Running Bum?

I've spent much of my life dreaming of being a bum. During my sophomore year of college I thought long and hard about spending my semester tuition on a jeep and driving to Colorado to beg a job scrubbing toilets and ski. (I like to remember being much closer to doing that than in reality I was. Dad wouldn't have taken that news well, at all. Advice to those with college-age kids: I'd be a happier person now if I had.)

I flirted with kayaking bum-hood over a few years when I paddled frequently with the Peter Pan of eastern kayakers, a 60-something man who stands straighter than most 30-year-olds, still runs the Great Falls of the Potomac, and as far as I can tell has never worked anywhere but the river. I'd cut out of work at four to catch a good river level, spend weekends on Maryland and West Virginia rivers, and occasionally travel further chasing the rain.

The closest I got to bum-hood was as a climbing bum. I learned to climb from a girlfriend in Idaho and my first new friend when I moved to D.C. was a climber. She and I, and then my roommate and others as well, followed the modern climber's progression from the gym to outdoor bolted routes to multi-pitch traditional routes, climbing rock from Mexico to Canada and New York to California. I bought a pickup with a cap just so I could keep a mattress and my climbing gear always at the ready. After one week at Camp 4 in Yosemite I thought seriously of never returning to the real world.

Now I wonder about being a running bum. I would live on rice and oatmeal, sleep in a tent or RV, and run through forests, over mountains, across rivers, along waterways, on the shoulder of lonely highways. I would read philosophy when the legs were sore, sleep when it was dark (unless the moon was bright and I could run!). I'd start out with 15 pairs of running shoes, enough to last 5 years or longer, and quit when it wasn't fun anymore.