To usher in the new year, I sat under the blue moon with two of my closest friends and listened to the sounds of the fireworks and/or firearms of Virginia going off about us. The fields here are always echoing with noise, even late at night, but it is the kind of noise you have to listen for to hear.
Anyway, the advent of 2010 put me in a reflective mood, and, rather than elaborate on my entire emotional state, I thought I’d write, if this sort of thing is allowed on an exercise blog, about my first memories of running.
I was the kind of person growing up who dreaded running the mile in P.E., and couldn’t quite ever imagine that I might run for fun or profit. I have always loved long walks, though, especially those undertaken through the city streets that I have called home. Less a hiker than a compulsive wanderer, I have spent hours and hours aimlessly walking through urban landscapes.
I lived in Washington, D.C. for years with a friend who I’ll call A., a person who introduced me to many things in life, including flaming French drinks, heart-shaped waffles, and the art of reading poetry, out loud, in one’s bathrobe. One day we wrote scores of poems on his old type-writer and turned them into paper airplanes to float over the street from the balcony where we would sit. A fellow early riser, he was the one to first entreat me to join him for a run in Rock Creek Park one summer morning. I was surprised by his request. After all, I had never run, ever. Starting off through the streets of Mt. Pleasant, where we lived, we descended into the park at a rapid clip. I’ll always remember A. leaping down a flight of stairs and then turning to me to say, “I always like to discuss political science on these outings. Have you read much Locke?”
Although that first run left me winded and slightly embarrassed, the way that A. ran stuck with me. Now that I manage to traverse more than a few miles, I think of him every time I veer off the path to investigate some hidden place or run as fast as I can along some treacherous, unlikely route.
A. came to visit me in Virginia for New Years’ Eve and we took a long walk in the freshly-fallen snow along a back road not to far from my house. Nobody was around and we followed dozens of animal tracks: rabbit, deer, and other unidentified things with paws or claws. We found the highest point and stared into the gray beyond, which was just a barren nothingness in the sky above the burnt-out remains of last years’ crop of corn. We saw the abandoned house that I wish to visit someday, but, as usual, the water between us and it was too deep to ford.
I remember that there were two hawks that were wheeling about in the sky until they settled on one branch on a distant tree and watched us watching them.