OCTOBER 18, 2018 // 3
SCRATCHPAD
I am a runner
about an hour and 10 min-
utes — roughly 11 minutes
per mile.
This unforeseen feat
ushered in a year of running
regularly — up and down
my street, on treadmills at
the Astoria Aquatic Center,
through forest trails with my
partner and her dogs.
It’s remarkable — once
you see yourself as the
sort of person who does
something you’ve never
done before — how quickly
your self-image shifts. You
By ERICK BENGEL
FOR COAST WEEKEND
L
ast fall, with
well-meaning doubt-
ers informing me
I’d made a huge, possibly
life-threatening mistake by
signing up for the Great
Columbia Crossing — the
10K race across the Astoria
Bridge — the challenge was
simply to survive with my
knees and dignity intact.
Somehow I’d managed
to cover the full 6.2 miles in
coast
INSIDE THIS ISSUE
weekend
arts & entertainment
2
4
8
THE ARTS
Oregon Poet Laureate
redefine your limitations.
You mentally slot yourself
into a new category: “I am
a staunch chair-sitter who
smokes on lunch breaks and
proudly pats my beer gut”
becomes “I am a runner of
races.” You want to see how
far you can go.
And so, on Sunday, I found
myself once again among the
thousands who ran.
Few mornings feel more
sacred than the predawn
hours before a race. Even
after a restless night, I rise
COAST WEEKEND EDITOR
ERICK BENGEL
CALENDAR COORDINATOR
REBECCA HERREN
CONTRIBUTORS
DAVID CAMPICHE
KATHERINE LACAZE
ANDREW TONRY
Kim Stafford visits Cannon Beach Library
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KMUN radio show marks 100th episode
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CLOSE TO HOME ........................7
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COLIN MURPHEY PHOTO
Features Editor Erick Bengel, foreground, runs the 2018 Great Columbia Crossing while miracu-
lously avoiding a front shot.
in a state of fierce focus. The
small, preparatory rituals
— like eating a breakfast
of peanut butter toast with
coffee, when all is dark and
quiet outside — have a holy
aura, full of energy and
purpose.
Sunday’s race came on
a clear day. With stars still
piercing the twilight, the
sidewalks of Uniontown
were overrun with giddy,
geared-up runners and
walkers. Near Basin Street,
we boarded buses that
shuttled us across the bridge.
We shared the sunrise near
the starting line at Dismal
Nitch and huddled in groups
against the chill wind whip-
ping off the river (we short
folk using our tall peers as
windbreakers).
Then the time came to
see what the past year’s
exertions had born. The
countdown began, the horn
sounded, and it was just us
and the road and the ques-
tion of how much we could
endure.
I was pretty confident
I would do better than last
year — which isn’t to say
that when our bus crossed
the river I wasn’t thinking:
Hmmm … this bridge is lon-
ger than I remember it. And
it’s not to say I didn’t start
out way too fast and commit
additional amateur errors as
the race unfolded.
But perfection isn’t the
point.
The point is that, having
set myself a once-unthink-
able goal — a goal well
outside my customary in-
terests and abilities — I can
get addicted to surprising
myself.
That 11-plus-minute mile
is now an 8.42-minute mile.
The real triumph, howev-
er, is the small measure of
self-reinvention the new stat
represents: I am one who
tries new things.
I am a runner. CW