My Last Long Run

One of my favorite essays in the fabulous book To Be a Runner by Martin Dugard (booknote forthcoming!) discusses the joys and terrors of running on mountain trails. The author writes about avoiding trails where mountain lions have been spotted, but only until he manages to "convince myself that the threat is no more or at least reduced." In his running grounds (California), the threat of wildlife on mountain trails is greater than it is here, yet he still does most of his running on trails. Why? "When I'm on the trails, my mind is free. The absolute quiet is a haven . . . Being in nature challenges me, fills me with a sense of adventure, and makes me whole. . . Nagging riddles and problems have a way of uncomplicating themselves. . . [and] because the hardest packed dirt is always softer than pavement, the scent of sage and licorice beats breathing exhaust any day of the week, and once in every great while, I witness some natural marvel that makes me high with wonder."

I included that long (but greatly shortened) quote because I respond to the entire thing. Those are the reasons I love running in the mountains along trails, too. Here's why I don't do it more often:

Fear.

Unlike Martin Dugard, I'm not especially fearful of wildlife. Of course, there is the possibility of coming across a mountain lion or a bear. But they are so rare now in our suburbanized foothills. A moose or two is more likely, or a rattlesnake. Squirrels, certainly. But what scares me more than coyotes, bobcats, or wolves are the human predators.

Last spring, a woman runner was raped and beaten on the lower section of one of the trails I run on often, the Provo River Parkway. This is a paved trail with plenty of traffic. Enough traffic, in fact, to cause controversy. (It's all the long boarders fault.) But she still had this horrific experience, on a section of the trail that runs close to a neighborhood, apartments, and a park. The fact that her rapist was a convict from the state prison who'd escaped while on work detail did not make me feel better about running there; neither did his quick capture (he was later sentenced to life in prison. Hopefully this doesn't include work details). I didn't run on that section of the trail for more than a year, and I avoided the entire trail almost all last summer.

There are three different trail systems within a five mile drive of my house. I long to run along them. I have, in fact, done so a couple of times. But not as often as I wish. And not because I am afraid of cougars; I'm afraid of being vulnerable to the attack of a deranged person. So I take the safe route. I run in neighborhoods or on the paved and crowded river trail, nearly content with my safety but still feeling the tug toward wilder country. I don't like that I let my fear determine my path. And honestly, I don't know if it is a rational fear or one flamed by watching TV shows like CSI.

Two weeks ago, though, I went running in the mountains anyway. The leaves are past their red peak, but I wanted to be outside one more time in their chilly fire. I needed to get a good long downhill run in before the half marathon I was running the next weekend. And I craved the casting off of fear. So I had Kendell drive me to the top of Squaw Peak Road, and then I ran home.

As we drove up the mountain, we talked—about the kids, and Kaleb's upcoming appointment with the heart doctor, and who needs new shoes soon (Jake and Kaleb), and the advisability of my plan. Kendell wasn't so certain I would be safe. But, despite my usual pre-long-run nerves, I felt confident that I would be OK. Certain to not let fear overtake me. When we were about three-quarters of the way to the top, two Subarus passed us going down. In each car was a man wearing a helmet. We both laughed a little at how odd that was—why the helmet? But it left an impression on me. Their helmets were nearly identical and I imagined they were friends, doing some sort of mountain-esque something. Something that involved helmets. Those were the only cars we saw, though, until we got to the top of the road.

The road ends in a parking lot. There is a trail head there that will lead you to the actual Squaw Peak (this is the short route I've never taken) but most of the traffic there comes at night as the view is incredible. (Also it is a good spot for making out with your boyfriend I have heard.) There was one lone, black truck, empty, in the parking lot. Kendell asked me one more time if I was sure—and I was. I wanted to run that scenery. I hopped out of the car and then he trailed me for awhile, talking and joking, before he had to speed off to work. Not four minutes after he left, one of the Subarus passed me, this time going up and with both passengers. This made me twinge just a little. Why were they coming up the road again? Why were they still wearing their helmets? Was there malice in their intent? What did they think of the sight of my solitary run? (Kendell also saw the Subaru. It stressed him out enough that he stopped at the bottom and took a photo of the other Subaru's license plate number, just in case.) But I went with my courage and my gut feeling that I would be OK. I went with my desire to fly down the mountain, surrounded by autumn, to find that quiet rightness that only exists away from suburbia.

Of course, running on SPR isn't exactly trail running. It's a paved road. But it's windy and narrow and steep. And beautiful. Even now, at the end of the fall leaf season, the landscape is still stunning, with dusty yellow and faded red and even a few orange spots left. There were no mountain lions, bears, wolves, or rattlesnakes to be found, although I did startle a large tidings of magpies away from something they were eating (I didn't stop to investigate). It was chilly, but as the road wound around the mountain's curves, I'd find myself in captured pools of warm air. These dissipated when I rounded another curve, the warmth blown away by wind, so that I was exposed to seemingly every possibility of temperature. I watched the trees and mountains in front of me and relaxed into the downhill, letting my legs go as fast as they wanted.

When I was about halfway down, I started hearing a strange, humming rattle coming from behind me. It sounded vaguely familiar but I couldn't place it. And then, just as I rounded a curve, something low and fast shot past me—something wearing a slick, aerodynamic teal-and-grey suit. Something burnished by speed. 

Something wearing a helmet.

Now the puzzle was solved: the men in the two cars going down, one going up? They wanted to fly down the mountain, too. On their long boards their flying was remarkably faster than mine. I had a clear shot of that first speeding human; I watched him hurtle down the straightaway, then take a curve with precision before disappearing into the trees. He reappeared a few seconds later on the switchback below me. Then, ten minutes later—I assume they timed this so they didn't run into each other—his friend catapulted past me. They were each a dynamic composition, something made of technical fabrics and slick wheels and a seemingly complete lack of fear.

That realization hit me like a sound wave: did they lack fear? Or were they winging down the canyon with their spines mere inches from the blacktop not out of courage but out of the desire to feel the fear—and do it anyway? They had to be terrified of hurting themselves. Yet the exhilaration overcame the fear.

Only the first five miles of my last long run were in that steep canyon. That left me seven more to think about my experience. I loved running down the canyon for the sheer fact of running down the canyon. It's a steep, swift descent and its Alpine beauty is a panacea. But I also loved that I ran it despite being afraid—that the exhilaration and the quest for quiet nature was stronger than my fear of rapists. It is a feeling I want to hold on to through the long winter (SPR has since been snowed on twice and will soon be impassible to anything other than a four-wheel drive, if that) until the spring when I hope I will be brave enough to stride out into the wilderness around me.

Maybe I'll even be lucky enough to see some wildlife.

Comments

[Jenna]

I wish I lived closer & was just a tad bit faster & we could be running partners. :)

We live fifteen minutes from a beautiful wooded park. The park trails connect into a 13-mile rails-to-trail project. Flat & wide & perfect for doing long runs. However, there are a few places along the trail that give me the creeps. I always take out one earphone & quicken my pace. I avoid the post-park sections of the trail because they are not as frequently traveled. I usually resort to having my (much faster) husband run with me, but I dream of having a running buddy. But more, I dream of having a safe world where I can go on a stupid long run by myself without worrying about being attacked.