When I Was a Runner, I Was In Heaven...

From my early 20s to my mid-30s, I was a seriously recreational runner. I ran to stay in shape and because I was convinced I'd die young from heart disease and felt like running might buy me an extra day or two.

It was so nice, living in Humboldt County and being able to run whenever and wherever I felt the urge. Here...in a city-type atmosphere...sheesh...I run on a treadmill and still catch myself looking or my shoulder and listening for gunfire.

One afternoon in the early spring, I went to pick up my wife at the first Coast Central Credit Union office ... down a couple blocks from the Carson Mansion. Before the arrival of computers, it was possible that a teller might be in the branch quite long after the doors closed trying to balance the money she'd taken in during the day. My wife, as I've mentioned, would've been a bank president in her life if not for the anchor known as Ted...but, there were times when she was a few cents off here or there. I was, as I am, impatient.

So, since I was wearing shorts and had my old running shoes on...I decided I'd leave her the car and run home. We lived about halfway up Humboldt Hill, on Purdue Drive, with a beautiful view of the old nuclear power plant at the time. That's a long run...and...to avoid what amounted to Eureka traffic then...it got longer zigging and zagging.

I had to get around Highway 101 through Bucksport, naturally, so ... I decided to run through cemetary. My mom and dad are both buried in Oceanview Cemetary, so I knew quite certainly that everyone buried out there stayed buried. There were no ghosts. I wouldn't suddenly see a hand covered with dirt blast out of the ground and grab me by my Asics.

Still...there's nothing at all good to be said about spending even time running through a cemetary. People are dying to get in there and all, but ... the minute I saw the masoleum...I got the creeps. I remembered all the time I spent running around out there while my mom sat by my dad's grave.

Creepy. I hauled ass and decided I'd never jog through a graveyard again.

One night after work, when I was a child reporter/photographer for the Times-Standard, I decided I'd go run in the hills behind Humboldt State. My old friend Neil Gilchrist introduced me to running, when he was in his late 30s and I was still an athletic 20 or so. He ran me ragged in those hills. I'd never run, let alone on hills in the forest. So...it became my goal to train secretly to run with and, eventually, run past a 38-year-old guy I felt was an old fart who had no business running at all.

So, I took off on what I thought was the same ass-kicking 2-mile run Neil had taken me on before. There was a sharp turn to get up above where the tennis courts used to be, then a winding jog past the lake below the Foresty building. And, then there was a path into the woods and a fork in the path...and after I ran up a hill and took a hard left...I was into the run and pacing myself and worrying that I wouldn't get back to the car before the drizzle turned into pouring rain.

There was a point in Neil's course where the options where to run up what he called "Killer Hill" -- a steep, steep upward slope -- or to turn left and head downhill back to campus. I never got to that point where a decision needed to be made. In fact, after about 30 minutes, I realized the only decision I needed to make involved figuring out where in the hell I was.

I was lost in the forest. It was pouring rain. It was getting dark. Being a kid who grew up near around the forest, I didn't necessarily need a path to run on...particularly in full panic over being lost. So...I stopped...and just listened for a sound...any sound...a car...a door slamming...it was hard to hear over the sound of my heart thumping.

After a second, I just started running through the ferns and shrubs and jumped logs figuring the forest would lead to civilization if I head to my right and slightly backward...only a 20-year-old could have such confidence in such an utterly stupid plan. I was lost. I didn't know what was to my right and at a 45 degree angle head what seemed like down a hill.

I got lucky. I popped out ... at the top of Fickle Hill. I didn't know where I was because all I knew of Fickle Hill is that...it was in Arcata and my mom used to mention Fickle Hill Road. So, I had to run around a bit to get some bearings and...by then it was pouring and almost dark.

I'd run 4 miles, easy, figuring I'd run no more than 2 1/2 or 3 since that terrain was still tough for a novice runner. And, the run ended with me soaking wet...running up that nasty hill that used to lead from the parking lot to the East Gym and the fieldhouse.

OK, so maybe every run wasn't heavenly...but, looking back when I'm on a treadmill now...they seem to have been.