When I drove east across the Red River Sunday morning, I didn't notice. I actually had to look back through my rearview mirror to make sure that I had indeed crossed the river that not so long ago had been a flashpoint of negative emotion.
The Red River separates the great states of Minnesota (state motto: "Just a few more miles to Canada!") and North Dakota ("One of 50 U.S. states!"). It runs south to north, which is sort of unique, but by and large it is not immensely interesting. It is muddy. It is not particularly deep. Most kids could throw a rock across it. It is a river. It does what rivers do.
The Red River is of concern to me only because of the point at which it runs through the twin cities of Fargo, N.D., and Moorhead, Minn. I used to live there. And for so many years, every time I drove east across the river on Interstate 94, I found myself overwhelmed by a heartbreaking cocktail of hope and failure.
I went to college at Moorhead State University (school motto: "Free box of steaks with every diploma!"). When I made my first visit to the school in 1994, it seemed perfect. It was small and quiet and provided a world that existed free of my parents or friends back in high school. It was a beautiful escape. I could become whoever I wanted to be, and no one would try to hold me to the perceptions they had built for me in my high school.
Very quickly what I became was a failure -- socially, romantically, personally, creatively, professionally, academically and financially. 100-percent genuine doofus. I was like the airline industry, on a smaller scale. Each night I worked myself into melodramatic fits of promises and grandiose schemes to put my life back together, and each morning I would wake up late and get straight to work screwing things up just a little bit more.
My apartment was in Fargo, so driving east on the interstate meant that I was heading back to my parents' house in a Minneapolis suburb. Each time I crossed the Red River, I would look at the sign that reads "Welcome to Minnesota," and say to myself: "That's the last time I will ever see that sign. I'm not coming back. I will not come back to this life. I am
never coming back."
That's not exactly what I would say. There was a lot more profanity. And I always came back.
When I made that vow almost exactly seven years ago, I thought I would finally hold to it. I had packed all my things and was heading to visit my parents before moving out West. It was a beautiful escape. I could become whoever I wanted to be, and no one... Oh, wait. I said that before.
The problem with running away is that the thing you are running away from -- yourself -- comes right along with you. The area had nothing to do with my failures. It wasn't to blame. Fargo-Moorhead is just a metro area that looks a bit like Reno, Nev., which looks a bit like Sioux Falls, S.D., which looks a bit like Lincoln, Neb., which looks a bit like San Angelo, Texas, which looks a bit like Anywhere, USA. It is a nondescript metro area. It does what nondescript metro areas do.
All the same, some part of me wanted to conquer my hang-up over Fargo-Moorhead, which brings us back to how I happened to be crossing the Red River again this weekend.
My wife and I took part in the first-ever
Fargo Marathon.
For the sake of clarity, I should point out that we ran the half-marathon, but two people running a half-marathon equals one full marathon. And considering that I only started running
two years ago, it was enough for me. It was the longest distance I had ever run and I figured that if I could master the feat in Fargo-Moorhead I would be exorcising some of those old demons.
Things could not have gone better.
I probably would have felt pretty good about myself at the end of any 13.1-mile run, but it's as if the universe recognized how important all this was to me and decided to make it just a little more of a challenge. There was
snow on the ground the morning of the race. The precipitation had turned to freezing drizzle by the time my wife and I made our way to the starting line. That died away, but icy 25-mph blasts of wind hit us throughout the run.
When I sprinted across the finish line, coming in 223rd among the half-marathon's 877 finishers, I felt that I had really accomplished something. It wasn't something great or immense. Running a really long way isn't sexy or amazing. Mine was an accomplishment on par with eating a dozen donuts -- there are people who can eat them faster, and there are people who can eat twice as many. Regardless, for me, the ties of failure to Fargo-Moorhead had been severed.
The next day, my left knee throbbing in pain, I drove east across the Red River. I saw the sign that reads "Welcome to Minnesota" and said to myself: "I'll see that sign again. I had a good time and I'll be coming back for next year's race.
Chris Cope is married, with no children. His column appears every other Tuesday. 
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