Memories carry much more weight these days, with all travel plans canceled and none scheduled for the foreseeable future. For me, this weekend marks the anniversary of a significant personal tragedy, but, in more recent years, it also marks the anniversary of one of the most incredible races of my life.
Since I find myself grasping at hope, I choose to focus on the latter, and my mind drifts to the brighter days behind me. Three years ago, Jen and I were preparing for a ‘girls’ trip to run the Silver Falls Trail Marathon on this very weekend.
We booked the cheapest red-eye tickets we can find on Spirit airlines, and for those who have never had the joy of traveling with them, the experience is not for the faint of heart. Spirit allows you to carry on NO bags… so I packed a ‘purse’ with all my crap in it in a cheap fold-up bag my mother in law gave me as a gift. I figure it worked itself out as I’m superstitious about checking my running shoes and pretty committed to figuring out a way to carry them on the plane.
Spirit would not let us sit together, so we begrudgingly started our adventure off apart. I end up being assigned a window seat at the back of the plane, next to a dark-haired man around my age who was uneasy and visibly agitated. We had a layover in Vegas, so I made two wrong assumptions: one, he is either broke like me and can’t afford a real airline, and two, since Vegas is his destination, he is likely headed there to party.
I made a bad joke about both, and he forced a smile.
As the plane took off, the man next to me became increasingly upset before confessing he was horrified of heights, and this was his first flight. Still annoyed I’m not sitting with Jenni, I started to feel sympathy as heights are not my favorite thing either. I attempted to comfort him by explaining the noises on the plane and talking him through takeoff. Then I started to worry he might be physically sick, so I made another stupid joke about Vegas.
He offered me some grace since I talked him through takeoff. Then he responded, “I’m in a hurry to Vegas because my best friend was just killed in a motorcycle accident.”
And then it was me who was almost physically sick. I could not find my breath, and all the tiny hairs on my arms stood up. We stared at each other for just a second in awkward silence. There was a quiet wall in me, holding back a stampede of emotions. I knew something more than chance had coordinated my seat assignment.
Fourteen years later, I find myself sitting next to this man because, in early November, I still needed to schedule reasons to wake up in the morning. I was not sure what to say, but words formed themselves, and we filled all the airspace until we landed. He needed to pour his heart out to a stranger. And then, a hard hug and some shared tears in the aisle between two people who did not even know each other’s name.
Jen and I endured our Spirit experience and finally landed in Oregon in time to enjoy some of that ‘liquid sunshine.’ I was lucky enough to have extended family who lived outside of Portland, and they were kind enough to let us crash with them.
We spent a few days getting the lay of the land and exploring Oregon before we laced up for our race. Columbia River Gorge did not disappoint, and we drove for hours and at one point accidentally ended up in Washington. Seeing Multnomah Falls was on my bucket list, but sadly it was closed due to a recent forest fire. Waterfalls were the entire reason we decided to run in Oregon, but Silver Falls promised some good ones.
Jen was sick the morning of the race but, as always, was strong and hardheaded enough to shrug it off. I remember being cold and ran the entire race dressed in three top layers with hand warmers shoved inside my gloves. I know it was under 40 degrees when we started, which made running through the water crossing a few miles in rather annoying. I remember thinking shivering burned unnecessary energy and that it was too early in the race for wet feet, but the landscape was so stunning, it hardly mattered.
The air at State Park was weighted down with cool and heavy humidity. Moss grew like a thick fur covering the trees and hung down from the branches in eerie sharp contrast to the cloudlike air surrounding them. The park trails were well-kept, with guardrails installed around all the drops and cut stone steps in all the climbs.
Being the weekend that it was, I silently dedicated the race to those we have loved and lost and wasted a few more tears on should-haves, could-haves, and what-ifs. I ran through the fog in a trance, and the first 10 miles passed with little resistance.
I remember we ran the first 13 miles of the race without stopping. And how we had hopes of running the entire trail race without hiking any section, but as soon as we left the maintained trails of the state park and hit the backcountry climbs, those fantasies rapidly dissolved.
Large golden leaves, five times bigger than my hand, blanketed the forest floor. The dew and falling moisture pressed them into the mud and magically paved the backcountry trails. I have never seen anything like it, and we joked about running towards Emerald City on the yellow brick road.
We ran 19 miles talking about the waterfalls to come and tried to conserve our phone batteries to take a few photos when we re-entered the state park. At the first rock staircase, I slipped on the wet steps, and I remember I fell hard enough to knock the wind out of me and banged up my knee pretty good. We had a good laugh at my clumsiness, brushed it off, and somehow we made it up through the next 100 stone steps with my busted-up knee and Jen’s worsening head cold. Tired, and more than four hours of soggy running later, we finally made it to our waterfalls.
For a girl with a lifelong love of water and deep respect for running water, they did not disappoint. We stopped underneath one of the falls and listened to the water roaring over the edge and dropping into the river far below. As beautiful as it all was, we started to notice a steady stream of tourists gradually filing in from the opposite direction. Distinctly different from our pitiful, wet, and mud-covered appearance, the tourists appeared unaffected by the elements - warmly dressed, dry, and smiling. Their increasing presence provoked annoyance and anger in both of us. A spirit of ‘us vs. them’ took root. With sweat equity, we earned these views, and we were appalled to find they were so easily accessible to others.
Gradually, the feelings of shame replaced feelings of anger. We all had a right to enjoy the scenery. It was never the tourists I was mad at; I realized as I drug myself through the last miles of the race. I was upset with myself. Given a choice between an effortless path between two given points and an unrelenting and obstacle-lined road, I always choose the latter. The sightseers were not undeserving; they were simply more intelligent than I was. They chose the easy path, and therefore remained dry and warm, with a car parked half a mile away.
Freezing my ass off, I ran the last of the race contemplating my epiphany. What is broken in me that always chooses the path of most resistance? All of nature disagrees with my instinct and makes better decisions. Maybe subconsciously, I feel like I don’t deserve the easy road, or perhaps I’m still trying to punish myself for things I cannot change, or maybe I am programed to earn something that should naturally come freely.
We finished the race and, in keeping with tradition and as always making things complicated, drove 2 hours to find a Mexican food restaurant in Oregon where we could order in Spanish, only to be disappointed when our fajitas were served in sweet and sour sauce. After icing our wounds and bringing our core temperature back to a safe level, we enjoyed a few more days in Oregon before wrapping up one of the best trips of my life, saying goodbyes to my family, and heading home.
I remember laughing at myself at the airport, recognizing all the ‘hard-paths’ I chose in my daily life. All while I drug my cheap broken bag through the terminal like a puppy on a leash and prepared to board another red-eye flight with a ridiculously long layover on the shittiest airline in the business.
Three years later, I wonder with a heavy sadness if I will ever have the heart again to experience such an adventure. I long for those brighter days behind me and to be the girl I was when I ran this race. Circumstances have significantly changed, but I still find myself instinctively gravitating towards the most challenging path. Slow to learn, I hate myself for it - for not making more efficient decisions. But then I remember how much I cherish the memories that come with taking the long way around and how much more I enjoy the destination when I finally make it there. And I wonder if my stubborn choices somehow assign me to the seat I was meant to be in all along.