for the next several miles. The vans must have dropped them off for later participation. The last few miles before the only major highway through that area is around the local landfill. Even on mildly warm day like this, the smell of rotting garbage wafts for miles from its source, an odorous cloud of soiled diapers, rained on upholstery, moldy insulation, and gelatinous goo. As I rounded the final bend of the landfill, coming in view of the highway, I saw the leaders of the community event headed towards me. It was a small group of runners, ranging in age from 7 to more than 70. I don't pretend to know what their purpose was nor did I attempt to ask. But it seemed fitting that I stop and let them go by in peace. As I stood on the side of the path and let the group run past, it struck me that this beautiful time-honored tradition, whatever its purpose, was being carried on, despite having to slice through this cloud of filthy air, despite having to detour around this man-made mountain of refuse. There's a problem with that, and it's not them.
I'll eventually rearrange my site to show an interest in both. For the time being, however, that address simply points to my statesrunner.com site.
Here's a video I shot of our 8 hour, 150 pound cart over the 22 mile ordeal. This video proves I need to upgrade my camera resolution - sorry for that. Improvements on the way this summer.
Sunday, I needed to do my second long run of the weekend and again headed out to follow the Arizona Canal to its near terminus at the dam in Mesa. As I was crossing the Salt River Indian Community, there were a few moments where I wasn't sure if I should be worried. A car parked near me at the end of a road, quite a distance from any obvious destination. Gunshots were heard in the distance, for the second week in a row. Later, a white passenger van came driving on the canal path towards me. Behind it was a second one of identical design, followed by a third. Then they all lined up on the path and parked in front of me. The doors opened and many people got out. As I jogged closer, I could tell they were Native American kids in running clothes. Also, each had some sort of stick with feathers at the top. Since picking up two turkey feathers on the side of the road in Nebraska last summer, I've always felt a little self-conscious about running with two quills in my cap. I hope that people don't think I'm a born-again hippie, even if it is partly accurate. Truth is, I like the way I can feel the force of the wind when the ends of the quills press against my head. It makes me think I'm flying on thermals when I feel them start to wiggle in the breeze. So as I headed toward this pack of kids with ceremonial feathers on their sticks, surely connecting them to many generations of elders before them, here comes this beard wearin' hippy guy with turkey feathers in his hat, crossing an Indian Reservation nonetheless, listening to his Ipod. There's a problem right there.
I passed without incident but as I continued on, I came across two more runners every half mile, for the next several miles. The vans must have dropped them off for later participation. The last few miles before the only major highway through that area is around the local landfill. Even on mildly warm day like this, the smell of rotting garbage wafts for miles from its source, an odorous cloud of soiled diapers, rained on upholstery, moldy insulation, and gelatinous goo. As I rounded the final bend of the landfill, coming in view of the highway, I saw the leaders of the community event headed towards me. It was a small group of runners, ranging in age from 7 to more than 70. I don't pretend to know what their purpose was nor did I attempt to ask. But it seemed fitting that I stop and let them go by in peace. As I stood on the side of the path and let the group run past, it struck me that this beautiful time-honored tradition, whatever its purpose, was being carried on, despite having to slice through this cloud of filthy air, despite having to detour around this man-made mountain of refuse. There's a problem with that, and it's not them.
This is fabulous, Brian! I felt as if I,too, were on the run with you. What a wonderful adventure...and what a wonderful father you are!
ReplyDeleteThanks Mom, I guess I had good role models!
ReplyDelete