I got up before everyone else, before the birds, before the sun. I drank a cup of coffee, devoured a slice of toast, put on my shorts and t-shirt, and tied my green sneakers. Then I quietly slipped out the back door.

I stretched my legs, my tendons, and my waist, groaning as I took the first heavy steps on the road through the cold fog. Why is it always so hard to start?

There were no cars, no people, no signs of life. I was completely alone, I had the whole world to myself – although I had a strange feeling that the trees were aware of my presence. Of course, that wasn’t so strange for Oregon. The trees always seem to know. The trees always have your back.

What a beautiful place, I thought looking around. Calm, green, serene. I was proud to be from Oregon, proud that little Portland was the place where I was born. But I also felt a certain sadness at the same time. Oregon, although beautiful, gave some the impression that it was a place where nothing important had ever happened nor was likely to happen. If we Oregonians are famous for anything, it’s that old road we had to open to get here as settlers. Since then, things have been very quiet.

The best teacher I ever had, one of the most exceptional people I have ever met, often spoke about that road. It’s our birthright, he would growl. Our character, our fate – our DNA. “The cowards never started,” he told me, “and the weak died on the road. So, here we are.”