Days 94 & 95 – 10/8-10/9 – Pendleton to Boardman, OR – 56 miles

There’s an old saying in baseball that momentum is the next day’s starting pitcher. It might be the only accurate statement ever made about momentum in sports. It’s a classic narrative move, focusing on a single, distinct action, like a turnover or a dramatic score, and then extrapolating a larger trend from there. There’s something intuitive about this–as fans, we certainly feel an emotional surge when something important or surprising occurs, and it seems logical enough to believe that this would also translate into athletic performance.

The analytics explosion in sports, though, has exposed the faultiness of the momentum narrative. It’s not real. It’s random. Sometimes, when one good thing happens for your team, a series of other positive events follow. We remember those moments. But it’s just as likely that the opponent responds immediately after with a successful play of their own. Even the notion of a “hot hand” – that is, a player getting on a hot streak and thus being more likely to continue making baskets – has been found to be questionable at best.

These last two stages have made me think about momentum in walking days, because they were almost direct opposites in terms of the experience.

Before leaving Pendleton, I dropped by the Rainbow Café for breakfast. I needed breakfast, for sure, but the main draw was to visit what claims to be the oldest bar in Oregon. It turns out that this is the subject of some debate, as this excellent Here Is Oregon article lays out. They discovered that the Rainbow is located in “the first brick commercial building constructed in downtown Pendleton.” However, the first listing they could find that indicated the presence of a saloon in the building dates to 1896–much later than the 1883 claimed by the Rainbow. That’s important, because Paisley’s Pioneer Saloon definitely dates to 1883.

Regardless, the Rainbow is old, and the breakfast was huge. I was pleased with the decision, even if it delayed my departure. Weighed down by my stomach, I crossed the Umatilla and made the day’s lone ascent, climbing through northern Pendleton, past a series of stately Victorians. And then, before I knew it, the town ended and the wheat began. For the next 30 miles, that was the world–the paved road, the wheat fields, and me.

After such a strong start to the day, the first hours of glutinous gold passed by peacefully enough. It was impossible to get lost in the walk, though, as the Despain Gulch Road had mile markers, so every 15 to 20 minutes, I was reminded that another mile had passed by. By the fifteenth, I was champing at the bit, ready for any sort of novelty, but the implacable wheat held the line, giving no ground.

The final approach to Hermiston followed Highway 395. Traffic intensified considerably as I wound past the airport and made the last descent into the bustling town. What Hermiston lacked in quaint scenery was offset by abundant services, all lined up in a tidy row. Unfortunately, my hotel lacked quite a bit of what it had promised; the breakfast included in the price was non-existent, and more annoyingly, the wifi didn’t work. So, once the shower and laundry were finished, I was back out the door, headed to McDonald’s to get some work done.

None of that was life-threatening, of course. And hey, the water was hot, the bed was clean, and the price was budget-friendly. But it still marked the nadir of a day defined by a downward trend–a tedious walk, thwarted expectations, and annoying inconveniences.

The next morning didn’t start out any better. While the hotel lacked breakfast, there was a Starbucks nearby, and I still had gift cards available. I figured I could head over early, pop out the laptop, and get some writing done. Alas, when I arrived just after 5am, the doors were locked. Drive-thru only. That was the same story at McDonald’s across the street. Ditto at Jack in the Box. And while I could get away with walking through drive-thrus during COVID, most places ban such creative approaches these days. Instead, I popped over to the gas station, grabbed a coffee, and then plopped down in the McDonald’s parking lot to use their wifi. I started laughing at the ridiculous start to the day.

I thought the walk from Hermiston would be simple enough, following a minor road that runs roughly parallel to 395. Instead, that road was beset with a steady stream of cars. Having reached this earlier than planned, I faced an hour of darkness and minimal shoulder. I’m largely inoculated against passing cars at this point, but I recognize that this is a mixed blessing. Fear is a survival tool. I don’t bat an eye when a car passes within two feet of me. Of course, it just takes a small swerve for those two feet to evaporate, and for me to suddenly go for a ride. Fortunately, though, no swerving occurred this morning.

The day improved. As the sun broke the horizon, I discovered that the Umatilla River had joined me somewhere along the way. And as I entered the town of Umatilla, I found a coffee house, grabbed a seat, and sipped an espresso. The walk onward to Irrigon followed a more significant highway, but traffic was light, and the shoulders were broad. I crossed the Umatilla River and stopped dead in my tracks, noticing that the Columbia was just a short distance downstream, receiving the full force of the Umatilla as though it were little more than a trickle. While the day never brought me fully alongside the Columbia, it paralleled my journey throughout most of the remaining walk.

After Irrigon, the route took another step forward, as a quiet road deposited me into the Umatilla National Wildlife Refuge. While there wasn’t much wildlife on display, this was the most peaceful, scenic walking I got to enjoy over the past two days, leading me nearly all the way into Boardman.

The last few miles, admittedly, weren’t great, as they led me through the Port of Morrow and the many agricultural manufacturing centers along the way. But after 20+ miles of steady improvements, I was feeling magnanimous. Besides, even if it was ugly, at least it was different ugly.

Writing up these two walks, it feels particularly whiny to complain about such petty, minor stuff. But it’s funny–we often find it commendable when people can find joy in the small things, so why should it be a personal failing to take small setbacks to heart? Thinking about my own experiences, maybe it goes back to momentum. I can recall days of walking when a few bad things would happen and I’d just chalk up the day as a loss. I wouldn’t gnash and wail; nor would I push back with resilient optimism. No, I’d just turtle up and wait for tomorrow.

Neither of these days ended the way they began. A good start gave way to a monotonous afternoon. A laughable series of failures the following morning were surpassed by incrementally improving conditions. No individual act determines the second act, or the third. There’s always the possibility of a better day. Or, admittedly, a worse one!