The Pits

It's a beautiful place to run and that's why I go there. The land is gently rolling or flat, except near the creeks which are few, so you can keep an even pace during a long run.

Champoeg Park is a natural starting and stopping point with lots of safe parking, restrooms and water. But the park is only good for a shorter run and so when high mileage is called for, a loop outside its boundaries is easy to do and enough roads exist that you can tailor a route to nearly any distance. And so it was a few week ago on a Sunday morning. Perfect cool weather, the open road and....

....I first saw them from the corner of my eye, dual blurs shooting past a low hedge and some shrubs and obviously coming in my direction. Dogs I could tell were medium size, these were in full attack mode, a sinister growl attached to each of them but only as a hapless product of their intent, not as warning for me.

Their instinct to attack whatever ran past their territory was met by my own impulse. In an instant they turned and crossed the road and were at me. With no options I met them face on and screamed "STOP!" It worked for a second. They both did halt but regrouped and charged me again. "STOP!" I repeated as I backed away and again the Pit Bulls halted just a foot away.


(This isn't the same fellow, but it is what I saw, except that there were two of them)

The owner of the 60's vintage green single level farm home appeared from the front door and called for the dogs by name. They made another menacing move toward me and then seemed to notice Randy who had so far escaped their wrath and had been slowly walking away. Now they ran up to him and he followed my lead either through example or following his own reflex by bending toward the duo and blasting them with another “STOP!”

The owner was now on the edge of the road and she oh--so--slowly brought the dogs under control and toward the house. We continued to walk, a bit rattled and muttering under our breath, until we felt safe to run once more.

You might think it an exaggeration or an embellishment if I told you that not ten minutes later we encountered a pair of German Shepherds with nearly identical circumstances. But we really did. Desensitized by the magnitude of a full out Pit Bull attack so fresh on our psyches, to be run down by these dudes was almost a let down. I felt like saying “you call yourselves bad asses; you should see your neighbors!”

Now you might really think I was yankin your chain if I said ten minutes after that we ran up on another pair of Pit Bulls-- these guys natural degree of being pissed exacerbated by the fact they were restrained from killing us immediately by a wire fence. But we really did. Again we slowed to a walk and continued along the far side of the two lane country road while avoiding eye contact but using plenty of side vision to help get a split second warning should the twin devils hop the wall. They followed us along, going berserk as they went and I hoped and prayed that the fence was not open at the edge of the yard which we were approaching now. It wasn’t open and we finished our long run without any more dog problems.

Champoeg is a beautiful area to run and I will go back there many more times. But I’m sure as heck not running along that road with all those gell-dern dogs!!

Top Ten List: Uses for my diaper

Top 10 uses for my diaper while I'm running:

10. Filter out the stench of a dead skunk or other vermin.

9. Use as a hand cushion while stretching on the side of rough tree trunk.

8. Provide lashing material for impromptu splint, or use as a trauma dressing in case of big boo-boo.

7. Wipe off over spray from a passing car with a smirking driver.

6. Wrap alternately around my hands when it's cold outside and I've forgotten my gloves.

5. Wipe sweat or rain from my forehead.

4. Clean the back of my muddy legs after running along a puddle strewn forest road.

3. Blow my drippy nose.

2. Wave as a flag, a white flag, at oncoming cars and motor bikes during periods of darkness or other poor visibility.

And the number one use for my diaper while running:

WARNING: The following number 1 response contains material of an adult nature. If you are among the meek, the squeamish, the faint of heart or are otherwise sensitive to matters which some may consider unpleasant, please stop reading and subscribe to the "starrynight" blog (over at http://starrynightsstables.blogspot.com)

And once again, the the number one use for my diaper while running:

1. Use as a diaper.

Yes, long distance runners are prone to a condition I hesitate to call EIBM or Exercised Induced Bowel Movements. If you combine the healthy benefits of eating a Mediterranean style diet rich in fruits and vegetables and then lace your morning oatmeal with a heaping spoonful of ground flax seed-and then go for a long run of say... mmm 20 miles, every once in awhile you might come home smelling like shit. Hey, it could happen! Grow up!

How I got here: Henry Geiger

His folks safely pulling out of the driveway my dad waited in the family room while his burly German grandfather Robert emerged from the guest room clutching a black leather satchel. Unbelting it he opened the two halves and laid it flat on the table before the wide and curious eyes of my 9 years old dad. Neatly held within the case were rows of egg sized leather hoods and curved glittering knife blades with short leather straps tied to one end.

My great grandfather had come to visit Sacramento from Florida not only to sell insurance as he told everyone else. Dad's grandpa Robert was a dirty rotten cock fighter. Talk about skeletons.

Family stories don't get passed down through the generations the way they used to. The old oral traditions were an important way of not only honoring our family past, they served as a kind of entertainment in a time before electronics and other distractions. Has anyone else had the chance to play a "parlor game" emceed by their grandmother before the term completely faded away? I did.

My dad was thoroughly entranced by this near stranger from a far away land, and now he was the sole keeper of the old man's great secret. He was ripe for believing whatever grandpa had to offer next. And what followed was a whopper.

We were descendants of pirates, Grandpa Robert said. Yes, the real types of pirates who took treasure from the ships of others and then buried it on an exotic isle that was named nothing less than the "Geiger Keys" somewhere off the Florida coast. The treasure was still there, he promised, hidden beneath trees planted long ago to conceal it's location. My dad's eyes must have been bugged out of his head.

Naturally this story got passed on to me when I was young, but it seemed so far away and so long ago that any search would be futile--assuming that the story was true at all. And of course it wasn't true, or at least not entirely.

The truth was Captain John Geiger did live in Key West, but he wasn't a pirate. He was the regions first marine pilot and a wrecker in the early and mid-1800's. Which meant if you didn't hire him as guide through the shallow ports and reefs you risked running aground and wrecking your ship, where he would salvage the mess. Sort of a pay me now or pay me later type of business. Smart guy and he got rich doing this.

Captain John was good friends with John Audubon, the famous studier and painter of birds. It was local myth that each time Audubon returned to visit the Geiger house, fresh from some exotic port, he would gift his host some type of tree or shrub. With each new planting, or so the legend goes, the good Captain used the occasion to conceal booty, much more than he ever claimed in his accounting books. Today the trees and garden still thrive behind the old mansion, although the place now carries the misnomer "Audubon House" in Key West. Weddings and other social events take place there and I have to wonder if anyone knows enough to consider what might be just below their feet.

Good story. Real good story. Too bad I'm not related to Captain John Geiger.

No, but I am a descendant of his poor brother Henry! You might say the forgotten Geiger of south Florida. So forgotten in fact that the Geiger Keys (they really do exist) of Boca Chica are now incorrectly attributed to John who lived more than 10 miles away.

Henry moved to Key West as a part of the "Armed Occupation Act", which was the governments way of driving out the Seminole Indians. He cleared the land, raised crops and tanned animal hides for the Key West markets, signaling passing ships with a long pole set up on the beach outside his small gabled house. Henry also sold firewood at $3.50 a cord to his more local clients. He lived in the small place and worked it's 160 acres for nearly 30 years and although he probably never married--he did have a son. And thank goodness for that or my kids wouldn't have me to teach them how to shave when they get older.

Someday I'm going to take my boys to the Geiger Key Marina and Smokehouse which sits on the site of the old farm and we'll drink a toast to old Henry!

Henry's line stayed in Florida until my grandfather moved from there to California with his family in the early 30's. Which is one reason Robert Geiger came to visit his son and my dad years later during that illicit "sales trip".

He brought with him his family tales, both real and...not so real.

http://www.geigerkeymarina.com

http://www.audubonhouse.com