A Runner’s Pilgrimage

In all of my “planning” for this trip, I’ve always left the itinerary pretty flexible. I wasn’t sure that I’d hit the central states at all, and never ruled out the possibility of tearing down into Mexico to see if a shopkeeper or two needed any pro bono accounting services. One destination I was sure to hit, however, was Oregon. If the long-distance running community has a most sacred place, or at least a town that can draw 21,000 spectators for a track meet, it’s Oregon.

Before driving up to grandaddy of running destinations, Eugene, I had two important stops. First, Ashland — a small town in southern Oregon with a fine running shop and enough mountain trails to draw some of the best ultra runners in the country (I first read about it in this Running Times article). Second, after a gorgeous drive back through the redwoods of California and along the Oregon coast, Coos Bay. Home to the Steve, himself.

I arrived in Ashland pretty late on Tuesday and took the first parking spot I could find. Rookie move. I was up most of the night wondering (a) why I decided to sleep on an incline, and (2) whether it was really necessary for cars to red-line their engines to make it up a small hill at 4 o’clock in the morning. The next day, however, went quite well. Morning coffee, a few hours of reading, and a solid 75-minute run up and down a dirt road that lead to some great views of the surrounding forests. By 4:30, after my walk, I was in Rogue Valley Runners talking to Ryan Ghelfi about what it’s like to live in Ashland, where retirees and Shakespeare fans vastly outnumber the seemingly emaciated runners ascending the surrounding mountain trails.

16th century quips notwithstanding, it didn’t take much to convince me that Ashland has the upper hand to most of the country when it comes to long-distance running. Against my better judgement, I joined Ghelfi and a few other RVR regulars for a prediction run that night. I should have listened to another runner’s advice that the half-mile uphill would take at least 4 minutes. But, flexing the ego and ignoring my horrible training, I wrote in 3:50, only to come across the line gasping for air in a pedestrian 5:11. Capri Sun never tasted so good…

After the run, I joined three of the runners, Ghelfi, Jenn, and Erik for pizza and beer at Creekside Pizza, not far from previous homestead. I had read about Jenn and Erik in the RT article, both accomplished runners. Ghelfi, too, is right up there with them, prepping for his first 50-miler today on Mount Ashland. While the three of them run more in three days than I do in ten, it was refreshing to hear them talk about race strategies for today’s 50-miler, as well as Jenn and Ghelfi’s upcoming challenge to take on the John Muir Trail, in its entirety, next month. It marked the first time I sat down with a group of runners since my January going away bash in New Haven, where, not surprisingly, the New Haven Road Runners gorged on pizza.

The next day, Jenn and Erik invited me over for breakfast before a morning run up to Pilot Rock. I brought a few goods from the coffee shop to try to balance the scales of generosity that are so frequently tipped in my favor, but a few muffins and scones are no match for Ashland hospitality. Erik’s breakfast put the Embassy Suites to shame. And I witnessed a runner’s metabolism as all 130 lbs of Ghelfi inhaled the breakfast, eagerly anticipating the second level of brownie bites in his car, referring to the Costco-sized brownie bins we’ve all come to know and love.

After breakfast, Ghelfi, Jenn and I drove out to a nearby trailhead and ran 2-3 miles up to Pilot Rock. When the trail spiked to a 30% gradient, we walked. And when the trail became rock, we climbed. New to the running/climbing business, I was just happy to get to the top in one piece, where we rested to enjoy the hazy views of Mount Shasta through the clouds, towering over a blanket of pine trees. (Actually, while we did enjoy spectacular views, I was more entertained by the banter between Jenn and Ghelfi. Jenn didn’t become one of the country’s best ultramarathoners for lack of spirit, and Ghelfi, explaining race strategy and trail profiles at a mile a minute, had no problem keeping up. I’d liken it to watching a master skier deftly maneuver his way through an avalanche. The 211-mile John Muir Trail should be no match.)

The day ended with a Herculean smoothie with fresh fruit from Jenn and Erik’s backyard, followed by a few farewells and a drive up the Oregon coast. The Ashland visit put me in exactly the right mind-set to enjoy Coos Bay (which, admittedly, is tough to do if you’re not a big Prefontaine fan). The local museum has a small room with photos, shoes, and a display case full of medals, but I really enjoyed wrapping up a ten-miler with a few laps on the Marshfield High School track, where for two years, Pre never lost a race. It’s a tiny town, and while it may be where Pre started out, it can’t compare to where he ended up. The long-awaited running Mecca: Eugene.

Hayward Field, Track Town Pizza. Can I get an Anytime Fitness? Amen! I’m on my way.

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