Bloomsday

            On Sunday I ran Bloomsday with my oldest son. It is a 12K (7.46 miles) and I hadn’t run anything further than four miles in the last month (mostly because of having hernia surgery in March). I thought I would be sore, but instead my legs just feel a little heavy and sluggish. I convinced my son, Forrest, to run it with me because I didn’t feel I could possibly sustain such a distance mentally without some help. I knew I would have to walk. I also knew I didn’t want to run that far alone because I would undoubtedly walk more than I would need to.

            When the body takes so much pounding the mind says, “You’re going to be sore. Don’t you want to take it easy?”

            And the body says, “While you’re not all wrong in the head, I can handle quite a bit. What’s seven and a half miles compared to all those marathons we’ve done together.”

            And then I tell them both, “Look guys, I don’t want to get injured. I’m just coming back from hernia surgery.”

            And both my mind and body respond, “Take a friend.” So I did. I took my oldest son, Forrest, and we ran it in an hour and 18 minutes all with a compromising plan. Walk breaks.

            We decided to walk after every two miles. And we pretty much walked all of Doomsday (counting it as our walk after mile 4). When we got to mile six I didn’t feel such a need to walk so I said we could keep going. But Forrest wanted to walk. The last straight stretch before the final turn began to feel eternal. The sunshine, even though the temperature was cool, seemed relentless. Literally running stoplights seemed like some nightmare of hell. That’s when I started noticing my legs aching. That’s when I started noticing hot spots on my feet. I was ready to walk. And that’s when I heard the theme from “Chariots of Fire.” And that’s when I knew we had made it.

We ran through the finish line. We saw friends from Potlatch. We felt the mist from Spokane Falls. It was elating. Neither of us knew whether we could make it so easily. But we did. It felt good.

My body said, “That wasn’t too bad.”

My mind said “You did it. Good job!”

Riggins

16. The things that make Riggins, Idaho unique from any other place in the world are probably its isolation and canyon setting. The Salmon River Canyon is probably the second deepest canyon in North America since it converges with Hell’s Canyon (which is considered the deepest).  Having grown up there it’s hard getting my head around the idea that it is unique, but in reality there is no other place like it in the world. The fact that it is such a tiny little place also sets it apart (not even 500 people). Each person throughout the history of the town has their own individual view of the world as do I. I always think of Riggins as a little timber town resting at the confluence of two rivers in a spot (ironically) where very few trees grow. Now people think of it as a haven for outdoorsmen and white water rafters but when I was growing up those things were definitely secondary. Timber was king, and ranching was a close second. Yes, I grew up hunting and fishing and hiking and floating down the river but those were mostly just part of life and having them be destination vacation sorts of things seemed, and still seems, slightly ludicrous.

            But the genius of life may very well be its absurdity. For instance, think of how easy it would be to merely view the Salmon River Canyon as a dry and barren place isolated from civilization—the cup pretty much dry type of place. You can certainly think of it as a desert place with prickly pear cactus, black widow spiders, scorpions, and rattle snakes. Yet I grew up believing and still believe that it is pretty much the center of the universe over-flowing with eternal springs of life giving water. And that sort of idea about the place has turned it into a destination vacation spot for sportsmen in spite of the fact that the timber industry took a big nose dive in the early 1980’s. That’s crazy isn’t it?

            So I’m really thankful for that little spot on the map and the foundation it gave me to take all the lemons of life and make them into lemonade. Our very lives are a paradox. We shouldn’t be here, yet here we are. Riggins should have dried up when the mill closed, yet there it is. Give thanks for all the absurdities of life.