1.0 When All Else Fails, Start Running "Now you wouldn't believe me if I told you, but I could run like the wind blows. From that day on, if I was ever going somewhere, I was running!" --FORREST GUMP PERHAPS IT WAS the full moon that made the episode so surreal. My wife, Julie, has always insisted that strange occurrences happen during full moons, though I've largely discounted the notion, preferring to rely on my rational sensibilities, which dispassionately counsel otherwise. As I departed the city early that evening, a colossal white orb rose in the east, silhouetting the San Francisco skyline and highlighting the buildings' contours with striking clarity. The moon tonight seemed exquisitely large, and the naked eye could easily discern the craters and pockmarks marring its surface. The autumn air was unusually dry and warm; I thought about how peculiar it was to be so comfortable while crossing the notoriously blustery Golden Gate Bridge. Tonight was strange, make no mistake. My path was a familiar one. After reaching the North Headland, I diverted onto a narrow footpath that crosses under the bridge and proceeds up into the trails of Marin County. The rumble of traffic slowly faded away as I ran, eventually replaced by the rustling of tree branches and the sounds of small animals dashing for cover as I glided by. Once in the wild, I switched on my headlamp to help illuminate the dirt terrain, though I scarcely needed it given the moonlight. The hills around me were bathed in a molten silver hue; they rolled on forever like giant waves in a massive sea. I ran through the headlands for miles, completely engrossed in the natural beauty of the surroundings. I'd been going for hours when I reached the road, though I hardly felt tired at all. The junction where the trail meets the road was quiet. Besides offering a more pastoral route, using the trail network I'd just been on had allowed me to bypass some of the busy roads of the Bay Area and emerge here at this lesser traveled back road in Marin. The footpath deposited me on a quiet two-lane road, which I would follow farther west into even more remote stretches of highway later on in the night. The further removed from automobile traffic I could get, the better. It would have been possible to remain on the trail even farther into the countryside, but I needed to resupply. My route was calculated. Near the exit point of the trailhead I had chosen lay the last vestige of humanity, the final signs of intelligent life before disappearing into complete darkness: a liquor store. Okay, it isn't the ideal place for an endurance athlete to restock, but it was the only option available to me. If you've ever frequented such esteemed establishments late at night, you know the majority of after-hours business comes from the sale of cigarettes and booze. I was after neither. Upon entering the store, I didn't see anyone. The checkout counter was cluttered with displays of libations and "fine" spirits, most of which were available in single-size containers for less than a buck, with the larger quart containers behind the counter. Apparently somebody other than McDonald's offered "value pricing" and the ability to supersize if so desired. From behind the displays, a head peeked out, startling me. I jumped. After my initial recoil, I took a look at him and realized he'd been examining me all along, as if grasping for some frame of reference to place "my type." He craned his head, inspecting me from head to toe. Nothing appeared to register. He offered neither smile nor frown. I said hello and he uttered an indiscernible response, still wary of my presence. Walking down the aisle, I could feel his eyes following me, tracking my every movement. He was a tall man, dark and tan, with facial hair, though not the typical razor stubble of the unkempt; instead he had longer strands that flowed down freely from his chin. His eyes were piercing, as though he had seen things that made him suspicious of even the most seemingly harmless subjects. I got the sense that his primary concern tonight was avoiding being held up at gunpoint. At the bottom of the candy rack, the token energy bar choices were covered in dust. Did I care that they were all stale? Heck no. I grabbed a few of them, along with a couple packages of almonds. In the small medical section of the store, I noticed a bottle of Pedialyte. Designed for children suffering from diarrhea and vomiting, in a pinch it is the ultimate athletic rehydration beverage. Gatorade is glorified sugar-water by comparison. I brought my items to the checkout counter where I discovered, much to my delight, a bowl of overripe bananas. "How much are the bananas?" I asked. "What are you doing?" he replied sternly. "Ah . . . asking about the price of the bananas?" I said. "What are you doing now? It's dark out." Though he was taken aback by the fact that I was out running at this time of night, there was earnest inquisitiveness in his eyes, genuine curiosity. "Are you one of those marathon people or sompthin'?" he asked. "Ah . . . yes . . . I guess you could say that." "I used to run when I was a boy," he said. "I want to start again. How far do you go?" "Tonight?" I didn't want to tell him I was going forty or fifty miles, fearing this might dampen his enthusiasm. "Well . . . let me explain . . . " Thankfully he broke in before I got any further. "I'm going to start again." He began tallying my purchases and putting the items in a bag. "I'm going to start tomorrow morning," he concluded. "About those bananas," I asked. "How much are they?" He seemed troubled by my question. "Take as many as you want, my friend." I started putting bananas in my bag one by one, presuming they were free, though not entirely sure. He kept talking about starting to run again, and I patiently listened to him. Finally, I broke in (only so many bananas could fit in the bag). "Good luck with it," I said. "You seem pretty determined." My words dislodged him from his reverie. He blinked a few times and refocused on me. "I'm going to start running again," he said with conviction. Personally, I believed the man. Outside, I opened the Pedialyte and emptied it into the internal bladder of my backpack. I scarfed down two bananas and one stale energy bar, then stashed the rest of the food in my pack for later on. Cinching the shoulder straps, I resumed forward progress. As I ran, I thought about the unique power running seemed to have to break down barriers and unite people in strange and wonderful ways, regardless of race, creed, socioeconomic status, or age. Over the years, I'd had many such late-night encounters. One thing I loved about the solitude of these escapades was that my mind was unencumbered and could wander freely. Often, I'd reflect on past experiences. This latest episode inside the liquor store made me reminisce about a similar situation years ago, though with a very different outcome. It happened in the midst of a 197-mile run that I was doing to celebrate my birthday. The race was designed as a twelve-person relay event, called "Hood to Coast," though I had taken up the challenge solo. Dear ol' Dad had volunteered to accompany me by car along the way, as he did during many of my races. Much to my delight, we came upon a twenty-four-hour convenience store in the middle of the night, and I told him that I desperately needed to go in for coffee. Dad always carried the cash since I was clad in running gear, so I was glad to see him pull in behind me. The gentleman behind the counter eyed us with suspicion, perhaps judging us against the height marks on the entrance doors that convenience stores use to ID criminals. We were the only people in the store. I immediately darted for the self-serve coffee section to prepare a cup of brew. My dad ambled toward the checkout. Along with the coffee, there were various flavored creamers available. They had vanilla, hazelnut, chocolate mint, and a host of other delectable choices. I began concocting the ultimate cup of convenience store brew. My dad and the checkout clerk watched as I carefully crafted my little cup of paradise. Finally, Dad turned to the man and said, "He's been running for two days now. He started up at Mount Hood." The clerk didn't respond. "He's trying to get to the coast," Dad went on. The clerk kept his eyes transfixed on me. "Doing it to celebrate his birthday. It will take him about forty-five hours," my dad continued. That did it; enough was enough. "Go on, take your coffee!" the clerk barked. "Have it. That's fine. Just go!" His sharp words sent my dad and me reeling. It took a moment, but then I realized what was going on. He thought we were beggars. I could imagine his mind working: A young guy comes in and pours himself a presumptive cup of coffee, stalling so that the old guy can deliver a fancifully inventive pitch to get the goods for free. My dad recognized the clerk's misunderstanding as well. "Oh no," he said, "I was just telling you this to let you know, that's all." "Go!" the man continued. "Get out! Take your coffee and leave." "Look," my dad said, pulling a five-dollar bill out of his pocket, "we had every intention of paying you." The man shouted at us, pointing at the door. "I do not want your money! Just take your coffee and get out!" I realize now where the breakdown in communication had arisen. Beyond the cultural differences, the misunderstanding was heightened by the fact that it was 3:00 A.M. and by my strange outfit, one he'd probably never seen before in the store, if ever. (I wore a brightly colored singlet, shorts, reflective ankle bracelets, clear glasses, and a headlight.) Add on top of all this some old loon claiming that his young accomplice was running hundreds of miles for days on end without rest, and the setup was all too obvious. The clerk would not be played for a fool; he knew better! It was an honest mistake, one I was willing to leave at that. So I started toward the exit with my coffee. "Son," my dad instructed me, "put the coffee back." "What? Are you kidding?" "Son, put the coffee back. He won't take our money, let's go." "Look, with all due respect, Pops, there is absolutely zero possibility that I'm putting this coffee back. He said I could have it." My father stomped over to me and got right up in my face. "Son, put the coffee down!" I started to raise the cup to my mouth, and he grabbed my arm, forcing it down. We began to struggle, and I started to think this would be the first time ever my dad and I got into a fistfight. I didn't care. I wanted my coffee! "Take it outside, you two!" the clerk yelled. "Just leave or I'll call the cops!" My father turned back to face the man. In that brief instant, I managed to take a gulp of the hot brew. It scalded my mouth, and I cried out. My dad glared at the clerk. From behind him, I gestured frantically to the clerk in the hope he would keep elaborating. I needed him to distract my dad for as long as possible so I could take another sip. Unfortunately, my dad saw the reflection of what I was doing in the window. He whirled around to me. "Son," he commanded, "put the coffee down!" It was obvious this was going nowhere. In somber retreat, I put the coffee back on the counter and walked out the door, demoralized and defeated. My dad eventually followed. We reconnected on the sidewalk. "That was crazy," I said. Trying to make light of the situation, I went on, "At least I got a sip of coffee for free." "It wasn't free. I left the money inside," my dad proclaimed with defiant pride. "What?" "I left the money on the counter." "You put that five-dollar bill on the counter?" I asked in disbelief. "Did he take it?" "No, the ungrateful thug. He just brushed it to the floor with the back of his hand and said, 'Your money is no good here.' " "So where's the money now?" "It's sitting in a wad on the floor." I turned around and started walking back inside. "Where are you going?" my dad asked. "I'm going back in there to get my coffee." "Oh no you don't!" He ran over and jumped in front of me. He put his hands out in front of his chest like an offensive lineman, preparing to prevent me from reentering the store. "But we paid for it." He didn't budge. I shook my head in saddened defeat. My dad and the clerk weren't all that different. These men, with their old-world ways, were so proud, there was no use trying to argue with them. Stubborn pride was just part of their hard-wiring. With my head hung low, I turned toward the open road and resumed forward progress. I would have to get through the night without that cup of coffee. But, to be honest, the memory of that encounter was well worth the sacrifice. I smiled broadly. Running could unite or divide, but running in extreme circumstances--in the middle of the night, for example--had a way of bringing out peoples' true character. The good, the bad, and the hilarious. I refocused my thoughts on the present and resumed running down the highway into the engulfing darkness. I was alone, just me and the open road. I had been longing for this night of solitude for quite some time now. Let me explain why. My life has become something of a contradiction. Above all, I am a runner. I run--a solitary pursuit--and it is the activity I most treasure. I have also become somewhat of a public figure, at least in certain circles, which doesn't exactly go hand in hand with a solitary pursuit. Like many people, I'd always wanted to write a book. It was just something I had on my proverbial "life list," along with sky-diving, visiting the Pyramids, learning a foreign language, hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, and a cadre of other ambitions. So I wrote the book. Checked it off the list and left it at that. If I sold ten copies to my buddies, I'd be lucky. After all, who wants to read about some obscure guy off running hundreds of miles across the most godforsaken terrain on earth? No one, right? Excerpted from Run!: 26. 2 Stories of Blisters and Bliss by Dean Karnazes All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
