The Parts of Our Pandemic Lives Worth Preserving

I wasn’t a runner — I hated running — and now I can’t imagine my life without it

I used to only make gestures at exercise. A coy wave here, a wink there. I went through the motions of yoga videos or curled jars of Prego while watching The Office, throwing in the towel before my muscles or the muffins in the oven began to burn. I preferred at-home routines so I could log credit without being accountable for my lazy-faire attitude. I’d brave an in-person class — where an instructor and peer pressure forced me to actually break a sweat — only when enticed by post-workout drinks and hors d’oeuvres.

The same friend who dangled wine and tapas over a boot camp session tried to lure me into one of those races that end in “K,” as if was worth thousands of dollars, but there weren’t enough oak casks and Iberian hams on the planet to get me started on a training regimen. Running? Why would anyone go fast when they could go slow?

Then came our unprecedented year.

We were two weeks into lockdown. The ground had thawed, and the berries of new leaves were budding on the maple in our front yard, but the virus, the virus. We were only allowed out for essential activities: grocery shopping, work, and exercise. Otherwise we drifted from room to room like we were haunting our own house.

We began to walk the dog three times a day, crossing the street when others approached, waving pitiful apologies. We put ourselves into motion to feel as if we were moving forward and to remind ourselves that we weren’t alone in this strange new world.

I had so much worrying to do. Would my newly released debut novel sell without bookstore browsing? Did we have enough toilet paper? Was it crazy to make homemade sanitizer or crazy not to? Should we drive to the remote reaches of our country and settle on uncontaminated land? Anxiety was an engine humming beneath my skin. I couldn’t find a moment of respite since my toddler had taken to accompanying me everywhere, even into the bathroom.

I laced up my sneakers and jogged out the door.

“Just a mile or two,” I told myself. “If you can’t do it, no big deal. You’re just giving yourself some time to think.”

And I did. I thought about the Great Dane puppy sprawled out on a sunny patch of his porch. The spring wreath on a front door. Two hawks working an updraft. A stubborn mound of snow.

I set out the next day, and the day after that. Soon my daily jog became as essential to my routine as writing and eating. It was an obligation my son came to understand as an acceptable reason for our time apart. Mimi is running. And instead of thrashing his head while tears rolled down his cheeks, he nodded. Be careful, Mimi.

I had so much worrying to do. Would my newly released debut novel sell without bookstore browsing? Did we have enough toilet paper? Was it crazy to make homemade sanitizer or crazy not to? Should we drive to the remote reaches of our country and settle on uncontaminated land?

My body learned the way, rounding into turns unconsciously. My two-mile loop became an extension of my house. Maybe in a different time I would have craved more variety, but this struck the right balance of novelty and comfort. It was the same reason I’d begun to rewatch old sitcoms. I wanted to know what to expect, to establish predictability in an otherwise volatile world. It was a play at control.

Monotony was a curse as well as a means of survival. I depended on recognizable touchstones in our neighborhood — the slide someone built into their hill, the tree fort with actual house siding, the crocuses stretching their necks from the soil, a basketball hoop knocked over by the wind.

The playground was cordoned off with yellow tape. Children were wearing masks and rollerblading in their driveways on a Tuesday afternoon. Girls biked “together” on opposite sides of the street. Mothers gardened with their sons and fathers walked alongside teenager daughters. What was truly odd was that it seemed odd. These were family members. Why did it take a pandemic to see them living side-by-side?

A two-week quarantine sounded like a lifetime. It turned indefinite. The days grew hot and then they cooled again, and we were still distanced. Soon it was November, and we were heading into what was predicted to be the worst wave yet.

It had been 153 days since I’d missed a run. The same person who’d once laughed at the thought of a 5K was now buying base layers and running gloves in preparation for the long winter.

My husband and I still didn’t have childcare. Time was a rationed commodity, and since we lived on a single floor, privacy was as abstract as large gatherings. I was only unreachable when I was on my runs. Those thirty minutes were protected time, undeniably mine, and valuable in their own right.

I could listen to an audiobook without debating whether I should be grading or singing nursery rhymes or putting in a load of laundry. I could tune into a fictional world that knew nothing of viruses and vaccines, while still touching the landmarks of my own: an airplane swing on a branch, an American flag flitting in the breeze, gardens that had sprouted up like new developments, my breath coming short and fast.

I was only unreachable when I was on my runs. Those thirty minutes were protected time, undeniably mine, and valuable in their own right.

We closed out that wild, terrifying, unprecedented year and opened a new one, full of promise. My course had stretched to three miles, then four, then five. It had been 204 days since I’d skipped a run.

By February, my knee began to twinge.

I knew nothing about runner’s knee. How could I? I wasn’t a runner. Except now, of course, I was. My outlet had not just evolved into a habit but had woven itself into the strands of my identity in a way that no other regiment had, and I’d tried them all. If I didn’t eat, write, or run enough, everybody around me (those precious few) knew it. Running was mandatory. As essential as my postman. The world was surprising, and so was I.

My knee required two weeks of rest — its own lockdown. I dug up old yoga videos and curled jars of Prego, but it wasn’t enough. That anxious engine hummed and I thirsted for fresh air, even if it was only ten degrees out. I hit the pavement as soon as I felt able.

A year and four pairs of sneakers later, I tread carefully. Like those new gardens, my husband’s sourdough starter, and relationships made involuntarily long distance, my body is just one more pandemic development in need of tending. I must stretch and strengthen. I need to find the right kind of support.

I wonder what will happen as we unfurl from our inward lives and rejoin the world. When there are happy hours and street fairs, holidays and parades, packed stadiums and concert halls, what will become of our gardens?

As we resume our old ways, we might find ourselves excusing the new ones. But there must be aspects of our pandemic lives worth preserving: family walks, movie nights, stillness, running. I hope we find a way to integrate all there will be while managing to hold onto the good that was. I hope we emerge from our houses the right kind of free.

Alena Dillon is the author of Mercy House, a Library Journal Best Book of 2020 that has been optioned for a CBS television series produced by Amy Schumer, and The Happiest Girl in the World. Her essays have appeared in publications including The Rumpus, Slice Magazine, LitHub, Bustle, and River Teeth. She teaches creative writing at St. Joseph’s College and lives on the north shore of Boston with her husband, son, and dog.