Jo(h)n Jonny JODY-heimer Jonathan-Schmidt

I was running, running, running,

Through the forest, forest, forest,

And it was pretty, pretty, pretty,

But then I saw Horace, Horace, Horace,

I love trail running. In college one of my preferred areas to frolic around in was Bartram Forest. It is a network riddled with trails right off US-441. Miles and miles of dirt, trees, rocks, and the occasional naked hippy*. One of those areas where somebody could fall asleep in and wake up unscathed.

But my favorite reason to run out in nature is when I get into a certain elation. I catch a third wind**. For background, second wind is what most people feel at a certain point of distance running. When your body switches metabolic processes. This anaerobic metabolism becomes that best friend at a bar who you only call when you want to completely ruin your life for a couple of hours. But third wind. That’s when limbo presents itself to me. Time isn’t a priority nor is my body exhaustion an issue nor do I care where I am going nor do I realize where I am. Or who I am.

I just run.

Did I mention, mention, mention,

That I stole from Horace, Horace, Horace,

He was a troll, troll, troll,

Who’s face was bleh, bleh, bleh

Loblolly pines served as inebriated High Overseers. Always physically imposing but essentially inept. My agenda had been clear that cloudy morning. To take back a relic my possession from the nasty, horrid-looking, disease-ridden, no nipple-having, mud-troll.

Once I mustered up my will, I crept up to a seemingly-lifeless cobblestone bridge. Tiptoeing up to the unprotected item, I made an unnatural noise and lunged for it. Once it pleased my fingertips, I fell backward. The troll did not make one grunt, grumble, or mumble. 

Then I left.

I wove in-between the burnt timber as though I was Thomas Saint. My toes provided traceable footprints, but it would take the troll a fortnight to catch me. That is if I were to stop moving. My bare feet trampled over stones, acorns, pine combs, red clay, smoldering ashes. The calluses on my feet were that thick to where I could have had a footbath at the crest of Orodruin. One foot, two foot, big toe, small toe. Rain drops falling off the tip of a leaf. Not on-beat but perpetual.

By the time the troll had consumed his late-morning brunch, I was already grabbing a pint at The Green Dragon Inn.

By the time the troll figured out his relic was not with him anymore, I was grabbing my fourth pint at The Green Dragon Inn. 

648 kilometers from where the troll got hit.  And he screamed out to the heavens, I mean he screamed to where all the creatures and critters who had functional eardrums. My  own ears caught his tone and along with the black muck in his pupils. It was as though he was sitting in the stool right next to me. 

My mind collapsed from my fugue state of strenuous activity. I fell through the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th stages of limbo. My wireless headphones were at 0%. Somebody woke me up.

There were three humans in the cab of a modded pick-up truck. Belaying sayings that sliced to the air and rattled what endorphins. The trail route in Bartram I normally take had been washed out, so my bare-feet had to hit the Vinson Highway pavement. Only for a few minutes. The action and reaction only took a few seconds. I didn’t yell back or throw a rock at their windshield. Maybe they were unaccompanied minors attempting a prank or maybe a white supremacist group or maybe some of my college associates. Maybe I could have even set myself up for an outdated slave joke since on occasion I run without Asics. But maybe it is for the indecisive.

Whatever that maybe was, I didn’t have time for it. I had 5Ks to run.

I glanced back at that troll, troll, troll,

Who called me a derogatory term, term, term,

But I did not stop, stop, stop

Because I was not done running, running, running,

--

*A story for a different time.

**A third wind is a term I made up to refer to a euphoric feeling. In this state, I imagine a daydream sequence of me running in an imaginary environment. In for this fictional setting, I’m a hobbit running through The Shire.

Blood by The Middle East always captivated my mind, soul, and spirit to put me in an euphoric mood. No matter what the situation, 

The Last Black Man in Coldfoot, Alaska

I had asked them to drop me along the Dietrach River bridge, about 20 miles from the cabin. There was an attempt to calm their anxiety, but we were both aware that this may be the last we saw each other. If I didn't return in the next five hours, they knew what to do. I plopped out of the white truck and softly shut the door behind me. The vehicle pulled off, making its way back to our cabin. I calmly slipped on my headphones, feigned some stretches, and gently started to run in the same direction.

Couldn't tell y'all too much about that 21 miler. Most of my thoughts at the time were absent or layered over with sweet melodies from my iPod. This jog was for my 21st birthday and eventually became my first official #runningjonchallenge state to run across the U.S. before I turn 32. It was misty, around the low 60s. The sun had yet to clock in for the day and consistently used PTO for the few months I was there. Alaska was never on my bucket list for states to visit (never ever?) while I completed my summer internships with the SCA. But this place had carried the thrill and need of adventure for me at the time.

Between the inhales through the nose and the exhales through the mouth, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other strides, and the two granola bars in my coat pockets, there were thoughts of my mom literally having no idea about where I am. There were thoughts of me having no idea where I was. I definitely knew that there were 20 more mileposts along the Dalton Highway that needed to be passed to complete my spontaneous yet necessary challenge. There was only one main road. Just run south. If a bear popped up, the other interns knew where to find me

At the age of 21 (still technically 20 at the time of the run) I had found solitude yet comfort in people not knowing where was located. There were a few animals fully aware of a nappy-headed black man in some Nike Shox sashaying along the interior of Alaska. The silence was so loud I could hear it through the verses of "Hey Ya'" by Outkast. Around the 13th mark, I had taken a light break to show down on some $1 cereal bars and re-hydrate.

My left hip had begun to tighten, and this would start the trend of a tight yet super flexible part of my body after I had fallen on it a week prior. Emile Hirsch's characters in Prince Avalanche and Into The Wild echoed throughout and around my cranium as I ceased my stretching. Alexander Supertramp's site was over 15 hours south of me.

It became daunting to carry myself through those last 8 or so miles. I was wondering why haven't seen one other black people in that space. People came around the entire world, and I had yet to see anybody not of mayo complexion. Everybody knows black people typically don't show up in Alaska, much less run along the Middle Fork Koyukuk River that tried to make me the last black man to ever visit Coldfoot, Alaska.

 But my desire to be in the wild and run around like I was going to my own Mordor with some hobbits drew me closer and closer.

So I kept running,

The soundtrack of Prince Avalanche by Explosions in The Sky looped in my head.

The Hot Water Still Runnin

I am Barry Allen, and I am the fastest man alive. Wait, wrong origin story. Let me try that again,

I am Jon, and I like to run. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow. Sometimes on a trail, sometimes on the road. Sometimes at dusk, sometimes at dawn. Sometimes with my youngins sometimes just with Jon. Sometimes in the rain, sometimes in the snow.

But regardless whether it's 5 degrees outside in Colorado or 100 degrees outside in Georgia, it's one of my favorite things to do and continues to be one of my favorite things in general. And it's because it is a collection, an accumulation of a whole bunch of little things,

The wind swooshing onto my face as I am struggling up a hill; the rhythm, beats, and rhymes pounding into my eardrums; the chaffing of even crack and crevice I didn't even know that could chaff; the fresh breath of air to supply me with nutrients immediately followed by the rapid release of waste that serves me no purpose; the anxiety of trying to find a place to pee because your bladder is the size of a pistachio; the old black guy on the block who gets amp'd just to see me running around his neighborhood,

And it's a relatively easy task. One foot, two foot, red fish, blue fish. So basic and simple, even a Jonny can do it. Wait a minute...

Back to the topic: this blog's main purpose to share all the stories of my running childhood, share all of races through all 50 states for #runningjonchallenge, share weekly songs (that will be connected to my Spotify account on a link somewhere), and to just talk about some stuff. Proud ambassador of the Lifelong Endurance running program and proud supporter of someone who likes to run in nice neighborhoods, without having the guise of stealing someone's tv. 

Enjoy, 

Running song of the week is "Runnin" by The Pharcyde