Chick-ed in Bend

They are yabbering in the way women do when they are in a big pack, with perky inflections that make me think I am in middle school or maybe younger. But instead of swarming to your local coffee shop, they are running in front me on dirt trails that are minutes outside of Bend. (An area proudly called Phil’s, after one of the many mountain bikers who created these trails years ago, which includes routes such as VOODO, Grand SLAM, KGB, Kent’s and Ben’s. These are rocky trails that are wide enough for the narrowness of a full suspension mountain bike tire but not quite wide enough for a road loving runner like me.)

While the original group was close to 20, there are only 6 of them in front of me. They are leggy creatures, all of them, and I know from prior weeks that they are young moms or maybe even a tad younger, the “pre-moms” who are still searching for that perfect man. I refuse to focus on the 10 extra years I carry with me and instead focus on staying upright and right behind them. I can only hear bits of conversations because the sucking sound I make seems to drown out their voices. Several themes quickly run through the group: the last few weeks of school, the rain, and the big DIRTY HALF MARATHON that is only days away and on this very trail system!

And soon enough, as if I were walking or even standing still, the group just seems to slip away. I try to keep up, but my legs refuse to offer the turn over that I will need to continue to hear them yabbering. The whirl of long legs, skinny arms, and bobbing ball caps escape off into the distance. Once I find it hopeless, I drop to a much slower pace and try to regain my focus.

Through the trails and over the hills I go. It’s a beautiful night and I probably have now completed 2 miles out of 7.5. The trail is not obvious, turn outs make me stop to either read the map or ask frustrated mountain bikers. (“Why are you on my trail?”, they are thinking, “And why are there so many of you?”)

At a confusing junction, I find one of the girls waiting for me, hoping I might be able to point us in the right direction. “I had to PEEE,” she explains, which was more information than I needed. While I am not sure exactly what trail we are on, there are many, I do know that by now we should be heading downhill. So we negotiate that RIGHT is in fact correct and we start heading back toward the car. She sets the pace out front with a quick warning, “I am sort of tired tonight so if you want to pass, you can.” She cooks the pace; the rockier and steeper it gets, the faster she goes. Her mother must have starred in the movie BAMBI!

I make it through a few miles and finally when we know exactly where we are, with the wonderful sign that reads, “Phil’s Parking Area, 1.7 miles”, she really pushes the pace even harder. I can hear her say, “And yes, now that I am 30, the clock is ticking so I need to decide if I want to have children.” I try to gasp out a few supportive words, while dodging the rocks and trees.

Soon, I decide to release her from the obligation of running with me. The leggy creature with skinny arms and a ball cap. “Look, you don’t have to stick it out with me. You can sprint in.” With the same tone she would use in the grocery store to tell me about the world’s best broccoli, she says, “Why, I really wouldn’t mind picking it up.” And with that, I see the white ball cap disappear in the distance.

After what seems to be 100 more twist and turns, I find the parking lot and original pack of girls all waiting. They are kind in that they tell me, “Hey great job.” And “Way to finish.” I want to explain that maybe I biked too much this weekend or maybe … and then I stop myself. I just smile and thank them, now feeling my tendons tightening up at an alarming pace and my lungs wanting to cough to regain some sense of normal breathing.

It’s now my turn to stand and wait for the next batch of girls to come in. My turn to yell, “Great job” and “way to finish.” And my turn to listen to them explain that maybe they put in a few too many miles riding this week, or their kids kept them up all night. Or they were out on the perfect date, hopefully having now found the perfect man.