It is one of the dwindling days of my 6th grade school year, and all the girls in my elementary school are lined up for the annual girls’ run. I do not remember the distance of the race – probably less than a mile—but I know my competition. I have my eye on finishing first, and I conclude that Jamie M. is my only serious challenger. I do not know how I know this; we are not close friends, and I have never raced her before. But athleticism, like intellectual aptitude, is not something that has to be proven to you for you to understand it. It reveals itself in subtle ways, on the playground and during PhysEd flag football and dodge ball games.
The race begins, and I quickly take a commanding lead. I stride swiftly and confidently towards the half-way point without discernable effort. I reach the turn-around and head in the direction of the finish line. Sights around me diminish, and sounds dampen. I no longer see bystanders, and the footsteps around me disappear. But then, I hear Janie and her ever-quickening cadence coming up behind me. I consider, for a fraction of a second, whether she will catch me or whether I will be able to hold her off. Without conscious intention, I reach down, pull hard, and summon power past the point I believed possible. For just a moment, the distance between us neither expands nor contracts. Then, she deferentially drops back, finishing in second place behind me.
Exercise has been my life’s constant companion but running is my soul mate. As a child I ran for the sheer joy of movement around the back yard and in games of tag and kickball. In Junior High, riding and caring for my horse consumed my after-school hours, but a quick-twitch and rapid turnover made me the gym-time shuttle run sprint champion. Running assuaged my teenage angst in high school, and I sometimes skipped lunch and crept surreptitiously to the track to run, silently thrilled by my institutional disobedience. Every night during my college dormitory years, I ran the blocks around the campus to quiet the noise inside my head. Thudding footsteps eclipsed the unsteady rhythm of anxiety and inadequacy.
My husband introduced me to group running as an exercise in social connection, and it opened a new world for me. I remember sneaking in a short jog soon after the Cesarian birth of my first son, long before I was given my doctor’s imprimatur. As a young mother of three, I ran impatiently down hallways and through parking lots as an efficient means of moving from place to place. In my 40’s and 50’s, I found camaraderie and support in running groups, occasional races, and memorable team relays, but solitary runs anchored me emotionally.
I run today because I cannot envision a life without it. Running is a forgiving and accommodating compatriot, requiring nothing but desire and orthopedic approbation. I admire accomplished golfers and tennis players, skillful bicyclists, and Yoga masters; I lack the skill and athleticism to be accepted into those ranks. Running, on the other hand, is a tolerant and generous accomplice, there at a moment’s notice, steady and firm; it shows up when I am stamped down. It stands between me and circumstances I cannot control, strong and resolute, kind and benevolent, certain and stalwart.
I have my eye on finishing first, beating out Father Time when I inevitably hear his footsteps behind me.