Running At March Air Base
Boasting the title of the first airstrip in the U.S. military, March Reserve Air Base is more than a century old. It’s my first time here.
I usually run alone, but running with my commander is becoming routine.
There is a long boulevard that runs parallel to the flight line. We find a place to park and start our jog heading southeast, along Graeber Road. It looks like a Hollywood movie set during a golden age. Buildings hint at Art Deco, or Spanish Ranch. It’s reminiscent of an era when the military insisted on some form to counterbalance the function of the facilities.
Whatever the architecture, the place seems eager to tell long-forgotten stories. It’s hard not to stop and listen. One building looks significant because plaques adorn each side of its front doors. It is open and seemingly empty, so we take a break to catch our breath and learn.
There is a painting of a handsome Soldier in an early twentieth-century uniform. He is Second Lieutenant Peyton C. March, Jr., one of the Army’s first aviators and son of the Army Chief of Staff during World War I. He died from injuries sustained during a training flight in Texas. He had just commissioned.
So Alessandro Flying Training Field became March Field in 1918.
During battle assembly, exercise is a priority. Running is the one thing that we can agree on, it’s time-honored and simple enough even for Soldiers like me who are getting too old for just about anything else.
More than all that, running allows me to see things. I am also forced to reflect deeply, maybe thanks to blood pumping through my brain at an elevated rate.
I feel like I am there in 1918. Or in 1945. Or 1962. I imagine classy cars cruising up and down Graeber Road. And female nurses in their smart uniforms walking home from a shift at the hospital. And officers striding importantly across the street delivering a memo to personnel at the control tower complex.
We turn up one of the side streets for a new view and find ourselves in a housing section. It’s just two of us, and we take turns setting the pace.
These dwellings are simple enough, lining neat, narrow streets that indicate a time when a single car served an entire family and life revolved in much tighter orbits around the home. Until the men went off to war.
But they all appear empty now.
It’s odd. Much of the base is fenced off. It’s not clear if it’s to keep us in or out. I do know that our Army Reserve unit is headquartered about a mile away, on a plot of land that sure looks like it was part of an air base teeming with activity. It’s now in disrepair, save for a few newer buildings, a commissary, and the base exchange. Weeds grow taller over there. Maybe it’s officially owned by a different military department.
So my commander and I run along the fence toward where we had started. We arrive at what appears to be a hospital. If it is, it fits the pattern. I find that on military bases of a certain age, hospitals tend to be centerpieces.
At 5:30 pm the weather is a perfect 65 degrees. The way the shine shines brightly on the base is peaceful, almost haunting, given the absence of any other foot traffic. It’s Sunday, so people have gone home for the most part. Still, it’s so beautiful it feels unfair that only we enjoy it.
On Monday, no doubt, hundreds, maybe thousands will be back to work and the boulevard will be busy. The C-17 Globemasters and KC-135 refuelers will rumble up and down the airstrip. Pilots, mechanics, and flight crews will tell their jokes over lunch and talk business at other times. It will be a different base entirely.
Our run lasts about 30 minutes, with a couple of rests for photos.
March is big, and we’ll be back.
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