The Runner
Puddles stood like obstacles on the pavement. Leftovers from the morning rain. Mark didn’t mind. In fact, he enjoyed it. Each time his stride led him to a standing pool of water, he planted his foot with purpose, affirming his ability to conquer the elements.
That’s what running was about for Mark. He ran to prove to himself that he could. No one else. Just himself. He still had that competitive edge, that uncanny desire to push his body further than the average human body could go.
Sure, he followed other sports. He was excited about the Blazers’ draft class, and he followed Portland’s soccer teams religiously. But running was personal. He competed with himself, and there was always competition.
But that true competitive stage in his running career had long since passed him by. At 45, Mark was no longer a competitive runner, at least not in the same capacity that he was when he ran long distance in college. Those were the days.
He used to wake up before sunrise, lace up his featherlight, durable training shoes, and run a casual six miles before coming back to his house to get ready for class. Between classes, he might put some middle-distance sprints on the track, just to train for that final push. He also liked to look at the stands at Hayward Field as he ran. He envisioned thousands of fans cheering for him as he made that final lap at the NCAA Finals. Before bed, he might put in a few more miles in the hills, maybe near Pre’s Rock, just to pay homage to the legend that helped build Tracktown, USA.
Mark didn’t run this much because he wanted to become an Olympian, or even a national champion, although those would have been added benefits. He ran this much to be free. Free from a schedule. Free from the world’s problems. Even free from his own problems. When he was running, that’s all he was doing: running.
Now, Mark woke up each morning before work, before his desk job, to put in three miles or so. He had to. It was as if his self-worth was tied to his ability to run a passable mile time. But that time was waning; his knees were starting to give out. After putting so many miles on those knees over the last three decades, the cartilage was starting to erode, and Mark could feel it with every step.
The rain started to pick up again. Just a drizzle, though. A typical Portland morning drizzle. Mark was used to running in the chilly, misty air. He thrived on it. He focused on breathing in the clean air from the evergreen trees that surrounded the streets in Southeast Portland. He smelled the pine. He breathed in the distinct aroma of rain hitting concrete, a smell that only a true Portlander could love.
As he turned the corner, Mark saw a pair of runners coming in his direction. A couple, most likely. He smiled casually and said “Good morning” as they passed, a phrase that he timed perfectly with his naturally-paced exhale. He turned and saw the couple continue their casual run; he shook his head and laughed. Mark never understood running with a partner, unless they were true long-distance training partners. The point of running was to push yourself, and he never understood how running with someone else allowed a person to honestly push themselves. Either you were concerned that you were running too fast for that person, so you slowed down, or you were concerned that the other person was slowing their pace for you, so you outran a smart pace in order to prove your worth, ultimately sacrificing an intelligent pace in the end.
Mark pushed through the thought and rounded the corner on his return leg of his usual route. He was catching a solo runner. Mark liked to make noise as he approached a runner from behind, just to let them know he was coming. Sometimes he would cough, or slam his feet loudly. As he approached the runner, he saw that the man was wearing headphones; the guy wouldn’t hear Mark approaching anyway, so what was the point? He never understood running with headphones. Why did a real runner need another person singing at them in order to motivate their speed? A person should be able to push their limits without the motivation of an external force.
The runner seemed to slow as the rain picked up; Mark’s competitive training kicked in and he increased the length of his stride. He flew by the solo jogger, a man that Mark could tell was new to running. He must have been sticking to his New Year’s Resolution or something. But he was running all wrong. His elbows stuck out. His head moved too far from one side to the other. And his stride was short and forced.
As Mark made a left into an isolated forest path, he finally felt his competitive sentiments subside. He enjoyed running in the woods, especially this path. He had never seen a single person running on this path, at least not this early in the morning. He appreciated the solitude that this path brought, the peace and tranquility that he found while running through the city’s forests. He also enjoyed the incline that Mt. Tabor brought to his regular morning loop. Mark loved the idea that he was running in a forest at the base of a dormant volcano. Sometimes, he envisioned that the volcano erupted, and he had to outrun the volcano’s blast in order to survive.
Exiting the forest, Mark knew that his daily ritual was nearly complete. He saw his house down the block, and he slowed his jog as he approached. He loved his morning runs. They brought peace, solitude, and introspection to his day. In hindsight, that’s why he ran so much in college; he loved the alone time. The time to think. The time to be.
He showered, put on his shirt and tie, and slunk into his sedan. With talk radio murmuring over his speakers, he knew that the best part of his day was over, the only time he could really be himself, the only time he could really think.
His cubicle was monotonous. A few pictures of family, a calendar, and a decade-old desktop computer. Mark opened his regular computer programs, shifted some numbers and data, and made small talk with coworkers and acquaintances in the common area. The same routine happened last week, and the week before, and the year before that. And the same routine would happen for the next ten years.
When lunchtime approached, Mark opened his briefcase and reached for his leftovers. He frequently hoped that one day, he would find his running shoes in his briefcase. He would look around his office and all of the people glued to their screens and paperwork in their little cubicles. He would forget about the piles of paperwork on his own desk in his own monotonous cubicle. He would take his shoes out of his briefcase. He would put them on, lace them up, and run out the door. Finally, free again.