Ever since before I can remember, there are two basic things in my life I’ve been drawn to in a way that is beyond my control. Orbital, in fact. (And no, one of them is not reporting…but more on that later.)
According to my mom, my first word was “pony.” Begrudgingly for someone like her, who is allergic to hay and hates dirt, she realized then that that first word was probably going to set the stage for a very intense, very expensive hobby down the road.
I’ve loved horses my whole life. I didn’t own my first horse until I was 14, but I’ve been showing/riding/taking lessons since I was six. Whenever I’m away from them for too long, there’s this ticking in the back of my brain, this tugging at my heartstrings, this momentary loss of breath when I see, hear or smell anything that feels remotely like horse.
But horses are circumstantial, and unfortunately they have a lot to do with money. I kind of let the addiction go dormant for much of college because I had no time to ride, and was too far away from my barn to ever get the chance. Once I’m graduated and have a real job and pay my bills, it’ll be near impossible to keep a horse and keep a roof over my head. But I’ll never love them any less. I’ll never lose that feeling.
Running, though… (and here I start to stumble and lose track of words). God. I have always done it. I knew it was mine since the first time I outran the neighborhood boys, since I stood up on that milk crate with my silver medal in second grade and flashed a toothy grin after getting 2nd in the 75 yard dash (I got beat by a fiercely tomboyish black girl, cut me some slack). My happiest memories include snapshots from every year’s volume of Candice: Lost and Running Through the Woods. Especially during the summer in the Northwest, when it’s hot and smells like sun-scorched bark and ripe blackberries. I could roll in the soft, spongy floors of all those woods I’ve known and make myself a bed. I could remark on every tree I passed and never run out of names for them.
I ran a lot last year, if you consider that I’m not on the OSU cross country/track team anymore. I was solidly doing 35 miles a week for awhile. I spent most of my time out at Peavy Arboretum and McDonald Forest, or lacing together 6 or 7 mile runs from Willamette to Avery to Philomath’s bike paths. I always knew exactly where my running watch was, always had the perfect hair tie on my wrist. In the dark months of fall and winter Ben and I slugged through the parks or past my favorite house at night, he off his leash and sprinting to each puddle, me getting unreasonably competitive with a far faster and fitter animal. During the spring I would skip my Wednesday night copy editing class here and there to run to the top of the forest before it got dark.
I officially haven’t run in three weeks. The last time I ran was two days before my wisdom teeth surgery. I did a painful and disappointing 8.6 mile run (that was so sluggish I thought my iron count must have plummeted overnight) on the Burke-Gilman Trail from Woodinville to Redmond and back, swearing and bitching with Ben in tow and Colin behind me on his bike, trying to stay out of my way but remain close enough that if I passed out he would know where I’d landed.
Then the surgery happened. I tried to run a few times (too soon) before my mouth had even started healing and earned nothing but a throbbing jaw and a few more days of rest. (P.S. don’t ever run with dry socket, and don’t attempt to operate exercise equipment while under the influence of hydrocodone.)
Then it was moving. Then it was the horse show, a four-day crapshoot for general hygiene and health where you work from dawn until dusk, sleep on the floor of a trailer or the back of a car, and bathe less frequently than the animals you’re exhibiting.
Then this week started. On top of working full time at the O and living on somewhat sketchy East Burnside in a small neighborhood that I’m only beginning to get familiar with, I’m also commuting to Corvallis multiple times a week to A) go to class Tuesday and Thursday mornings and B) ride and check up on my horse (who after much begging, pleading and crying is now back home). The hours of daylight simply aren’t there, and I’m definitely not comfortable running here at night. I’m working Sunday too, now, so who knows if those hours will ever exist this term.
I guess this is just kind of an homage, a nod. Yes, Nike watch and running shoes, I know you’re still there. No, I haven’t forgotten about you. Old ratty sports bras and stinky running shorts, I see you, too. We’ll all reunite and hit it sometime soon.
Adventures in the News Hole 
Beautifully written!