On Running
I am running on the side of a four-lane highway. Cars race by, honking in support. A few people along the road cheer when I run by, speak a word of encouragement, but I barely notice them. I am in my own space, my mind focused on the task at hand. I do what I do: run. One foot in front of the other, knowing that it’s me, in the flesh, on this road.
At mile three, I see a sign advertising a day spa: Relax Your Mind. That phrase becomes my mantra when the going gets tough. I mostly just run, running being my most effective form of meditation. I’m too much of what my mother calls a “spring-butt” to meditate in a sitting position. Only in this slow, steady motion can I go long enough to get to the place where running-mind takes me.
I’ve come late to running. I flirted with it in college one summer, running laps at the local high school. But it was boring and hot and I hated it. It took the forest to teach me the joy and natural calm I could achieve from running.
The people around me on this road all have their own stories to tell. Patty, a short Hispanic woman from San Manuel (she’s exactly my age) listened to Elvis on her headphones during the race. She and her running partner have trained since August. This week, her friend came down with the flu and had to miss the race. Patty has the best cheering section: her family kept springing up along the road, shouting, “We love you, Patty” and “We’re so proud of you.” I pretended my name was Patty, too, so I could receive some of that love-energy.
Then there was the man with sweat pouring off his brow. I was wearing a memorial bib on the back of my tank top, and as we ran together he asked about my friend, Conny, to whom I dedicated my run. We talked for a while about the lessons of living that the dying teach us. He told me I was in much better shape than he was. He started running on a treadmill last spring, and has lost 68 pounds since then. In fact, he is in as good condition as I am: we passed each other up on the course several times and finished closely.
I felt Conny’s presence on that road. She’s in the wind, as we were reminded at her graveside service. The memory of her urges me on. I remember and I run.
• • • • • • •
Even though it’s me on the course, I am only the vessel for this effort. Credit also goes to my physical therapist, my massage therapist, my acupuncturist, my chiropractor, and the professor who built my orthotic inserts for my running shoes. But my husband, Michael who has always taken up a lot of the household slack (and there’s a lot of slack to be taken up!) is the person I rely on the most.
Many friends have supported me in training for this run. Mostly, I’ve gotten myself off my desk chair or out of bed, but there were memorable moments (like the time Julie kicked me out of her house, “Go, run!”) when a shot of enthusiasm (or a kick in the rear) was needed.
Roberta met me on the trail at 6:30 a.m. three days a week, all summer and into the fall, to walk up our big hill. She ran the trail with me even though I suspect that I was slowing her down. Her encouragement and unfailing spirit helped to get me through some of the toughest training times.
• • • • • • •
There’s something comforting about knowing where you fit into a group of people. My finish time of 2:44:29 put me solidly in the middle: 1363rd in a field of 1819 runners, and 88th in a field of 150 40- to 49-year-old women runners. Not bad for my first race, I tell myself. As I ran, I was aware of a large group of people ahead of me, and yet a lot of people behind me, but I knew I was already a winner. For me, the training was the race.
This run left me cleansed, the sweat and salt carrying impurities out by way of my pores. One of the mile marker signs said, “Pain is weakness leaving the body.” This thought leaves me feeling both happy and vulnerable. I consider what will replace the imperfections, and impurities that have left me, but there’s plenty more where those came from.
Today, I feel invincible. I feel like I felt after childbirth: a little weepy and sore, but on the whole grateful for my mate and his support, grateful for the power of my body, grateful to be alive in this world, even with all its flaws and complications.
My thighs are muscular and have carried me well and far. My arms swing in rhythm. My back is strong. I’m thankful that my feet work the way they are supposed to work. Mostly, though, I’m grateful for my hands: they allow me to write, to tell this story in words and in my art. It’s the story of a woman on a road.
Darcy Falk
December 8, 2003
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