I got served a very splashy ad a few weeks back for a low-dose weed gummy made for endurance sports. Holy shit, I thought. Here’s a trend I actually get! I've been running high since long before it was cool, marketable, or even legal. I know hearing an aging mountain-jock say they discovered outdoorsy shit before it became mainstream is tired (What, are you gonna say camping on mushrooms is cool next, old man?). But it is notable that a delightful activity that could have landed me in jail a very short time ago is now being presented to lycra-wearing triathletes on Instagram, just a light scroll away were CrossFit athletes and MMA fighters pitching me a $500 Rorra water filtration system. I get it, but for an aging millennial it's still surreal.
I (kind of fondly) remember when cannabis was illegal. I live in Oregon’s Emerald Triangle and marjijuana was always foundational to the dirtbag economy I was a part of. When people asked how I lived off a $120 per day raft guide's wages, the true answer was more than what I was willing to share (“I eat lots of beans and rice”)—I padded my income by helping marijuana farmers get their crops ready for sale. It was lucrative and it was kind of scary. Even as the lowest level workers, my buddies and I were nervous and we would talk about it in code, only referring to it as "cabbage" on the phone or in public, out of fear that we were going to get busted.
It was during these cabbage-y times that I discovered that one sneaky little puff of a joint made my long runs significantly more enjoyable. When my perception of time was skewed, four hours of running felt really manageable, and getting lost in my thoughts felt a little more playful and fun. It also calmed my generally nervous gut and reframed the way I looked at birthday cake flavored GU from chemical and gross to a delightful, sweet treat.
Not to say my early days of running while stoned were all rosy. I live a mile from a fantastic trail system and I often drive to the trailhead to save time and minimize road miles. Since I wasn't going to drive under the influence, I found myself running through my small downtown begging the weed gods that I wouldn’t see someone I knew. Low-lights included an encounter with my wife’s boss, who said I looked “blissed out” as I ran toward her, and a moment where I tried not to make too much eye contact with an old buddy’s conservative mom while she peppered me with questions about how my job search was going.
There was also the time I accidentally ambled onto the final section of a high school cross country championship in Lithia Park just a few minutes ahead of the leaders. I'd dropped down an illegal connector and landed on a trail I frequent only to find myself surrounded by hundreds of onlookers, including a coach yelling, "You better run fast or you'll mess up these kids' race!!!" With all the spectators there was no room to exit the trail, so I sprinted through the last eighth of a mile to the finish. Some cheered. It was the stuff not-wearing-pants-in-class-nightmares are made of. Surreal. Scary.
Once, I decided to test a new chocolate with some lethal name like “The Dark Priestess” before a 22-mile long run and got paranoid as the bejesus. I ended up FaceTime-ing my wife from high up in my town’s watershed to make sure everything was okay at home. “Where are you?” she asked. “Oh, about 11 miles away,” I responded (in the chillest voice I could muster). “Are you okay?” she asked. “Oh yeah, I just got a bar of service and wanted to say hello.” What I didn't tell her was that I had convinced myself our house was on fire and our cat had drowned in the jacuzzi I'd left uncovered. I guess I needed to see her face to dissipate the Dark Priestess’ spell.