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The Strange, Mysterious Life of Backpackman

The runner was a staple on the Santa Monica Strand. Then he showed up somewhere else far away, sans signature accessory. I had to know why.

We saw him whenever we rode our bikes north. A man, maybe in his early 40s, running south on the Strand bike path through Santa Monica. He wore the typical runner’s garb: shorts, t-shirt, sneakers. But he also had a huge backpack, the kind you’d haul on a week-long hike in the wilderness.

The pack was full of something. A weight that seemed to hang in place, a ballast attached at the man’s waist while he swung his arms and torso side to side, and his knees bowed out with each harried stride. A steely look, straight ahead, zoned out.

We’d ride through that stretch of Strand around 7:30 a.m. most Saturdays. He was always there, going south. Sometimes a fellow triathlete and I would ride on a random weekday, similar time. He’d be there. Saturdays, his presence was guaranteed. We named him “Backpackman” and began to consider him a good omen. Our rides weren’t blessed until we saw him.

We figured he must do the same run every day, at the same time, though we would never verify it, riding through just once a week. He was never there on our return home. Where did he go? Where did he start? How long did he run? When we rode by, was he kicking off or nearly finished? What was in the pack?

Inventing his life made the ride up sketchy parts of Pacific Coast Highway slightly less creepy. Brain space dedicated to crash anxiety made way for Backpackman’s imagined life scenarios:

-He’s carrying body parts!

-Everyday? Wouldn’t that be a one-time thing?

-Not if he’s Dexter.

-Too conspicuous.

-He’s a former soldier with PTSD?

-Sad. But maybe.

-He’s training for a massive hike!

-Boring.

-He’s making deliveries for the mob!

-Yes!

-A backpack full of Italian sausages.

-What?!

For half a decade, Backpackman was a long ride staple. Then I moved away for a few years to go to grad school and work. When I came back, my husband and I rented a two-bedroom on the ground floor near the southernmost part of the Strand, 20 miles away from Santa Monica.

I worked from home, office windows facing the street. Most days, as I typed, I’d watch surfers park and pull on their wetsuits. Dog walkers. Stroller moms. Then one day, as I stared at my computer, something caught my eye.

It was Backpackman.

Same distinct side-to-side stride, with one notable exception: He wasn’t wearing the backpack. His form was unchanged, as if the pack still pressed on his bones.

What I did next might seem insane, but maybe less so if you know this about me: I write stories for a living. Back then, they were often profiles of athletes. Everyday athletes, in particular. I loved writing them because it’s a bit like acting; immersing myself in someone else’s life for a bit gave me perspective on my own.

I threw on flip-flops and took off down the sidewalk. I had no plan. What would I do when I caught him? Could I catch him? Flip-flops? What was I thinking? If the scenario were reversed, a man running after me, a woman in my 20s, surely someone would call the police. I would scream!

I came up next to him and probably said something like, “Hey! I used to see you running down the Strand in Santa Monica with a backpack on! I wanted to say hi!” Totally not weird. I told him I was a writer.

He was surprised, but kind. Surprised I’d talked to him at all, then moreso that I’d recognized him from his backpack. He said his name was Hugh (or Hugo?) and that he worked at the Santa Monica REI on Saturdays. I took that as an invitation to visit, and I did, maybe a few weeks later. He had a story, I knew it. Something that drove him to his religious running routine. Something that put that backpack on him then took it off, and sent him 20 miles south of where I’d seen him before, running past my window.

I got his name slightly wrong. I do not remember which was right. But when I walked into that REI and asked someone if he was there, she instantly knew who I was asking for when I mentioned the backpack. She took me to the registers. There he was, in regular people clothes and that green REI vest.

He was nice and we chatted for a bit. But in the end, he did not want to be written about. He did not want to tell his story. He had contemplated it, perhaps briefly. His running was part of something deeply personal he did not want to share.

This boundary I was happy to respect. I knew the many reasons people stick to strict running routines, from a simple sense of accomplishment to OCD. I had even researched and spoken with streak runners, those who run at least one mile a day, everyday. Their stories are sometimes heartbreaking, and often complex, and why they started running is not always the same as why they continue.

The details are what make interesting profiles. Because in the end, for nearly everyone including myself, running generally comes down to seeking joy and peace. In your head, in community. The journey to running and keeping it up is the story, not unlike a church testimony, and Runnerman didn’t want to take the pulpit.

Now, 13 years later, I still see him often, jogging down the Strand near where I live. No more backpack. Same stride, but slower. I could easily catch him in flip-flops, though I promise I will not try.

He doesn’t acknowledge anyone when he runs, but sometimes I wonder if he remembers my chasing him down. If he sees me walking my dog or my kids, and remembers my face. I’ve pointed him out to girlfriends and visitors, proclaiming him a public figure. A character whose steadfast appearance makes it feel like some things will never change. A somewhat comforting notion, however false.

Of course my life has changed in the nearly two decades since I first spotted Runnerman. I am now likely the age he was then. I have two kids, a dog. If I wanted to workout this summer, I had to be home by 8:30am. So I’d put on a bathing suit, running shorts, and sneakers. I’d zip my spin shoes, bike shorts, and a full water bottle into a big red pack and cinch it down on my waist. And every Tuesday and Thursday at 6:15, I’d run down the Strand to my gym.

The pack altered my form a little. I’d swing my arms and torso side-to-side more than usual to counteract its bounce. When I got to the gym, I’d swim, throw on my bike shorts for a spin class, then run home.

As I ran one morning, I had a thought. A terrible thought. A thought that anyone who routinely showed up on that section of Strand at that same time would get used to seeing me. That they would recognize, maybe even anticipate, a sighting of the woman in the bathing suit and bike shorts, with wet hair and a red pack. A strange sight. They’d start dreaming up questions, making up stories about where I’d come from and where I was headed. Why the bike shorts with no bike? Where is she running? What’s in the pack? And that’s when I realized:

I am Backpackman.

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