Saying goodbye to a friend

I lost a good friend over the weekend. I met John Morelock on Runner's World Magazine online forums back in 2002 when I started running. He was a frequent contributor to the trail and ultra-running forums, and always had wise advice for those new to the sport, and was well respected. I had several online interactions with him there, and I had the pleasure of meeting him at Rocky Raccoon en route to my 4-lap DNF a few years ago. He was working the Damnation aid station. I knew he was going to be there and I was giddy about introducing myself--but he treated me like I was an old friend. Again, at Rocky Raccoon a couple of years later, he was volunteering again, and he remembered me by name and even asked about a couple of races I had recently run.

John's philosophy on trail running pointed more toward taking in the sights, breathing in the air, listening to the sounds of creaking trees and babbling creeks, seeing eagles and whales, getting lost on purpose and living each day to the fullest. On the forums, he would always end his posts with "Run gently out there", and eventually "RGOT." He wrote a book of his past adventures and poetic ponderings--

Run Gently Out There. This is a must-have for anyone who loves the trails.

I was saddened to read that his health was failing, and Sunday he passed away. I would have loved to chat with him again. We have lost an amazing man. Friends have amended his tagline to ”Run Gently Up There.”

Lost in a place I visit a lot

This is not the picture, but it looks a lot like this

I visited the town again that comes to me in my slumber—somewhere in Arkansas or Missouri. It’s a near abandoned, or southeast Oklahoma—off any major highways but accessible via poorly maintained all-weather roads, taking a left at a fork, and then another left. It seems like I travel southeast and then northeast to get there. 

A short Main Street is lined with old store fronts—some with antiques, some with new things on shelves so long that they are forgotten collector’s items. I stop at an old diner which mostly serves breakfast and all entries are eggs over easy or scrambled, thick cut bacon, and old toast. A thick rimmed cup of black coffee comes free with breakfast, and only someone desperate for caffeine would drink it.  I have a cup, order breakfast, and eat only the bacon.

Not the place, but  like this. Old brown bricks, boarded up windows

Next door, I browse the antique store. It has creaky wood floors, and elaborate but drooping ceiling tiles that would probably be worth a lot of money to someone who wanted them. Lighting is dim, everything has a gentle collection of dust—it seems to damage the effect to pick up a knick knack and disturb the coating of old age. Somehow I find this store charming, and the old diner as well. I notice an old leather shop, across the street, and the post office and then several boarded up buildings all with upstairs apartments.

It seems to me this might have been a resort town at one time.  It’s near a river much like the Illinois River, but I’ve not seen any campgrounds or canoe rentals. Still, I drive along the road catching glimpses of the steam around a bend and between trees. I pull over to get a better look and find trails, and of course I have to follow. They look as though they have seen little traffic, but still are easy to follow. So I go. Along the shore, over a rockslide of boulders, up a rise and then down a ravine, across a feeder stream, and then a steep climb away from the river. The climb goes on and on—well maybe a half mile of a medium ascent, and then the trail fizzles out.

I visit this place a few times a year. I do not know where it is, but it seems so real. I know an old gray haired lady pours my coffee. The breakfast is cheap—like $3.00. The antiques have round stickers with handwritten prices. It smells musty. The floor creaks. I never see anyone else here—that I remember.  I know this town. I know this river. I don’t know where it is.

revisited

There is a secret trail I know
with signs that said I should not go
But I'll tell you where it is. It's down a long winding dirt road, and then a turn on a road into the sun. A long climb leads to a turn where the road is smooth with the sun peeking between the trees.
"You there! Yes, you!! It is ok to come this way. There is still light enough before nightfall. Bring your camera and come!"
"You've come this far--won't you come around the corner, over the gate and beyond?"
"For here is the house where I once lived. Stories were warm, and food was plenty. But years have slid by, and timbers fallen."
"Times were spent upon this porch telling stories and singing songs of old. Listen, and you can still hear the lingering chorus in the breeze of the early autumn winds."
"Look not upon the shambles, the decaying wood, but admire the stone that stands strong."
"Come, there is another sight to see beyond the next wood."
"It's but a walk, but you may run."
"Over a hill and around a bend--not much further."
"For years my barn was full, but in this field now, it is home for an old owl and not much more. But you should go--the sun is setting and there are miles to go back to your world. But come again to this old road with no name. More stories are only a little further beyond the next grove of trees. I'll be here."

Non-running post

Since I have not ran a step in over three weeks, I thought I would post some non-running pics. The streets of downtown were packed with runners yesterday at the Tulsa Run. I have not missed the Tulsa Run in years. I have ran every one since 2002, except for 2008 when it was the same day as the Mother Road 100. In a way, it seems like I am through with running. I miss it, but only sort of. But don't worry--I just needed a break from it, and will be back with a passion. I am signed up for a 100 in March, and want to run it very well. Training in earnest will commence soon.  

While the day was young

While the day was young, I went for a run--just down the block past the old tree with the tire swing. Then I ran on for a day and another. The leaves of autumn jogged with me and the winter flew by. I got a second wind in the spring and decided to not go home but instead run right through July and the dog day hills of many summers. Two Christmas days I ran, then a few more...I lost count but I was running. I ran through rain, I ran over mountains. A few more years turned turned into a life, and in celebration, I sprinted down hills and across streams and dreams.

I ran by my old house yesterday and stopped to sit down for a rest. It was good to stop for a while and I tried to recall my life. I remembered trails calling out for me to explore the next turn, horizons inviting me to see the other side. I remember times that I was happy and running was always a part of that. My body creaked as I tried to get up from the old rocking chair, and I wished for a glass of lemonade or a friend to talk to. But there was only the rocking chair and a wooded trail a mile away--the choice was mine. So, before the day faded away, I went for a run.