20/20

Sunday morning: Wildwood cut a meandering line of black, sucking mud through the dense white fog encasing Forest Park, and my feet traced its route like many weekends before. The giant Douglas firs stood wrapped in ethereal gauze like great stoic slalom gates. As a result my line of sight was reduced to less than fifty-feet. Despite these low hanging clouds, I knew exactly where I was. The trail is signed at quarter mile intervals making the task of judging distance the easy charge of addition or subtraction from your starting point. My brain was similarly socked in. All thoughts were grounded like so many sullen, resigned travelers sunk into black vinyl chairs. I churned through the muck and the fog, gaining hard fought ground due to the slippery mud; between my ears there was nothing but static.Perhaps these first twenty miles were so easy to tune out because they were so common. My feet were intensely familiar with the rivulets of water carving jagged paths down the center of the trail. Scampering across the slick wooden bridges at the hairpin turns came naturally—light, soft steps to avoid taking a spill on the slime. It was high school: not always easy to navigate but recognizable; not always clear where the route lay but unthreatening; not always enjoyable but well-defined.

Monday afternoon: the white line cut a laser-straight path down the side of Boones Ferry Road. Even as I wobbled on my tired legs, the strip held true. To say that I was at mile twenty-six would be both the truth and a lie at the same time. I was only six miles into the day’s run, but yesterday I had completed twenty. The plan was twenty miles, on back to back days. Knowing this, I will let you decide exactly where I was. Regardless of distance, at least I knew where I was mentally. My mind was warring with my legs. The road stretched out, flat and straight, before me. Each stride accomplished only a few feet, and I was chasing a horizon line that kept skipping cruelly out before me. My psyche was agitated. I should have felt fresh, but my legs felt sodden and heavy. Despite the bright sun on them, they had refused to warm up. In previous marathons, I still had a kick to give as I crossed the finish line. It was hard to believe that I was really only six miles in.

In short order I reached the railroad trestle over the Willamette River. The steep footpath was overhung by dried blackberry vines, and their thorns raked my bare legs as I climbed up to the bridge. There are only two quick ways across this aquatic, geographic barrier between Portland’s suburbs and the more agriculturally minded mid-valley region: this bridge or the I-5 Boone Bridge. The first is technically illegal but generally safe as the trains don’t run along it anymore; the second is legal but the insane choice due to the speeding freightliners kicking up gravel and debris. Running the trestle was awkward and perturbing. Despite the regularity of the individual ties, it was hard to develop a rhythm. To the side, there was decking, but it was strewn with rock. Ironically the footing was far worse than any trail I had ever been on.

On the other side, you almost instantly emerge in suburbia. City buses lumber along. Traffic snarls at the on-ramp to the interstate. Big box stores rise cement block by cement block. Through this frenetic and unsympathetic landscape, I continued with over ten miles to go. Seductively, Donut Land perfumed the intersection with Tualatin-Sherwood Road. Through the expansive windows of the public library I could see patrons lolling in chairs with magazines. In crosswalks, I had to slalom pedestrians while dodging SUV’s that barreled through intersections. The unwavering white line gave way to square after mind-numbingly identical square of grey concrete sidewalk.

The day before running these back to back twenty-mile runs I was filled with a degree of nervous anticipation. Would I be successful? How bad would it hurt? Would I have the energy to finish? They say hindsight is 20/20; looking back on the accomplishment, it did not seem to be too bad. Afterwards, I did not ache although I felt physically drained. My feet were blister-free despite some bruised toenails. However it would be hyperbole to say that it was undemanding. What is easy to forget is how mentally taxing the second day was. If I had not forced myself to go point to point and left my cell phone at work to prevent being rescued, I may have given up because my mind would not cooperate and not because of my legs were too fatigued.

In my estimation therein lays the fundamental challenge of college. In some ways the work itself is not drastically harder. The difficulties lie elsewhere: four more years of chasing grades after the quadrennial expanse of high school; the temptation of 3am trips to diners; lounging lazily when no one is there to hold you accountable; the perception that your pace of progress is glacially slow when everyone around you seems to be zipping ahead; epic lines at the bookstore; and more. Like in an ultra-marathon, the race is not to the swift. As a battle of the will, success is achieved by the dogged and the determined…and the prepared.