The Precipice Between Yin and Yang

3:35 am Life

“The world is so exquisite with so much love and moral depth, that there is no reason to deceive ourselves with pretty stories for which there’s little good evidence. Far better it seems to me, in our vulnerability, is to look death in the eye and to be grateful every day for the brief but magnificent opportunity that life provides.”

– Carl Sagan

“I wouldn’t recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they’ve always worked for me.”

– Hunter S. Thompson

Somewhere along the Southern Oregon coast, along Highway 101 exists a distant, industrial town by the name of Coos Bay. North Bend lies right next to Coos Bay, separated only by a sign designating its population. For all intents in purposes, they are one city divided only in name and by imaginary lines drawn on a map.

If Seattle and Detroit had a child that never grew up, Coos Bay would be that offspring. The city was an old settlement town which at one point in history was important due to her naturally useful waterways. Named Marshfield at the time, the town featured one of the best natural ports between San Fransisco and the Puget Sound. A coincidental but necessary link between two distant regions of the West coast.

Logging was once a major source of income in the area and still is to some degree. The trees are and always have been abundant. Although, if you’ve been in the town recently you’d wonder if anyone was employed at all. Commercial fishing also tends to keep mouths fed and the electricity running. As you can imagine, cutting down massive amounts of fir and fishing the depths of the Pacific Ocean demand a certain breed of people to meet their physically challenging requirements.

The typical working class Coos Bay male is over 6′ tall, in good physical condition, and wears a camouflage baseball cap. He’ll eye you suspiciously as he spits his Skoal onto the street while seated in lifted pick-up truck, listening to country music. The women? Equally tough, if not tougher than their male counterparts. She’s less than thirty with multiple children, wearing large hoop earnings and a no-frills pony tail. She’s heavier set, sporting make-up styling from the early 90’s. Wearing old jeans and one of her husband’s baggy hoodies, she passes you without a glance in your direction, eyes and mind focused on deciding how to save the most money on eggs, milk, meat and bread for her family.

However, a majority of the town is made up of elderly folks. Coos Bay was once a bastion for the Baby Boom Generation, a safe-haven for those who thought to “Go West.” People who came to the area fell in love with the natural beauty of their surroundings. Those people never left. They aged.

Sand dunes. Lakes. Ocean beaches. Cliffs. Rivers. Waterfalls. Hills painted with evergreen forests. Wetlands. Animals of all shapes and sizes.

McCullough bridge

McCullough Bridge, North Bend, Oregon. 1936.

Coos Bay and North Bend offers some of the best outdoor beauty planet Earth has to offer, and it’s jammed into a half hour drive. It’s impossible not to stare out over the McCullough bridge that spans over a mile across majestic waterways and feel like you are something special. Gazing out from this crown jewel of human triumph, the beaches and dunes that seem so close you could reach out and touch them.

Railways used to be part of the life-blood of the town. Then came the interstate. Once I-5 was laid down, the railways went the way of the dinosaurs. The region stopped growing and started slowly dying, or at least reached a plateau of sorts. Equilibrium? Maybe. Coos Bay is around two hours from the I-5 and this distance from a major artery of commerce allowed other towns a little further inland to take Coos Bay’s place as an industry leader. Combined with the economic hardships the country has faced as of late, one has only to open their eyes and realize that Coos Bay and North Bend have seen better days.

But one thing that all people from Coos Bay share, is that they’ve learned how to survive. Adapt. They’re hardened to the realities of life. They have to be, or they’d never make it. Do what it takes to make ends meet and to make it home to the ones you love. But something balances that hardened edge. Something that stirs the soul. Maybe it’s surroundings. Or maybe it’s something else.

I was back home for a memorial service, the first I had been to in my life. I’ve had family members pass, but for some reason those experiences were more detached; more clinical. This time I knew the person well.

To make matters more personal, I was to be the bearer of bad news. I received a call only a few weeks ago, which I missed. When I checked my messages, I was informed of the death and it was left to me to pass the news onto a loved one. So, much like ripping off a band-aid, I did my best. No sense in beating around the bush.

Nothing quite prepares you for that kind of moment, but everyone has to go through it at some point in their life. It’s unavoidable so long as there are people you love, and people who love you in return.

We arrived in Coos Bay over the weekend, an unnaturally sunny day in February. The mood was light. People were happy. But the next day, a Saturday, was to be  a day of interment.

We arrived at the memorial site. This wasn’t a cemetery, but to anyone driving by, they wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. From the road, one sees a vibrant, green rolling set of hills with a small building half way up. Trees are sparse.

Every person’s remains have been cremated and placed in a mausoleum, put in cylinders then placed in the hole of a flat stone marker, or in put in metal boxes then sealed into a wall. Today, the latter option of the three was to be employed.

Upon entering the building, a cheery yet somber woman in her forties or fifties greeted us. Two older typical Coos Bay men, each wearing some article of camouflage clothing and both donning baseball caps were sitting in chairs, relaxing. My first thought was that they were here for their own families.

Falkor Jr. then greeted me, tongue out and tail wagging. You see, I used to have a dog named Falkor, named after the giant white flying dog in the Never Ending Story. Falkor was a mutt, we suspect a border collie German Shepard mix. Sadly, due to his old age, we had to put him down, one of the hardest and gut wrenching days in my life, only a few years ago. It’s why I still have trouble getting a dog today, as I know I’ll have to live through that moment again.

Consider me surprised when a spinning image of my ex-best friend comes bounding up to me, with the same Falkor smile on his face. The resemblance was uncanny. The same coat markings, the same naturally crimped hair around the ears, the same mannerisms and energy. Only half the size.

I’m shocked and stunned. Incredible. What are the odds?

The woman working takes the ashes and does some transferring between containers, but I can only focus on Falkor Jr. He gets more pets from me than he’s received all year.

We walk out of the building. Our group sits in chairs covered in green velvet (still outdoors) in front of a brick wall. The wall has engraved, metal plaques stretching up and down the length of the wall. Falkor Jr. darts out of the building and across the memorial site, tearing over people’s names and the dates that they were on this planet. He has no social or moral issues about his actions, he’s just happy to be outside.

The woman asks us if we needed some time to ourselves and with the passed, which we decline.

The next series of events is supremely Coos Bay, and part of the reason I love and hate the town so much.

As it turns out, the two men sitting inside the building are employees of the memorial site. They appear out of thin air, one holding a 2×4, another with two tubes that appear to be glue. They are in charge of putting boxes of human ashes into brick walls. These guys are wearing jeans and baseball caps, the opposite of what you’ve seen on television.

I think back to the various points in high school in this same town when I couldn’t wear a hat in doors because it was disrespectful.

One man starts propping the 2×4, angled, against the brick wall. He pops out one of the small granite slabs covering the slot where the ashes will rest. He then uses the granite slab to give the 2×4 more height, so that the board can sit up an inch higher or so off the ground. The other guy begins mixing epoxy on the spot, then applies the concoction to the back of the small remembrance plaque. It’s as glamorous and refined as someone trimming a hedge, cleaning their gutters or fixing a leaky pipe.

The ashes go in the hole. The granite goes in to seal the hole. The plaque goes on over the granite, resting on top of the 2×4.

Then a two foot length of black duct tape is placed over the plaque to keep it from falling, making it impossible to read. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at the sight of this.

Another family member asks if she can read the words on the plaque. The two men did their job so quickly and efficiently, there as no time to view the text before it was covered with tape. The woman asks if she’d like her to peel the tape back. My family member does.

So, the tape gets peeled back. The woman apologizes and explains that this is the best way they’ve come up with to do the interment. The other two guys idle about silently, awaiting their cue to return to the office.

Falkor Jr. goes tearing by, right in front of us, oblivious to what is going on.

I want to pet him again.

I start wandering about the memorial site. I rarely come to places like this, and they always fascinate me. Names and dates, dates and names. Sometimes a quote. “Together Forever” is a common phrase engraved on stone, always accompanied by two names with similar dates of life and death and the same last name. Christians, Masons, member of the military, all identified by various symbols next to their names.

I begin to think about what I would want on my stone marker, if anything at all. Does it matter?

Only to the living. Pictures, toys, and flowers are places at various markers. All the living have left are the memories of those that have passed. Many people think that their family is looking down on them. I’m not one of those people. The ashes in the ground to me are fundamentally no different than the stone placed on top of them. Different sets of atoms and molecules that will be rearranged. Maybe even part a different life form at some point in the future.

I start thinking about water. A drop of water falls from the sky and hits the ground. Particles of H20 seep into the Earth, between rocks and dirt. The root of a plant sucks up some of those molecules. An animal eats that plant and absorbs the water intro their bloodstream. Osmosis carries the water though cells and allows the animal to live. A person kills the animal and eats their muscle. Water from the animal becomes part of the person. The person decides to go running and they end up sweating. A droplet of sweat leaves their body and splashes onto the pavement.  The sweat freezes overnight, the water evaporates the next day. The water rises into the air, fog for the next morning. The next day is unseasonably hot and the water returns to the sky. The cycle starts again.

The same molecule of water, touching many parts of a large system that is impossible to track and predict. The chemical bond holding the atoms together is unchanged by the entire adventure. Never broken. At no point does the oxygen leave the hydrogen.

We enter into the mausoleum. As it turns out, other family members have been placed here. The structure has doors on it which are locked. We get the key from the office, then enter.

The interior is confusing. It appears as though it should be warm. Tan granite walls and slabs stretch two stories high offer warm tones. Flowers are placed in front of various nameplates. The lights are on. Everything your mind is saying is that this space should feel warmer than the outdoors, but it’s not. It’s colder. Bone chilling.

It smells like old, musty carpet. It’s not a pleasant place to be. 90% of your senses are telling you to leave. The other 10% are saying “Stay, there are links to people here.” You feel guilty wanting to leave, but the only think making you feel guilty are the memories of others. If there were no names and dates carved into stone here, you’d have left 10 minutes ago.

Eventually we find who we’re looking for. Eventually we leave.

I play a lot of video games and sit at a desk all day. Death isn’t something I think about often, but the fact that I’m out of shape and live a mostly sedentary life means I’m pushing my clock towards the midnight hour faster that I should. And at what gain? Once I turned 30, a bit flipped. Do or die. Time to start being more responsible about certain aspects of life if I plan on staying on this planet as long as I can. Time to slow the clock down and cheat death as best I can.

Part of my plan was decided by a New Years resolution. I still remember my first mile clearly. I had to stop a few hundred feet from my house, my legs barely allowed me to walk. I ran around a set of trails, pushed it to around 1.5 miles, came home, and collapsed on my bed. I nearly passed out, chest pounding and head spinning. I never wanted to go again. It hurt.

Then I got extremely sick. For a week, I didn’t run again. I figured I was probably done with it anyway.

But something told me to keep going. To keep at it. Most people had already broken their resolutions by now. I decided I didn’t want to be one of those people. So I ran some more.

And I kept going. I’m still going. One mile seems like a joke now. Not even worth it. If I’m going to go running, three miles is an absolute minimum. As I write, I just completed a five mile run and returned to normal breathing and heart rate within a minute of stopping. It’s amazing what a month of patience, proper motivation and challenging yourself can accomplish.

While I was visiting Coos Bay, I didn’t want to start making excuses for not running. As everyone knows, excuses are the nails that hold up the house of fail. I brought my gear with me and ran at night, as I usually do.

Mingus Park, Coos Bay, Oregon.

Everyone from Coos Bay is familiar with the Tenth Street hill, a very long and steep drive, at the bottom of which is the beloved Mingus Park. There’s a loop around the park which always seemed so long. It would take forever to walk around it as a kid, bread in hand, feeding the ducks along the way. I had walked up and down the Tenth street hill a few times in my life and remembered how hard it had been on my body.

I decided to conquer the park and the hill in one go. Childhood demons be damned.

Amber!

I was staying with my sister, at her fiance’s house and decided to make the run more interesting. Their dog, Amber was a ex-rescue dog, trained to help humans as her sole purpose in life. They told me Amber would love to go running with me. I had already been considering getting a dog to run with, so this would be a great way to test my desires out.

With all my gear on and Amber on a leash, I bolted out the door. Running with a lead felt a little cumbersome; I couldn’t pump my arms quite as much. I felt a little constrained, but it was nice having someone to run with. In fact, it was the first time I had run with anyone else since I started running again.

Amber’s legs moved back and fourth at a steady pace. She appeared to be hovering. She showed no signs of getting tired at all. It was slightly demoralizing.

Down the hill we went. Then around the loop of the park. Then back to to the base of the hill. So far, round trip was about a mile and a half. Crazy to think that seemed like so much distance at one point in my life.

Going up the hill proved to be a challenge. I had to stop twice along the way, it was simply too much. Amber was tugging me forward then stopped and stared into my eyes. I really wanted to go without stopping, but I started in too fast, blew my legs out early on, and they gave out. Nothing left in the tank. I had to walk. The first time I had walked on a run for weeks. I felt frustrated and embarrassed, but eventually picked by legs back up and kept moving. Amber was itching to move.

Back to the house, round trip, just under three miles. A pretty short run, but challenging. Running with a dog was interesting, but I wasn’t sold on the experience yet. Especially with a dog that kicks my human ass just when I was starting to feel good about my abilities. I also had to get back in time for our reservations at our restaurant and the real reason I hadn’t gone on a longer run.

I went out to the best place in the city, Porta. I dined on a late night cioppino and Caesar salad. Life was good. I felt great. I felt lucky.

Pre.

The next night, as I was about to go running again. My sister’s fiance asks me if I knew who Steve Prefontaine was. I look at him like he’s crazy. Of course I know who he was. Everyone in Coos Bay knows who Steve Prefontaine was. He grew up in there, went to Marshfield High School, the same school every kid in Coos Bay goes through. Every student sees Prefontaine’s original running times and records posted in the aging Pirate gymnasium, even if they don’t realize the gravity and importance of those records. Kids who wished they owned a pair of Nikes if they didn’t already.

My sister’s fiance then tosses me a book about Pre. To be fair, I never really knew that much about him, only that he was an amazing runner, was the reason Nike even exists, and that he set a bunch of records. There’s a 10k run dedicated to him in my hometown, the route he often ran when growing up. There are a few memorials scattered about that are dedicated to Steve.

I almost hit his mother in a crosswalk while on my learners permit. Life would be very different had I not seen her at the last second. My father, the passenger at the time was not pleased.

I begin reading the book. It talks about life growing up in Coos Bay. The opening chapter reads as though it would still apply to today. Pre’s experiences in the area reflect my own. Pre’s thoughts and attitudes on growing up in Coos Bay match mine. I wish he was still around, I think we would have crossed paths at some point. It would have been fun to reminisce about the place.

Unfortunately, Steve Prefontaine died in an automobile accident. Some say it was drunk driving. A world class athlete, a smart man of fire and passion, charisma and good sense, a man from my small, beautiful-in-its-own-way home town, a man who like me, made it out of Coos Bay to follow his dreams, and a man who went through the same things I went through and who saw life in much the same way I see it, cut short. A reminder that no matter how good you are or what great accomplishments you might achieve, you’re still mortal. Gone in an instant. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, placed in a metal box, then in a brick wall with black tape covering the details.

I could have read the entire book about Pre right there, but I needed to get out. I was inspired. I needed to go. Move.

Again, I took Amber. I planned a route that was a little more flat, which ended up taking me from Coos Bay into North Bend. I didn’t need a massive hill to take the wind out of my sails again, and I planned an exact four mile path.

Out of the door and down the street. Amber began hovering once more. I ran past the old district school building I had been in numerous times with my father when I was a child. I ran past my old friend’s house and remember some of the parties I had gone to there. It was the party where I thought I had loved one girl, and turned out I loved another. Memories began flooding in as I ran by. I still remember clearly, lying there, drunk on the carpet with her, staring into each others eyes, thinking about the possibilities then realizing it’s better to be friends.

Down the hill past Boyton Park this time. About a mile in, when it happened.

Moving downhill fast. Crack. Foot slams into something, throwing off balance. Forward momentum continues, leg kicks out, other leg does not. Stumble. Attempt at recovery with legs fails. I’m going down.

Hard.

Instinctively, I let go of the leash, close my eyes and lean into my right side for impact. I try to keep my head tucked down against my chest and shoulder, and land as much as I can on one side. My knee hits first. No pain initially.

Shoulder and forearm slam down, hands out. My head manages to take no damage, but I’m skidding down the hill along my side after impact, inertia carrying me forward. I stop.

Is anything broken? Where is the pain? There’s no pain. Where is the dog?

I twist my head and see Amber standing a few feet from me, ears down, staring at me. She’s not quite sure what to do, and I’m positive I’ve tripped some sort of rescue dog trigger in her. Every fiber of her being wants me to be okay. She’s waiting for me to react.

I reach out and grab the leash to make sure she doesn’t wander into the street and get hit by a car. I jump to my feet then assess the damage.

Shoulder is a sore. Hands have some gravel stuck in them, but nothing major. Right knee feels dull, but not in pain. The adrenaline from the fall mixed with running endorphins are killing most of the pain at the moment.

I roll up my pant leg and inspect the knee damage. Pretty badly skinned. Exposed and bleeding.

I try to figure out what happened. It appears that one square of sidewalk had been lifted up more than three inches on one side along the path. I was relying on street light, and this particular patch of sidewalk was darker than the rest. It was nearly impossible to see while running. Completely dangerous.

My mind starts spinning, thinking about what could have happened. I could have hit my head and been knocked out. I could have ended up in the street and hit by a passing car. I could have fallen differently and not been able to get home at all. I would have had to call someone. Put loved ones lives on hold to salvage my own.

I could have simply gone out right there. Jesse Snyder, killed by a Coos Bay sidewalk while running at night.

Idiot!

I begin cursing to myself, not sure what to do next.

You could give up and go home. It’s a mile back. A two mile run isn’t bad. You’re injured. Two miles is less than yesterday! You wanted to do four! Maybe you should go back. But maybe you should keep going. See if it gets worse. You can just turn around later. It wont add much more to the run. Make an excuse. Better safe than sorry. Find a way out.

What would Pre do?

I kept going.

Eventually, I ran past my planned stopping point. The city lights drew me in like a moth to flame. I’m curious. I want to see what the experience will be like. I ended up running into downtown North Bend, an extra half mile in. I ran past a group of people out in front of a bar, smoking. They all jump back and looked surprised. Inside my head, I’m enjoying this. My guess is people running with dogs at night aren’t a common sight in North Bend.

I run until the bright lights end. The other edge of town.

I pass them again on the way back. This time they all stare, wondering what the hell I was up to. Some are smiling, others are stone faced. No one waves. I can smell the cigarettes, beer and stale bar smell wafting out into the street. Part of me really wants to stop and have a pint but instead I blow past them. I was injured and Amber is with me. It wouldn’t work.

Back home in good time with a 4.66 mile round trip under my belt. More than I originally set out for, but I paid the price. I took a shower, cleaned up the wounds, then hit the sack.

Back on the plane home. I finish the book about Pre and found a new appreciation for him, but I can’t help but wonder how running as a sport, and Nike as a company would have been different had Pre lived on. I can’t help but think how Coos Bay would have been different. Surely, Pre would have gone on to do much bigger and better things. He would have lived to an old age, giving back to his community every step of the way. The town might be more vibrant. More money would flow in. More scholarships for students, more opportunities for them to grow. More opportunity for Coos Bay to be important.

Maybe Pre was drunk after all, and it was his fault. Even though he was slightly over the legal limit, everyone said he wasn’t drunk. Okay to drive. Regular ol’ Steve. He died coming around a hairpin turn on a road he had driven countless times. Maybe he swerved to avoid a car while changing the radio?

Does it matter? Not really. Pre’s song ends there. There is no going back. He lived life to the fullest, pushed himself and others, and if he hadn’t done so, he wouldn’t be the man he turned out to be. There is no alternate reality, there is only Pre, what he did, how amazing he was, and his tragic death.

It can happen to anyone at anytime.

But why dwell on it? Enjoy life while you have it! Take advantage of the fact you’re among the living. You’re lucky everyday you breathe.

Push yourself. Challenge yourself to be better. Challenge others to be better. Take life’s problems head on. Speak your mind. Follow your heart and passions. Stand up. Be in charge of your own fate. Enjoy yourself! If you don’t, you’ll regret it. If you do, you’ll be better for it, even if it hurts you. Even if it kills you.

My knee is still healing. Whenever I think about stopping, I remember that’s the best time to keep going.

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