Certified Rollers

A couple years ago, Territory Run Co. launched its “Home Trails” collection. It was a line of gear that paid homage to the routes and trails we run every day. Even for those runners who aren’t the creature of habit that I am, we all have that familiar route that we know inside and out, backwards and forwards.

Territory launched the collection with a brilliant piece of writing from ultra-runner, photographer, and all around outdoorsman Jobie Williams. It’s an excellent read and I highly recommend checking it out.

My latest adventure of the week had me pondering the significance of home trails.

Similar to the first installment, this adventure was a little bit mcguyvered. We jumped on a 5:45 am flight out of Atlanta up to Boston for our annual Tour of New England summer vacation. We had a ton planned but nothing too exciting over the first couple of days. Despite being tired, it was a beautiful day and we wanted to get outside for a bit so I took Amanda on a quick hike on one of my favorite Middleton trails. Affectionately known as the “Rez” the trail wraps around the town reservoir.

I didn’t think much of it first. It’s super close to the house I grew up in and if you do it as a Loop it’s 3-3.5 miles. I figured it was an easy way to get outside for an hour, enjoy the weather and move out legs a bit after getting up at 3 am and flying that day.

It wasn’t until the next morning that the whole home trails thing hit me.

I woke up to the sound of rain and sleepily made myself a cup of coffee on Sunday morning. Taster’s Choice instant coffee because that’s how my dad rolls. As I slowly woke up, I started to contemplate what I was going to do for a run that day. I wasn’t feeling anything on the roads and I was pretty tired from the travel day, so I didn’t want to drive anywhere. Then it hit me, run the Rez.

Heading out the door, I figured the out and back around the pond to the gate and back would be a good way to start the day. The rain was actually nice, it was light and kept the morning cool, a welcome relief from the heat and humidity that we left in Georgia.

I paused briefly at the intersection of 114, a main thoroughfare that connects the area I grew up in to two of the major highways, 95 (128 if you know) and 495, before cruising past the library and fire station to the quiet road that leads to the trail. There is a small rise about half way down this road. It leads to a little rocky out cropping that I used to stop at all the time. Sometimes, I’d stop for a second to catch the view out over the pond and other times I sit for a few minutes and let my mind wander a little.

I rolled past that spot, it’s changed some over the years. It’s been cleared out more so you don’t have to climb up on the rocks for the view. Now you get it from the road. From there, I ran down the back side of the hill past the house with the tattered American flag hanging in the window of their shed and then by the last house on the street with the old fire engine truck in the yard.

I made my way down the long strip of pavement flanked by pine trees on one side and a desolate looking bog on the other until I hit the rusted, twisted metal gate. There is a sign behind the gate but it’s illegible now. It says something about no motorized boats and no swimming. I’ll bet 10 years ago I could have recited it line by line.

Planting my left foot on the top of the rock next to the gate, I jumped down onto the trail like I’ve done hundreds of times before. I listened to the dirt and gravel crunch beneath my shoes as I ran past the side trail that leads out to “the pipe”, where my mom taught me how to fish. I’d imagine plenty of Middleton kids could say the same thing about that spot.

The trail has changed too. A few years ago somebody logged a small patch of land. I want to say it was for telephone poles but I can’t remember. They had to widen the first half mile or so of the trail to get the trucks in and out. Fortunately, they also graded it and laid down dirt, gravel, and some chewed up asphalt so it has a nice wide, soft running surface.

After drifting through the tree lined shore of the pond for a bit you pop out on to a short paved stretch. This stretch crosses a little man made bridge or sort of dam thing that we always just called the pavement. Another popular fishing spot.

The pavement climbs a punchy little hill that might as well have been Alpe D’Huez to me as a kid. The trail switches back to dirt at the top and drops down the back side of the hill you just climbed and next to another bog. As you keep moving along this stretch you pass a sizeable beaver dam then you hang a left and head back out to the shore line.

One more hill takes you away from the pond and deeper into the woods. Later in the summer this trail will be swarmed by deer flies making it unrunable. Not today. Today it’s just me a couple of other people out walking their dogs despite the morning mist.

Pushing deeper into the woods yielded an explosion of green. It was one of those moments where you catch a smell that instantly transports you to a different time and place. The rain mixed with the blooming greens reminded me of training in the summers in New Hampshire when a little bit of precipitation brought welcome relief from the humidity.

Before I knew it, I’d reached the gate that marks the end of the trail. It’s a small pull off of route 62 that can fit a few cars. A place you’d easily miss if you didn’t know about it. From here it’s a little less than a mile back to the house if you are doing the loop. On this day, I tagged the gate and turned around to retrace my steps.

The day before, I told Amanda about an old rope swing that was on this side of the pond. Once we were old enough to cross 114 we’d ride our bikes over to swim in the summer. I decided to take the offshoot trail to what I assumed would be the ‘old rope swing’ but could only laugh when I realized that there is still a rope swing there. I was going to call it a functional rope swing but I decided against trying it. It’s illegal to swim there and as a 12 year old I never gave it much thought, but at 34 it didn’t seem like a good idea.

After my brief detour to the rope swing, I followed the trail back around the pond, hopped back on the road, and made my way home. I ran past the library and the fire station again and hit the brick sidewalks down to the elementary school before stopping my watch at the end of the driveway.

A lot of this stuff has changed. The old wood and tire playground we grew up with is gone and so is the knothole field. There is a new school there now, with a lone little league field and one of those plastic playgrounds.

I can’t begin to fathom how many times I’ve done that run. Let alone the amount of times I’ve ridden it on my bike or just wandered around on the numerous offshoot trails out there.

The Rez. It’s one of those places that you take for granted because it’s close to home and the route is relatively short. Maybe it’s being away from home that made me take some time to appreciate it, maybe it’s age, maybe it’s not being able to run as much this year. Maybe it’s just silly nostalgia. Whatever the reason, it was really enjoyable to spend 45 minutes or so thinking about all the different adventures I’ve had on those trails.

The Rez is were my mom taught me how to fish. I probably haven’t done it since then but I can remember catching my first there. I used to rip around the trail on bikes with my friends Chris, Jeff, and Jay as I kid. I remember being super excited to swap my GT Dyno BMX bike for a Gary Fisher with gears for that paved hill. And saving up my allowance for what must have seemed like forever as a kid to buy front shocks for that bad boy.

I used to spend hours out there pretending that I was doing some crazy adventure race. I would stop on the back side of the hill by the bog and scramble up these rocky outcroppings then run back down the little side trail back to my bike, hammer down to the gate and back to the house to win an X Games gold medal or world championship or some other title that I made up.

I don’t know all of the people that live in the houses along the route anymore and now when I see people on the trail they look at me like I’m not a local. Like I’m an outsider. I guess I am. I’ve been away for quite a while now. None of that matters though, because to me these are and will always be my home trails.