Go East Old Man

Thoughts on driving to the start for Day One: As I start this run through Oregon, I can't help but note the already readily apparent contrasts between this run and the 3192-mile run I made across the USA in 1990. Maybe the most apparent contrast is the presence of our two Labradors, Rebel and Brudder. In our 1990 run Elaine and I were alone in the motorhome. Now we have two 90-pound hunks who are boldly claiming their share of real estate within the already tight quarters of the 20-foot motorhome.

Another obvious contrast – this one by absence rather than presence – is that George Billingsley, who ran the first 1300 miles of USA with me, is not along this trip. When we made the USA run, George's wife, Georgia, brought along her four cats. These days she has nine cats. Could be a reason they aren't here this time. Or it could be that back in 1990 George was a mere kid of 68. Now that he's 70, maybe he's shedding a few wild hairs.

Another contrast is the routing. Going across the country, Elaine and I studiously plotted a course that took us on backroads and avoided metropolitan areas, even though this added mileage.

However, with Oregon our schedule allows only 15 days to get across the state and that means I have to take a route of no more than 300 miles at 20 miles per day. Luckily that is exactly the distance across Oregon, California border to Washington border, on Highway 97. So we'll have no navigational problems – simply follow 97 all the way.

There's a contrast too in the mileage backgrounds that I brought to the runs. Starting RUNXUSA, I had a 13-mile daily average for the preceding month. Starting Oregon, my average for the previous month is six miles. That should prove interesting.

DAY ONE. Our battle plan called for Elaine, me, the trusty Mallard motorhome, with Labradors Rebel and Brudder also embarked, to arrive near the California-Oregon border today and to begin running tomorrow, northward on Highway 97 through Oregon. The strategy called for covering 20 miles a day, arriving at the Washington border in 15 days.

Our plans went down the tubes when we arrived at the border around 2:30 in the afternoon and, itchy-footed, I decided to sneak in a few miles early. Good equity, I told myself, in case of rain or other possible setbacks.

Actually this was the second change in our battle plan, because my original intent had been to run Highway 97 from north to south. That was before I received this enlightening information from Warren Richards.

He said, "The elevation at the California border is nearly 4000 feet higher than at Biggs near the Washington border. Running from south to north would obviously involve less climbing of grades." Mr. Richards is an operations support engineer with the Oregon Department of Transportation. Bless the man for pointing me to the downhill route!

From the California border to the Oregon Tourist Information Center the distance was only 9.2 miles. But we decided to spend the night at the Center because we were told that we could stay parked for as long as 18 hours.

Good deal in an attractive area with water, lawns and restrooms. The price, gratis, was right too.

DAY TWO. We did not start bright eyed and bushy tailed because our sleep last night was sabotaged a number of ways. For one, the trucks parked at the Tourist Center kept their generators running. Sounded like a cluster of washing machines in motion.

Secondly, on the tracks paralleling the highway a train went past so thunderously loud it sounded as if a volcano were erupting. For sure, Brudder and Rebel erupted with blood-curdling barking.

Around midnight, it rained heavily, followed by hail the size of marbles, bouncing off the motorhome and creating an infernal racket. Then about four A.M., the early travelers began stirring, noisily completed their preparations, and launched from the Center.

After that, Brudder and Rebel went into their, "It's time for breakfast ritual," so Elaine and I suited up for another day. By five o'clock, I finished breakfast and my ablutions, and was geared to run.

But as I looked out and saw pitch dark and a heavy tule fog, I said, "No way. We will wait for a civilized hour."

By 6:30 today the fog had lifted somewhat, so I had no excuse for not starting. Soon afterward I saw, barely distinguishable through the fog, a sign telling me Klamath Falls was eight miles away. I wondered what adventure would running through Klamath Falls bring. Because the breakdown lane was half the size of yesterday's and because the fog was hanging, I stepped off the road onto the gravel when cars approached. Unlike Alan Seeger I do not have a rendezvous with death. On second thought that's not quite right. I have one but just don't want it to be here and now.

Many a time I've smiled at the thought that the race through life is the only race I'll finish faster than I want to. Most of us cross the Great Finish Line too soon, or sooner than we'd prefer. Could be a sign that we're living a fairly happy life.

Going through Klamath Falls, a city of 18,000, I encountered a lady out with her small dog. It was the size of an overgrown jackrabbit.

I told her, "It looks like a miniature Doberman."

She replied, "Well, to be technical, it's a Manchester Terrier." That's what she said, but her tone was more to the effect, "Idiot, if you had any smarts, you would know what this dog is."

She further contributed to my canine education by adding, "This type of dog was originally bred to control rodents."

Out of Klamath Falls, when I came to a new bridge under construction, I asked the foreman of the project, "Is it okay for me to run on this?"

After appraising my vintage body, he replied, "Well, you can walk across it but don't run – and be careful."

After I took a look at the many reinforcing steel rods protruding in all directions, I concluded he was right. Even a Kenyan steeplechaser would hesitate to run through this maze.

The railroad tracks that parallel Highway 97 and go along Klamath Lake resurrected memories of an Amtrak trip Elaine and I once took from Sacramento to Portland where I ran the Portland Marathon. We boarded the train in Sacramento, and, with two suitcases in hand, headed for our roomette.

The attendant suggested, "You might want to leave those suitcases in the storage area below."

"No, we'll take them to the roomette," we replied.

"Are you sure about that?" he asked.

Elaine and I nodded affirmatively, and the attendant answered only with a broad smile. We knew why when we saw an Amtrak roomette for the first time. The two bunks were made up, since it was 11:30 P.M., time to go to bed. As we went into the roomette, we immediately discovered there was less than 18 inches of space between the edge of the bunks and the roomette door, and no space for storing the suitcases.

After looking around, laughing, then conferring, Elaine and I decided, "Retreat, hell! We'll stack the suitcases on the top bunk and sleep on the bottom bunk." Kind of a cozy evening, I might add.

After finishing today, we were lucky enough to find our-selves only three miles from Hagelstein Park that has restrooms, camping spots (without hookups), pleasant grassy surroundings and a small lake. All this for $5.

For Brudder and Rebel, the event of the day was swimming in the small park lake. Of course, it would have been enhanced if we had turned them loose to pursue some of the ducks and geese inhabiting the lake.

When we went to bed, my mood was upbeat. "Cheez, no sweat, no pain, and I've already completed more than one-tenth of this trip." Piece of cake.

DAY THREE. The scene as I started this morning, under an umbrella of overhanging dark clouds, was the railroad track to the west and beyond that, Upper Klamath Lake. Eastward was a small mountain range.

I was not the only one stirring this early hour. The shores of Klamath Lake were lined with white and gray cranes eyeing the water for breakfast. Klamath Lake, I'm told, is the second largest body of fresh water west of the Rockies.

At my first two pit-stops, I brought surprises for Elaine. The first was a Swiss Army knife that I found on the roadside. It was practically new, in excellent condition with the blade out when I found it.

While I'm always glad to find such goodies, at the same time I feel some remorse for the person who lost them. Elaine was delighted with this find, to the point where she confiscated it.

My other find was a pair of pliers. When I handed them to Elaine, she paraphrased Stanley, saying, "Dr. Paffenbarger, I presume."

She was referring to our good friend Dr. Ralph Paffenbarger. On our ultraruns Paff cannot resist picking up any gems (defined as nuts, bolts, screw drivers, etc.) that he spies on the road.

When I came to the junction of Highway 62, leading west to Crater Lake, I was reminded of the two times I ran the demanding marathon there (about 7500 feet elevation, if I recall correctly). Elaine's favorite pastime there was to stay awake in the tent and watch for bears foraging in the campground. One night she witnessed one tearing apart a plastic water bottle we'd left on our picnic table.

One of the best laughs I had there was the night a guy left the restroom and was headed back to his tent, at which time he suddenly discovered he was being trailed by a black bear. Not sure of what to do, he started singing, just making up words. "There's a bear following me. Make some noise. Noise, noise, noise. Bang something. Distract this bear. Help if you can hear me. There's a bear following me ... "

Luckily he was carrying no food, which would have brought on a bear encounter. The bear was on a food mission and continued on its way when the man turned into the campground. By then the man was ready for another trip to the rest room.

I scored a first today. My jock strap had been chafing me for quite a while, and the rawness it caused had become so uncomfortable that I decided it was time for action.

Leaving the road, I went into the woods, hid behind a tree and took the damn thing off. As I threw it away, I wondered how some varmint would react when stumbling across it. That's a scene I would like to see played out.

After I finished, we backtracked to Collier State Park to spend the night. For $13 we had a RV hookup and the shower was so clean it could have passed Marine Corps inspection.

The California State Park system could take a lesson here. In the first place it charges $16 just to pitch a tent. Secondly very few of its parks have RV hookups. And finally their restrooms would fail any inspection.

Something is amiss in my home state. Calls for an investigation!

DAY FOUR. Today I continued with two experiments, neither of which I did on RUNXUSA. Every day I change brands and models of shoes. This time I tried the Nike Air Pegasus, and that resulted in a shoe mystery.

Yesterday when I wore the Saucony shoes, my feet hurt as they pounded the corrugated road. Today, same type of road with the Nike Air Pegasus, my feet did not hurt. Ironically these conditions should be reversed because the Saucony model is a training shoe and the Nike model, a racing shoe.

My other experiment is trying to see if I can run the entire distance without any walking. Actually what this amounts to is that I run from one pit-stop to the next, three miles away, then docking for grub and grog before running to the next stop. The amount of revigoration that comes with the pit-stop is amazing. As I do my intervals, I am not pooped, whereas if I were running a continuous 22 miles, no pit-stops, I would be enervated.

Four days into this I am now getting the feeling that I just might be able to run across the entire state. When I started, I thought I'd be lucky to make 100 miles before I introduced some walking.

A shaky experience early in today's run. A semi truck passing a car edged near the fog line which I was hugging. The noise, wind swishing and nearness of the truck were frightening. My guess was that the truck driver did not see me. Well, one thing for sure: If hit by a semi, I'd have no painful lingering moments before crossing the Great Finish Line of Life. The feeling was like having a house pass by in a tornado. The experience spooked me all day, and I stayed tuned for vehicles approaching me from the rear.

Today Highway 97 was a concrete carpet through a forest, and since I was on the outer edge of this carpet, almost against the forest, I was not too visible to motorists. Actually, though, given the bike lane, I considered the running conditions about as good as they get for a main thoroughfare.

In stark contrast to the lush green forest that I ran through most of the day, I passed through two areas of desolation. One was a half-mile or so of carnage, not a tree standing, just stumps and branches, rape of a forest. Enough to drive the Sierra Club up a tree if there were any standing here.

The other depressing sight was the scarred remnants of a forest fire. The area, about a mile in length, was blackened ground and charred pine trees, looking more like posts than trees. Seeing all the adjacent forest, I was left wondering how the fire was ever contained.

Early in the day, I decided that when I finished today's run I wanted a fried egg sandwich. Where that idea was born, I don't know, especially since fried eggs sandwiches are rarely on my menu. But today we were talking about a must, which brought up this thought: What would a psychiatrist do with material like this?

Another wild thought as I ran along: When I return home, I am going to suggest to Abe Underwood and Dennis Scott, race coordinators for the Buffalo Chips Running Club (with more than 500 members) they consider organizing a race across Oregon on Highway 97 for interested club members.

Sure, American pioneer spirit at low ebb, they'll probably get only 10 or so adventurous souls. But these runners would harbor the experience for a lifetime. I'll suggest to Abe and Dennis that they extend the race over 10 days, say 30 miles a day. Just far enough to be a challenge, just short enough to be achievable.

Time now to report on some of the snacks Elaine has been feeding me at pit-stops: oatmeal cookies and peanut Kudo bars, pork and beans, spaghetti, rice pudding, pudding over peaches or bananas, jello and cookies, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, turkey sandwiches. I've been sticking with two drinks: ice tea and Koolaid.

I seem to thrive on this refueling every three miles. Immediately after eating and drinking, I am back on the road running, and since I am doing only a 12-minute mile there is no problem with this digestively. I have yet to lose any weight.

Since there were no RV parks anywhere in the vicinity, we again overnighted in the forest. Brudder and Rebel exhausted themselves exploring the real estate bordering the motorhome. Elaine tells me how much she is enjoying the company of "my boys."

DAY FIVE. My thought, as I came to the junction of Highway 138 and saw a motel, cafe and gas station: That's a heap of civilization compared to what I have been seeing. Everything's relative, I guess, because when I came to Beaver Marsh and found a motel, gas station, deli market, cafe and RV park, I considered it almost metropolitan.

But the topper was when I rounded a corner, entered Chemult and saw two blocks – two entire blocks – of business district. Half a dozen gas stations, motels, a hardware store, markets and a restaurant. I was overwhelmed. As I ran through the city, I was asking myself, What's different with this city from all the small southern towns I ran through a couple of years ago? What's missing?

Then it hit me. Not a church did I see here, whereas in the South I would have seen three or four.

Elaine was elated with her logistical successes today. At Beaver Marsh deli she was able to buy lettuce and tomatoes. At a rest area she was able to fill the motorhome with water. At Chemult she was able to buy propane. Such is life on the road.

I was startled when I saw the name on the mailbox: Russell Simpson. It opened a floodgate of memories of World War II, particularly Bougainville. Russell Simpson, a member of my intelligence section, was killed there.

When we landed on Bougainville, half of the section was on one APD (a destroyer modified to transport troops) and the other half was on another APD. The APD Russ was on was hit with a torpedo bomb, and several Marine and Navy personnel on it, including Russ, were killed. He was only 18, an upbeat kid who loved sports and the Corps.

Oh God, the memories of Bougainville:

• That first night when daisy cutters (anti-personnel mines) from a Japanese plane landed 20 yards or so from my foxhole and killed a dozen of my comrades.
• The boldness of the operation, simply going in, establishing a perimeter, building an airfield within it, with a Japanese force four or five times as large as ours barely 50 land miles away.
• One patrol, where so intent on following an azimuth, that I misjudged distance and went twice as far as ordered. Scary when I realized how far out we were, the danger of being hit by our own artillery and aircraft as much as being hit by the Japanese.
• The screaming of a fellow Marine officer through most of the night. He'd been captured by the Japanese who, at nightfall, placed him on their side of the river, tortured him, hoping to induce Marines to cross the river into their lanes of fire at night. Next morning, the Marines did cross the river, found the officer tied to a tree with a bayonet up his rectum.
• On a jungle path, going by the aftermath of a battle and seeing dead bodies blackened by the jungle weather, bodies with hordes of maggots crawling out of eye sockets and ears. Welcome to war!
• Rain, jungle rot and itching, 45 nights of sleeping on the damp, sandy soil of a foxhole.
• Malaria for the third time. I was evacuated to a med center in the rear and given a cot in a tent. The luxury of that cot, along with an increased dose of atabrine, was the treatment.

Since I did not test malaria-infected the first day, the young corpsman said, "You know, I doubt if you have malaria." I marveled at my patience in explaining to him that malaria was tertiary and that it would show within the next couple of days. On day three, it did show and on day three I was out of there and back to friends in my unit.

When we were evacuated, our trip back to base camp at Guadalcanal was sheer luxury. We were clean, out of the daily downpours of Bougainville, dry, fed, and survivors. And we were laden with memories that would forever linger. Not the least of which was of Russ Simpson whose body was never found. When I visualize him, I still see his infectious, somewhat mischievous smile. Dead at 18. Shit.

As I finished today – with a cumulative total of 98.5 miles in Oregon – I thought, Already I'm about one-third through this trek. It's a cakewalk compared to 124 days across America afoot.

DAY SIX. By now Brudder and Rebel have worked out a routine. About 4 A.M., they start stirring.

First they stretch, then they shake violently, rattling dog tags and generating enough noise to wake even the soundest sleeper. Next, they put a paw or two on us as we lie in bed. If that doesn't get us up, the next step is to put their entire head and chest atop us, dead weight.

All this dog language is meant to say, "Hey, I need to go out. My bladder is in urgent need of draining."

As I ran along on the first leg this morning, I kept hearing a strange sound that I tried to identify. Odd as it may sound, it took me a while to realize that it was my own wheezing.

Which reminded me that I had neglected to use my Ventolin inhalant before I began running. When I reached the motorhome that was my number-one priority, and it got me out of asthma alley.

Today's jaunt was punctuated with two settlements: Crescent and Gilchrist. Crescent consisted of little more than a ranger station, two motels, cafe and Crescent Oregon Church of Community Fellowship. The most surprising aspect of the town to me was the sidewalk through it.

Gilchrist is home to the Crown Pacific lumber plant that sits on the lake to the west of the highway. What surprised me there was the modern Gilchrist mall on the east side of the highway.

It did not catch Elaine by surprise, though, because when I ran by I saw the motorhome parked in the mall lot. This meant she was on a shopping spree in the first supermarket we've seen in 100 or so miles.

The name Gilchrist stirred a memory with me. Twenty or so years ago, while running in a race I was hit by a car driven by a guy named Gilchrist.

This was a three-day race at 33-1/3 miles per day. We were into the second day of the race on a course along the Sacramento River.

To minimize the wind and cold of the river frontage, I was running near the shrubbery, which dictated that, not too wisely, I was running with traffic instead of facing it. When I heard the impact of Gilchrist's car hitting something, I was distinctly aware that something had been hit, but in that split second I did not realize that something was me, even as I was flying through the air.

When I thudded against the pavement, I knew damn well that I'd been hit. In the first moments as I lay there, I had dreadful visions of never walking or running again. Yeah, I remember Gilchrist. We both made a mistake: I was running with traffic; he had been drinking.

Today when I passed an American Indian and his family and their car stalled alongside the road, I regretted that, mechanical moron that I am, I was not able to help. He was trying futilely to get it started and seemed in desperate straits. If he took any notice of me passing by, he probably thought, "Just another white man who doesn't care a damn about helping an Indian." Care I did; help I could not.

Once again we overnighted in the forest, this time at a spot three miles south of LaPine. Privacy we have, unless we are invaded by varmints of some type.

DAY SEVEN. When this weary old road runner descended on LaPine, he found that all the business district is located on Highway 97. The entire strip was about five blocks long. I had expected more.

Elaine had succumbed to the first supermarket she saw, Alpine on the south end of town. But Erickson's Sentry Market on the north end of town appeared bigger and better. As I went past Erickson's, I suspected she might make a second stop.

After being in the boondocks for a few days, I was engulfed with civilization today. Like at the Wickiup Junction where there was a gas station, a motel and, Lawdy me, a Dairy Queen, and a bowling alley. The Master Host Motel hereabouts is one of the best I've seen in quite a spell.

Never would I have guessed, say 30 years ago, that I would be out running in my BVDs at age 75 – let alone running all the way across a state. Frankly, if anything, I figured I'd be dead before age 75.

And for sure, I would never have guessed that, attaining 75, I'd feel so young or have such zest for life. No doubt about it, living an active life style has provided a number of benefits.

I can't help but contrast myself to others my age who don't exercise. Though we're the same age, I know I feel younger and think younger.

I have more vitality. I eat better and sleep better. I even think my mind is sharper. I suppose that sounds a little superior, but that is not at all how I mean this. Rather, I'm trying to say how grateful I am for what exercise and running have done for me, how I love and appreciate just being alive, alert and active at age 75.

After a day of 23.4 miles, and being about 10 miles south of Bend, we headed there to find an RV park. On the southern edge of town, we located John's Mobile RV Park. Checking in, we were made to feel welcome by John Wilson, a minister from Sonora, California, who was tending the store while his 47-year-old son was on a honeymoon with his 44-year-old bride.

Mr. Wilson did not mention his denomination (at least we knew he was not Roman Catholic!), but he had been a minister all his life. When he learned about our run, he said, "I read a book about a fellow who ran across the United States. He met this girl along the way and was converted."

Since I'd read all the literature about runs across the USA, I was puzzled for a moment trying to think of which runner, which book he was talking about. Then I stopped struggling and asked Wilson, "You said he met a girl and was converted. Isn't that true?"

"Well, yes," he replied.

"Oh, then, that's Peter Jenkins and the book was Walk Across America. He walked from Alfred, New York, to New Orleans where he met this girl, named Barbara as I recall. Not only was he converted, but he also married the girl."

The book was a bestseller, but every time I hear the title, I think it a bit of an exaggeration: New York to New Orleans is hardly across the USA.

While expressing interest in our run, Mr. Wilson was every bit as interested that we use a pooper-scooper if the dogs left any messages. We assured him that we would.

They did, and we did. His concern was understandable, because the park was fastidiously clean. Elaine and I enjoyed frolicking in the shower and being rehabilitated. Lest there be any doubt, those were separate showers.

DAY EIGHT. As I hit the road this morning, a quote from a German pathologist came to mind. It's called Wolff's law: "The robustness of bone is in direct proportion to the physical forces applied to that bone."

Could be why my legs and knees have held up so well. They've had more than their share of physical force. I'm adding to that physical force by trying to run all the way across the state, with no walking.

As I thought about that, I had to admit if I am successful who really knows but me that I actually did it. It would be easy to sneak in some walking. But, aye, there's the rub: I would know.

So many things in life are judged comparatively. On Guadalcanal when I was trained in a small cub plane for air scouting, it was more or less like stepping into a car.

Then came the transition to torpedo bombers (TBMs), the plane we had to use to fly on and off carriers. The first time I climbed into the greenhouse of a TBM, it felt as if I were climbing a three-story building. Comparativeness.

The same today when I came into Bend after having been in the boondocks a few days. Bend was overwhelming, a bustling city, humming with activity, the fastest growing city in Oregon, Mr. Wilson told us last night.

Since Highway 97 goes right through the heart of Bend, I was able to see much of the city. As I went past a Fred Meyer's supermarket, I spotted the trusty Mallard parked there. Predictable.

What impressed me most about Bend, besides the place brimming with action, was the number of motels. I swear they could house an entire city. Nobody had to tell me that Bend is a springboard for vacationers.

I could hardly believe the plushness of the River House Motor Inn, which is spread out on both sides of the Deschutes River. I estimated 400 rooms, but when I detoured into the lobby (feeling a bit self-conscious in my scanty and sweaty running duds) and talked with the desk clerk, I was told 254 rooms. Guess the convention facilities made it appear larger.

In midtown Bend, as I ran by a 24-hour donut shop, I stopped to study the goodies. My expression must have been akin to Brudder's when he eyeballs me for a handout when I'm eating.

History was made when I decided to pass up a donut treat, because rarely does this junk food addict miss a chance at a yummy greasy donut. Must be an index of my being tired. Just as I made this decision and started to mush onward, I saw Elaine parked up ahead. Had I bought a donut, she would have caught me eating it and likely cut me off from snacks at the next pit-stop. Indeed the fates are kind.

Since I had to navigate through Bend without benefit of a bike lane, street work being in progress, I was delighted on leaving the city to again meet up with a big lane. "Mine, all mine," I exclaimed, which stirred in my mind a classical line of Cyrano de Bergerac's about his nose.

But struggle as I might, I could not recall the wording of that line, though at the same time these Cyrano words about his nose came clearly to mind:

"Know that I glory in this nose of mine,

For a great nose indicates a great man

Genial, courteous, intellectual, virile, courageous –

as I am ... "

Being endowed with a prominent proboscis, I find those words somewhat of a defense mechanism, and maybe that's why I remember. So what, if in my case, they are gross exaggeration!

Our day finished six miles south of Redmond and with 23.1 miles logged. Our spot at the Green Acres RV Park was adjacent to a huge shed. Brudder and Rebel thought it was heavenly, since it provided many gopher holes to explore.

DAY NINE. It's remarkable what a good night's sleep brings about on this run. I am tired at the end of each day, but sleep refreshes me and I am ready for the next day. Contrarily, when I ran across the USA , after a month or so on the road I was exhausted at the end of each day. Sleep did revitalize me enough to get through the next day, but the deep feeling of exhaustion never left me. On this run, after a good night's sleep, I find myself through the first 12 to 15 miles the next day without feeling tired.

All kinds of impressions as I went through the city of Redmond. If there was any doubt about this being a farming area, it was dispelled as I passed through town and saw a farm implement store that extended over two blocks. I saw Highland, Freeman, and other products, but missing was John Deere. Where art thou, John, and why thine absence?

Amused by a sign in front of Wilson's furniture store: "Hunting for a sofa? Furniture season now open."

Unbelievable, in 1992, to see a sign reading "Coffee 5 cents" – and they mean it. The building did not house a restaurant but instead a True Value hardware store.

Going with traffic through town, I was forced to run on the sidewalks, which involved a lot of ups and downs. Another drawback of sidewalks is that, uneven as they often are, the chances of tripping are high.

Which reminds me: Not yet on this run, nor all the way across the USA, has the weary old road runner once tripped or fallen. A feat unto itself.

Out of town, once again on the open road, my relaxation was rousted when I heard an eerie noise. What the hell was that? I turned in its direction, then discovered it came from a small jackass alongside her mother. Guess she was hungry. Looking at the scene, I discovered I had a vocabulary lapse. No problem with horses; youngsters are fillies and colts. But what is the word for youngsters that are jackasses?

My highway adventures today were enlivened with two happenings – the first with some teenagers, the second with what I'll call road conditions. A speeding car filled with teenagers approached me, swerved into the bike path, prompting me to make a hurried exit to the dirt, and as the car sped by the kids were yelling and waving, I thought. On second look, that was wrong; they're waving with an extended middle finger.

Now with inner-city kids, that would not have surprised me. But to see it from these farm kids (almost a repeat of an incident a day or so ago) has me worried about the state of the nation. What are we coming to? There's nothing wrong with these kids that a couple of months of boot camp would not cure.

Speaking of which, one hell of a good argument could be made for one year of required military service following graduation from high school. No exceptions, not for pre-med, not for farmers, not for college-bound.

I sensed the second bit of enlivenment as I approached it. Uh-oh, I thought, now this has to be the spot Joe Henderson, an Oregon resident, told me about. He said, "You'll come to this spot where there is a very narrow bridge across a gorge. On the bridge you look down to either side and see a drop of 600 feet or more."

Fearful of heights as I seem to be with old age, the very thought of this scared the living caw-caw out of me. I can't understand this fear. I can fly a small plane without any fear, look out the window of an aircraft without fear, but when I stand on the edge of a cliff or at the window of a tall building, I get shaky knees.

Besides, I almost find myself suppressing an urge to jump and that has the concomitant thought that, some wild moment, I might not be able to suppress that urge. And here I was facing that exact situation.

My God, I thought, seeing the bridge, it is dangerously narrow. There is no space whatsoever for a car and me to occupy the one lane, and there is no bike path, no sidewalk. If two cars and I met abreast, and if they could not stop, I'd get smashed.

I studied the bridge and estimated it was 80 to 100 yards across. I could see 100 yards or so behind me and about 200 yards north of the bridge.

I formulated a battle plan. First I would make sure the road was clear in both directions. Then I would sprint full-out across the bridge. Since the guard rails were so low and since I was so shaky about the height, I would run smack in the middle of the bridge and would look neither to the left nor right in an attempt to ignore the height.

As I waited for the traffic to evaporate, I sneaked a quick peek into the canyon. Goose pimples and suppression of an urge to wet my pants. Rocky walls and a drop to eternity.

I saw a suspension bridge to the west and wondered how I'd make out trying to cross that train bridge. I noticed a sign telling me this is Crooked River Canyon. I knew this crossing would be a bear. I'd be gasping for breath, my legs would ache, and I might have to take sudden drastic action to avoid traffic from either direction. I knew the longer I waited, the worse the situation would be.

I kept monitoring the traffic, geared to go when the road was empty. The moment that happened, I took off. Tennyson's words, "Into the valley of death rode the 600" came to me.

With all the effort I could muster, I fought for air, pumped my arms, struggled to maintain fast leg rotation, not daring to glance off to the side and the vertical drop. I listened intently for cars approaching from the rear and watched the road ahead.

Everything – head, arms, legs, heart – was pounding. I wasn't sure that so geared I could make it all the way across the bridge. The farther I went, the more apprehensive I was that a car would descend upon the bridge. By the time I was three-quarters across, I was so wobbly that I was not sure I could take proper evasive action if confronted by a car.

Body beat and bursting, but mind now at rest, I escaped the bridge and came to the road at its northern end. Spent, I staggered to a safe spot roadside to regroup. I dared not look into the canyon. I did have enough presence of mind to say a prayer of thanksgiving.

DAY 10. Oh, pity, a sad story: a child's toy elephant, pink nose and red ears, forsaken here on Highway 97. Somewhere a child cries.

Sort of reminded me of my youngest daughter, Susan, who as a child had a Humpty Dumpty to which she was inordinately attached. More than once on our trips across country, Susie left Humpty in a restaurant and, once the discovery was made, we had to retreat, miles be damned, to retrieve him.

One of these trips, I vividly recalled, bordered on 40 miles. You can write the scenario: Susie crying, mother sympathizing, father with smoke coming out of his ears. A story with a happy ending, though: First, never again was Humpty left because father made sure he left with the family. Second, Susie is now 35 and that same Humpty is one of her prized possessions.

Last night Tom, our KOA host, told us that from where we finished yesterday to the Washington state boundary was a distance of 105 miles. Thinking about that, I suggested to Elaine that we wrap up this run in four days by running 26 miles a day.

Her answer to that was an arched eyebrow. Presto, I dropped the subject. The cardinal principle here is: Don't ruffle the pit-crew.

As I crested a hill today, I looked ahead and spotted Madras nestled in the trees in the valley below. This is the last town of size we will pass through. The Mad Shopper probably has a list a mile long, I thought.

As I jogged down a hill and into Madras, hayfields to the right and left, it was evident as I looked ahead that once out of Madras, still heading north, I'd be in the foothills.

In town I took time out to buy some postcards in the local pharmacy, apologizing to the clerk in the process for my attire.

"Well, to tell the truth," she said, "it's rare that we see an older gentleman in here wearing just shorts and a T-shirt." At least I came out a gentleman.

Out in the boondocks shortly after leaving Madras, I came up with a wild idea and was anxious to spring it on Elaine. We're both San Francisco 49ers fans, and each week we record their games to watch later at our convenience.

Remembering that the 49ers were playing this Sunday, a couple of days hence, I got the bright idea to suggest to Elaine that Sunday afternoon we find a motel with TV reception of the game and that we watch it live. I knew she'd scream that she would rather sleep in the motorhome, but I'd counter with, "We'll just watch the game on TV in the motel and take a shower there. We can still sleep in the RV."

Despite that clever strategy, I did not win. Her reaction: "Let's wait until we get home and see the game recorded."

End of subject. Remember, never ruffle the pit-crew, O Runner, for we are speaking of thine life blood.

At dinner Elaine told me that Rebel has taken a new stance. Once she parks for a pit-stop and gets out of the driver's seat, Rebel takes it over. Then he looks in the outside rear mirror, watching for my arrival. Once I arrive, he comes to the motorhome door, awaiting my entrance.

Now lest you think this is inordinate affection, his motivation is this: He knows that I'm there to eat and drink, and this means a handout for him. Once I am seated at the dining table, he parks on his haunches nearby and, as he drools, he waits for his handout.

DAY 11. The major highlight of this day started stirring for us when, a bit past the junctions of 97 and 197, we saw a sign advertising the Shaniko RV Corral. We had resigned to overnighting at some roadside spot.

Now, Eureka! Only three miles or so from where we would finish, there was an RV park with hookups and showers. Manna from heaven.

After we finished the day's run and drove the three miles to the RV park, we discovered the ghost town of Shaniko. Maybe one reason it was so delightful was that it was so unexpected. The whole town, or what remained of it, was a museum out of the old west. The centerpiece is the restored Hotel Shaniko. Actually this hotel was originally called the Columbia Southern Hotel, a two-story brick building that took two years to build. An elite establishment for the times, it was referred to as "Queen of the Highland Hostelries."

Elaine and I were invited to tour the restored hotel. We were impressed with the quality of the original woodwork, somewhat remindful of the woodwork in the Coronado Hotel across the bay from San Diego.

All the rooms, about 20 in number, were on the second floor. The first floor housed a restaurant, gift shop, lobby and kitchen. The restaurant, this Saturday, was doing a bustling tourist business.

After our evening dinner in our RV, we made a second trip to the hotel for purchases from the gift shop and to treat ourselves to apple pie à la mode, which turned out to be homemade pie with a generous scoop of ice cream for the reasonable price of $2 per serving.

We learned that, at one time, Shaniko was the world's largest inland wool-shipping center. A couple of the old wool warehouses still stand, 75,000 square feet each, enough space for four million pounds of wool.

In 1902, five million pounds of wool were sold in Shaniko. Wool buyers from all over the world came here to bid for wool and to ship it out on the Columbia Southern Railroad. Shaniko, where August Scherneckau located in 1879, zoomed into prominence in 1900 when it became a railroad terminus. A few years later, another railroad was built up the Deschutes Canyon, going through Madras (in 1910) and through Bend (in 1911), and this was a death blow to Shaniko. A short while later many of the buildings here were destroyed by fire.

Back in the heyday of Shaniko, hundreds of wild horses roamed the plains, sheep were everywhere, and the friendly Indians had scatterings of small teepee settlements on the high-desert plateau. The Indians called these settlements Sim-pa-te, meaning summer camp grounds.

The town once had six full blocks of hotels, saloons, gambling houses, livery stables, bawdy houses and law offices. In fact, by actual count at one time there were 13 houses filled with "sporting girls."

There was even a department store in town, and at one time as many as three newspapers. Some of the historic buildings still standing are the watertower built in 1900, the jailhouse in 1900, the schoolhouse in 1903 and the city hall in 1901. S.R. McCarthy built that narrow, two-story city hall for $865. Just try to get a bargain like that today! The water tower does not look such at first blush, because it is a blockhouse-shaped building.

The town was unusual in that it never had a church nor a cemetery. Its name came about in an unusual way too. It was founded by August Scherneckau, but the Indians could only pronounce his name as Shaniko, and that name stuck.

One of the town's museums has a large collection of buggies and buckboards. I am of such vintage that the collection of old cars and fire engines brought back memories of my youth.

One thing that remains unchanged about Shaniko, now home to somewhere around 60 folks: The cold desert wind still whips inhospitably through this high-desert plateau, just as it did when Shaniko was in its heyday. Which gave us something to share with the pioneers.

DAY 12. At breakfast this morning, I had some new companions. As I was cooking Cream of Wheat, I noticed some weevils.

"Don't worry about them," Elaine said. "They're good protein."

So I continued cooking. Neither of the dogs, who habitually share my breakfast, noticed any immediate ill effects.

Those companions came to me courtesy of Nabisco in Modesto, California. Since the Cream of Wheat was individually packaged, it was evident that the weevils weren't from our kitchen. Take that, Nabisco!

Shortly after starting, I saw an odd sign that told me I'm at the 45th parallel, halfway between the Equator and the North Pole.

Early today I encountered a pipeline under construction that runs from Canada to San Francisco – or so a construction worker told me. A trench about 10 feet deep is being dug, and often through much rock, to lay the pipe. The worker said the pipe is 47 inches in diameter and that each section is 40 feet long. I was also told this will be a natural-gas pipeline costing billions of dollars.

After leaving the site, I thought I should have asked the name of the pipeline. You know, if I'm correct, this thing is under pressure. What would happen if there were an explosion?

At one point today, for no reason at all, I suddenly thought of my first exposure to long-distance running. I was a child of but 12, and my Uncle Paul took me to witness a 17-mile road run from Healdsburg to Cloverdale, California. I marveled at men able to run that extraordinary distance.

Good Lord, come to think of it that was back in 1929 or '30. What I most vividly recall was that, trying to follow the race, my uncle got a ticket from a Highway Patrol officer. I felt absolutely miserable because Uncle Paul, struggling to raise a family in Depression times, could ill afford a ticket, and he got it because of trying to do me a favor.

At one pit-stop today Elaine fed me rice. Eating it, I commented, "Gohan, Rebel-san and Brudder-san."

"Oh," Elaine replied, "I see you're thinking of Miss Polka Dot again."

Which is sort of an in-house joke. She was referring to a character (who in one scene wore a polka-dot dress) in a novel I wrote years ago. The novel centered on a Marine officer during a 14-month tour of duty in Japan. The book never got published. The highest compliment about it I ever received was Elaine's, "You can't fool me. I know it really happened, you and Miss Polka Dot."

Kent was the only town, if such it can be called, that I passed through today. The only activity I saw there was at the Sagebrush Cafe, which advertised fresh cinnamon rolls. I saw a couple of bicyclists emerge with rolls in hand.

On my last leg, two bicyclists approached me, and I waved a hello. They paid no attention whatsoever.

Hard sometimes to understand the unsociability of some people. Something akin to when I'm out running and encounter another runner, say hello to him, and he utterly ignores me.

Note that I said him, because these days I never first say hello to a woman (unless I know her). Can't be too careful with the sexual-harassment banner flying and that coupled with the dirty-old-man syndrome. In this case, ladies, I'd rather be tagged unfriendly than intrusive. Sign of the times.

I finished near mile-marker 38 today. Quickly by higher math, I calculated if I can do 22 miles tomorrow, I'll have only 16 our last day. True, I could split it 19-19 (more higher math) but feel it's better to stick with 22-16.

DAY 13. With a certain amount of sentimentality, I wore the New Balance 840 shoes today. I felt sentimental because this shoe (well, seven pairs of them) carried me 3192 miles across the USA and because this is the last pair I own; they cannot be replaced since they are no longer manufactured.

Which is the story of running shoes: Find a pair you like, and the manufacturer – New Balance, Nike, Reebok, Adidas, Saucony or whoever – discontinues that model. This is known as merchandising. Keep the customer coming back in search of the perfect shoe!

With the Washington border nearby I can almost smell the spoils of victory – which is precisely the trouble with too many athletes. They taste the spoils before the victory, which sometimes does not materialize.

From a distance today I was able to distinguish the location of Grass Valley, signaled by a grain elevator and clump of trees. My impression is that the town is misnamed. It should have been called "Wheatland."

As I entered town, I was greeted by two barking dogs. A sign informed me that the town's population is 160. Elaine was parked in midtown Grass Valley when I arrived there for a pit-stop. She was at the center of the town's activity: the local market and Carol's Cafe, both gathering spots.

My next town was Moro. As I swooped down its main street, I saw that most of the residences sit on a ridge line that is on the west side of the main drag; that Sherman Hospital is located on a hill up Bidwell Street, that the town's motel offers budget rates, color TV and air conditioning, and that the Sherman County Courthouse dates back to 1899. With only 300 people, Moro is the smallest county seat in Oregon. While running through town, I also noticed an old two-story hotel now converted to a collectibles store and made a mental note to check it out when I finished running.

That turned out to be an interesting visit. All two stories were filled with an interesting collection of bric-a-brac, dated clothes, uniforms, household items, jewelry, plus an assortment of other paraphernalia. Some of the upstairs hotel rooms were preserved as they had existed 75 or so years ago.

The proprietor, seeing our vintage and motorhome, asked, "Are you part of the snow-bunny migration?"

We briefed him on our run across Oregon. He then went on to explain snow bunnies as older folks who, living in motorhomes, spend the summer in Oregon and Washington, some even in Canada, and then in late fall migrate to Arizona.

We'd been settled in our RV spot for about an hour when two shots suddenly rang out. We looked out the motorhome windshield and saw two men, rifles in hand, running toward a corral. They stopped, aimed and fired into the corral.

"They must be shooting cattle," I said. About then the two shooters and a couple of other guys climbed atop the corral fence, looked in a moment, then climbed down and started retreating to a nearby truck. Soon the truck appeared near the corral gate. We began to get an indication of what was going on by reading the sign on the truck, "Mid-Columbia Mobile Slaughter."

A man jumped out from the truck, opened the gate, carried a small cable from the truck winch into the corral. The next thing we saw was one of the dead cattle attached to the cable being dragged out of the corral. This done, a second was winched out. Both were lying there limp. Then one of the men pulled what appeared to be a hose out of the truck. As we watched, we saw that it was an air hose, and in a short time both cattle were inflated with air. Flat on their backs, with their legs rigidly extended, they lay there.

Just as I was wondering, Why this?, a man with a skinning knife approached them and Elaine said , "Oh, they stretched them out so they would be easier to skin."

Obviously the skinner had been through this many times. He wasted no motions, working with rapidity. In a matter of minutes, he had skinned both animals. By now, the truck driver and fellow with him had donned butcher aprons and white hats. Using a hydraulic hoist, they raised the cattle into the truck and started the butchering process.

They worked for two hours or thereabouts, all this within a hundred yards of our RV. Evidently it was now time for a different phase of the operation, because they moved the truck a short distance to another part of the fairgrounds where they had access to running water and a disposal pit.

Because of the direction the truck was parked, we could not observe this phase of the butchering process. But they were busy for almost another two hours, most likely attending to the detailed butchering.

When the butchers were finished, they exited the truck, ceremoniously removed their aprons and went over to a man who had just driven his Cadillac onto the fairgrounds. My guess was he had bought the beef at the fair that had closed the day before. Soon the Cadillac and truck left. A man finished hosing down and cleaning the drain pit, locked up the area and also departed. We had nearly four hours of entertainment, if such it can be called. I was grateful that we were not having steak for dinner.

DAY 14. Alive in my mind was the thought that today I'd be touching on American history. When I reached the Columbia Gorge, I'd be in the same general area that the Oregon Trail and Lewis & Clark Expedition had passed through. Back years ago when I was into reading and teaching American history, the Oregon Trail never did excite me very much, despite its role in the Westward movement. Maybe my enthusiasm was dampened because the Trail was the freeway from Independence, Missouri, to Oregon.

Between 1841 and 1860 about 200,000 people, best as I could remember, started on the Trail. Along the way, about one out of 20 of them wound up in a grave beside the Trail.

Funny thing about the Trail. A lot of people don't realize that it led to California as well as Oregon. The way that worked was this: At Fort Howard in Idaho, the trail pioneers had to decide whether to turn south and head for California (and the lure of gold) or to continue to Oregon.

The incentive for Oregon was the fertile Willamette Valley where each single male pioneer was granted 320 acres. A married couple got 640 acres. But a single female was entitled to zero acres.

With all the people and traffic on it, so heavily traveled was the Trail that the deep ruts cut into the earth by the iron-wheeled wagons are still visible today in many places. Elaine has often reminded me of these ruts through her family's farm in Idaho.

We awoke this morning to the sound of rain. One look outside, and it was readily apparent that no sun would we see today. What the hell, I thought, in Oregon we were lucky to get through 13 days without rain. Sixteen miles in rain today wasn't any strain, because I knew that when finished this is it – no more encores.

Closing out my last day, I smiled when I thought about how Brudder and Rebel will adjust after this trip. Right now they are used to a snack at each one of my six pit-stops. What's going to happen when that ceases tomorrow? The way they beg, each has his own style. Brudder looks at me despairingly, almost saying, "You can't eat all of that without giving me some. How dare you." Rebel often lowers his head moodily and just waits, confident he'll get a handout. Brudder fixes a yellow-eyed stare on me. Rebel seldom looks me in the eye.

At the last pit-stop I changed from my trousers to my sweaty, smelly, dirty Sporthill tights that have faithfully kept me warm much of the Oregon run. Ever the sentimentalist I felt they deserved the victory lap.

'Twas a beautiful sight when I saw that last highway marker, one mile to the border. I was still holding my hellfire blazing pace of a nine-minute mile, not an undue effort since the day's route was downhill.

To finish our run, we needed to run to the Washington boundary, located midway in the Columbia River. Elaine decided to accompany me so she could take a picture. The narrow ledge that passed for a sidewalk was difficult to negotiate. The semis racing across the narrow bridge and stirring up rain water did not add to our enjoyment. It was a bit foggy and misty, but we took our pictures, despite doubts as to their quality.

When we returned to the motorhome and the waiting mutts, we decided it was celebration time. What to do? We descended upon Dinty's Restaurant for bacon and eggs served with potatoes and toast.

Elaine and I felt pleased with ourselves. We did what we set out to do, did it faster than planned, did it more comfortably than anticipated and finished with bodies, human and canine, in good shape, and with the motorhome still intact and purring.

As we left Biggs, headed west on Interstate 84, it felt damn comfortable to park my butt in the motorhome, watch the rain, feel no wind, to just lean back and relax. Thinking back on the run, what astounded me most about the adventure was I was able to run all the way across Oregon. No walking between pit-stops.

All of which left us thinking about our future runs across Arizona, Idaho, New Mexico, Montana, Washington and Wyoming. Can we hack that in two summers? Where to start? When? After we run these six states, we will have run across every state west of the Continental Divide. Beyond which, I dare not think!