11.02.2009

the amateur runner

  The amateur runner is out after work, before class.  He always means to wake up early and run before the day starts, but is always more tempted by his warm sheets and an extra hour with his eyes closed.  He's out three to four times each week and wishes it were more.  He makes half-hearted excuses not to go but never wants to come back in once he's out.  
  She needs music but secretly knows she runs faster without it.  She remembers when her soundtrack was the clashing of sticks, the stomping, the shouting, her own gasping breath mixing with the panting of her teammates.   The sound of cars always; the sound of wildlife never enough to make an impression.  The thoughts running through her head.  She wonders what the other runners are listening to and if they are wondering or assuming about her.  She wishes she could broadcast the songs out of her chest and share them with the old couples and heavy souls walking by.  
  He has no real form--he steps and holds his body in whatever way is most comfortable and moves him the fastest.  He remembers what it was like to run towards something, at someone, for something.  He can still feel the jersey on his back and the pads on his shoulders. He can't run in circles around a track because he is finally running free and he needs the scenery to change.  He pushes until sweat stings his eyes and his headphones slip out of his ears and his chest burns because he was told that he wasn't working hard if he wasn't sucking wind.  He can't forget what it was like to be a champion, and he smiles right out loud knowing he never will.  He almost tells the other runners who he is, what he's done, why he's not so fast anymore, what he's running for now.
  The amateur runner can't stop judging the other runners, even those who fly past her, because they haven't been running for as long today (they probably just live down the block),  or they don't have as far to go, and they obviously won't be able to keep up that speed for the rest of the run and hey, she's just an amateur anyway, this isn't her life, she wants to do this, this is fun.  Besides, her knees really hurt near the water.  She window shops as she runs past the bus stop; she likes that hat, should buy some boots like those, wonders what her hair would look like that shade of brunette.  She can't help herself as she runs through a pile of leaves, kicking them up into the air and not caring if they get in her sock or if she loses a few seconds, not that she actually times herself.   Waiting at the red light, she doesn't jog in place; she's far too busy catching a breath or stretching out stiff autumn muscles or trying not to dance along to the song that just came on.  She can't help herself here, either, and amuses an old man in a grey sedan.  
  He doesn't own any special gear, just old tee shirts that tell of barbecues and 5Ks and schools that have turned into diplomas on the wall and photos on the computer and something to keep him warm as the new season falls.  He wonders if the letters on his chest trigger any memories in the young couples pushing new strollers, if those letters are the reason for any hidden smiles or shudders. 
  She's out today because she's not that girl, because coffee ice cream and Johnny Depp can't make anything better and she can't waste any more time.  Her pillows have too much mascara on them and she doesn't have the energy to sit still anymore.  She wonders if any of the others are watching, admiring, needing to believe that there is someone out there that is worth all of this.  She flips a song and is heartbreak, missing; every step is another strike.  A new song and there is hope, there is moving on, there is "I didn't want this anyway," there is "I can do better," "I can be better."  There is "I am young, I am free."  There is finally a lap of release.  Another song, there was love, there was safety, there was everything.  The amateur runner quivers, tears, shakes it off.  The next song is happiness, but happiness only in the ears and not the heart.  It's the happy song that brings the runner to the bench; it is what is lost, not what is left, that pushes the runner to shaking outdoor tears.  The runner shuts off all music and runs home in silence, head screaming.