Two roads diverged in a crude-oil wood . . . I turned left.
Two things, real quick: first off, it looked like the road-less traveled took me miles to go before I could sleep, whereas the beaten path steered me towards Shafer Run, which would eventually turn into Walnut St. which is where my folks' house is: where I wanted to go. Secondly, I'll save my rebellion for convention and authority -- I'll avoid that crazy, well-trod noise all day -- but when it comes to running, well, I don't need to twist any ankles this particular evening. I'm just saying, ankle-spraining gametrails are nice for cross country teenagers, but are tendons don't bounce back so well at this stage* of life.
*The stage of awesome-(though tender)-ness.
I spent five hours at a microfilm machine, and I'd still be there if it weren't for those meddling workers of advanced years**. Sometimes I feel like I've exhausted the material of the Valley That Changed the World, but then I get ahold of their newspapers from the 1860s, and it's as if I'm only beginning.
** They aren't so old -- a generation older than me, maybe. But, as I've previously indicated, generations often mark evolutionary advances.
Anyway, it took a mile or two to get my back unstraightened. I ran around the golf course by my parents' home -- it was a private course when I was growing up, and I was always afraid they kept snipers on the water towers, just in case some wild fourteen-year old was jogging. Now, it's open to the public, which means the snipers aren't allowed to stand on top of any permanent structures. Phwew, progress! The one thing that hasn't changed is that smell of crude oil so thick, even as a teenager I assumed the rest of the world smelled just this way, too. Nope, just home.
Also, I forgot my watch. Well, that's only part of the story. The full story is: this morning I was smart enough to pack my running clothes and shoes, my watch, and some almonds just in case I made it out for a run after the Oil City Library shut down. But like I say, they verily threw me out at closing time -- "But I'm learning," I cried as they geriatricked me out the automated doors -- "Go home and watch t.v., whippersnapper," they yelled. At which point, I felt like it was too late to ask to use the restroom.
So I hustled home. Left my gear in the car. Changed into the clean laundry I did yesterday. And was just dumb enough to forget all my running supplies in the car.
I hit the woods, some old familiar trails from my childhood, but they looked different -- perhaps because I'm one-and-a-third the size I was then -- or maybe age just skews our perspective and any explanation would be an oversimplification. I avoided the golfers out of habit (at this point, I suppose, one might call it respect). And I took my time, picking my way through the rocky trails.
After about twenty minutes (I didn't have a watch, but old, trained, rote memory tells me I'm right), I found the rock overlooking Oil City. This great big green and grey limestone's about a mile from the town proper, but you can hear the kids playing down on first street (across the river) and the cars rolling by down below on Allegheny Avenue. Anybody reading this from Venango County? You know the rock I'm talking about. It's like a time / space warp that draws everything in, and keeps everything distant. And -- and this is one of those things I know, but I also know I can't prove -- I can still hear myself from twenty years ago, crashing through the underbrush, dreaming of a P.R. or just to run with one of the top three runners on our team for another quarter mile or so. I can still see myself lean and forty pounds lighter, and hear myself telling my buddies how great I will be when I grow up.
I can only sit on that rock for so long though. Nine minutes and sixteen seconds to be exact. Again, you don't need a watch with nostalgia this thick. Anything beyond that makes me look desperate, like I'm trying to cling to the past. I gingerly hopped back on the path and turned left again and found an even smoother trail (I've seen roadsigns on less) and sailed down an oil access road.
Most of these oil roads are long out of use, but judging from the bootprints (still filling with water) and the smoke coming from the central power supply house, I'd guess it's still active. An industrial throwback to the independent oil producers of 1871. It's kind of neat to see and hear.
So, we'll call it six miles. I checked my text messages when I got home (one of which I'd sent as I was walking out the door) against the current time, and came up with a little over an hour. I'm not ashamed on a day like today to call it a ten-minute pace (remind me to tell you sometime the furious fistpump I gave myself when I was thirteen and ran my first sub-ten mile). There's some glory in finishing every run, even if it's not groundbreaking.
Two things, real quick: first off, it looked like the road-less traveled took me miles to go before I could sleep, whereas the beaten path steered me towards Shafer Run, which would eventually turn into Walnut St. which is where my folks' house is: where I wanted to go. Secondly, I'll save my rebellion for convention and authority -- I'll avoid that crazy, well-trod noise all day -- but when it comes to running, well, I don't need to twist any ankles this particular evening. I'm just saying, ankle-spraining gametrails are nice for cross country teenagers, but are tendons don't bounce back so well at this stage* of life.
*The stage of awesome-(though tender)-ness.
I spent five hours at a microfilm machine, and I'd still be there if it weren't for those meddling workers of advanced years**. Sometimes I feel like I've exhausted the material of the Valley That Changed the World, but then I get ahold of their newspapers from the 1860s, and it's as if I'm only beginning.
** They aren't so old -- a generation older than me, maybe. But, as I've previously indicated, generations often mark evolutionary advances.
Anyway, it took a mile or two to get my back unstraightened. I ran around the golf course by my parents' home -- it was a private course when I was growing up, and I was always afraid they kept snipers on the water towers, just in case some wild fourteen-year old was jogging. Now, it's open to the public, which means the snipers aren't allowed to stand on top of any permanent structures. Phwew, progress! The one thing that hasn't changed is that smell of crude oil so thick, even as a teenager I assumed the rest of the world smelled just this way, too. Nope, just home.
Also, I forgot my watch. Well, that's only part of the story. The full story is: this morning I was smart enough to pack my running clothes and shoes, my watch, and some almonds just in case I made it out for a run after the Oil City Library shut down. But like I say, they verily threw me out at closing time -- "But I'm learning," I cried as they geriatricked me out the automated doors -- "Go home and watch t.v., whippersnapper," they yelled. At which point, I felt like it was too late to ask to use the restroom.
So I hustled home. Left my gear in the car. Changed into the clean laundry I did yesterday. And was just dumb enough to forget all my running supplies in the car.
I hit the woods, some old familiar trails from my childhood, but they looked different -- perhaps because I'm one-and-a-third the size I was then -- or maybe age just skews our perspective and any explanation would be an oversimplification. I avoided the golfers out of habit (at this point, I suppose, one might call it respect). And I took my time, picking my way through the rocky trails.
After about twenty minutes (I didn't have a watch, but old, trained, rote memory tells me I'm right), I found the rock overlooking Oil City. This great big green and grey limestone's about a mile from the town proper, but you can hear the kids playing down on first street (across the river) and the cars rolling by down below on Allegheny Avenue. Anybody reading this from Venango County? You know the rock I'm talking about. It's like a time / space warp that draws everything in, and keeps everything distant. And -- and this is one of those things I know, but I also know I can't prove -- I can still hear myself from twenty years ago, crashing through the underbrush, dreaming of a P.R. or just to run with one of the top three runners on our team for another quarter mile or so. I can still see myself lean and forty pounds lighter, and hear myself telling my buddies how great I will be when I grow up.
I can only sit on that rock for so long though. Nine minutes and sixteen seconds to be exact. Again, you don't need a watch with nostalgia this thick. Anything beyond that makes me look desperate, like I'm trying to cling to the past. I gingerly hopped back on the path and turned left again and found an even smoother trail (I've seen roadsigns on less) and sailed down an oil access road.
Most of these oil roads are long out of use, but judging from the bootprints (still filling with water) and the smoke coming from the central power supply house, I'd guess it's still active. An industrial throwback to the independent oil producers of 1871. It's kind of neat to see and hear.
So, we'll call it six miles. I checked my text messages when I got home (one of which I'd sent as I was walking out the door) against the current time, and came up with a little over an hour. I'm not ashamed on a day like today to call it a ten-minute pace (remind me to tell you sometime the furious fistpump I gave myself when I was thirteen and ran my first sub-ten mile). There's some glory in finishing every run, even if it's not groundbreaking.
No comments:
Post a Comment