What I see when you see me running

I love to run, but I wouldn’t say I’m anything close to being good at it.

Occasionally, of course, friends or colleagues will spot me running along the roads close to where I live or catch sight of me jogging through our local parks.  If they are in the car and trying to catch my attention by sounding the horn, I’ll try to acknowledge them with a casual wave – at the same time as keeping my composure.  I might even pick up the pace a little, at least until their car is out of sight.

To be honest, though, I prefer not to be disturbed.  You see, it’s rather like reading a good book: if you look up for a moment, it’s all too easy to find that you have lost your place on the page.

In fact, the more I think about it, the more I come to the conclusion that running is a lot like storytelling – and not only because there is a beginning, middle, and end; no, it’s the journey along a familiar route, connecting with the landscape, meeting favorite characters, and always spotting something new that reminds me of what happens when I pick up and re-read a well-loved novel.

So what’s the story of my run?  Of course, it’s different from the ‘middle aged man tries to stay fit’ snapshot of me that you might happen to see.  From where I’m looking, you see, I’m not one of the main characters.  No, I’m simply the narrator trying to piece together the all too familiar fragments of lives being lived around me.

Let me therefore give you the short story.

At the corner of my street, a man with one leg sits in his wheelchair outside the nursing home that I presume to be where he lives.  He’s always there, so I make an effort to acknowledge him – but he never returns the smile. 

Unlike the small, white-haired, old lady with her tiny dog, who until a few months ago was permanently taking this trusted companion for a walk around the block.  No matter what time of day or night, it seemed that she was always there with a smile and a kind word – until the day she simply vanished out of sight.

Across the road in the park, teenage couples are clearly doing their best to vanish – at least from the preying eyes of their parents, who I am assuming would not approve of their young love being brought into the family home.  As the months pass, their faces change – but they never stop coming to this small corner of the park, just next to the lake.

The lake itself attracts all kinds of runners – many of whom are as familiar as the rest of the landscape.  It seems that people love to feel the connection with water – especially my neighbor, who would always run around the lake several times before stopping off at the shop on the way home for a beer and a packet of cigarettes.  He loved to balance things out in that way.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the park, children are balancing too – trying desperately not to fall off the swing as their parents push them rhythmically and stare out into the distance at the life they once lived.

On the way home, I pass the house where I used to live.  I hear on the grapevine that they are not caring for the garden as much as I had done; so I steal a quick look to check for weeds and slow down to sneak a peek beyond the curtains – but there’s never anything to see.

Just as the man with one leg never smiles, even as I turn the corner to complete the last leg of my own story.