Sunday, January 30, 2005

Now what?

I let this go for a long time after the marathon, but I've decided to come back to it, keep writing here about my running, make this a place where I record not only the mechanics of the run but the sightings and reflections.

As you've seen, I'm no Olympian, but I value the experience of running and racing. I value it enough to keep up the training for it--even now, cold as the winter has become. I don't know just now what my specific racing goals are beyond the Broad Street Run in May. But I'd like to improve my time for that--and would like to make a success of my teaching. I have started a new teaching job--it's part-time but that's something, and I'm teaching introduction to literature. "Small steps," Mike always reminds me.

It's a slow resurrection, and sometimes I still feel unsure of how it's going. But here is where I can stop and take stock. "In it for the long run" might be about more than running, but for the most part, my thoughts here will be primarily about running, but with the hope that the insights gained while running will offer me (and others?) a portal into some life wisdom. Or not.

So I'll start with yesterday's run (1/29): a stop-start run, partly due to snowy/icy conditions. I was tired of the treadmill and wanted to be outdoors, even though the running was more difficult. I had a 90-minute run on my schedule. At the end of this run, my watch read 1:34:03. I have no idea what my distance was or whether this, in fact, reflected the amount of time running. I would stop my watch and forget to start it. When I stopped at my mom and stepfather's grave, I let my watch run for about ten mins. while I dug the wreath out of the snow, dug around to find the military stone they'd provided for my stepfather, poured a few drops of Lourdes water and planted a kiss on the ground for each of them, and (reluctantly) started off again. A mound of snow separated the grass from the drive, so it was a little of a climb to get past that and walk to the grave and back. I used to simply run in the cemetery and now I can't without visiting the grave. I don't think I'll ever stop missing my mom, yet I also know she's not far. She helped me find joy during Christmas--I know that. Our family had a wonderful gathering, celebrating being together, feeling my mom was with us.

After I left the grave, and before leaving the cemetery, I heard Canada geese overhead, looked up, and there was a long line of them in a V formation. Made me wonder how long Canada geese throughout history flew in that pattern. Before I was born. Before my parents and grandparents were born. Years and eons perhaps of that flight pattern. I thought of some familiar animal behaviors that we take for granted but they connect us to lives before us: cats who purr and rub against us, dog who bark at strangers.... Birds flying in a V formation.... I continued on....winding my way around neighborhoods--where I came upon a purple finch sitting a bit dazed in the middle of a road. I ran toward the bird so it would fly off the road and to safety from cars, but it sat still looking up at me a little dazed. I bent down thinking that would awaken its flight reflex, but no, it allowed me to pick it up, cupping it in my gloved hands, making me wonder if it was hurt. But its wings looked healthy, not that splayed out broken look of an injured wing. It perched quietly in my hands as I carried it away from the road. I was surprised at the degree of trust, thought it might be a baby or a young bird--it seemed to have none of the tufty soft feathers of a baby. Saw a picnic table in a yard, and thought that might be a safe enough spot for the time being, though I don't know why. Gently, I stretched my hand over the table, so it would be easy for the bird to hop off. It hesitated a while, didn't seem to want to leave. I wondered if maybe I should simply take it home--warm it up, give it some raisins (didn't have much in the way of bird food) and then try setting it free. But it eventually jumped onto the table, then down to the ground, making slow progress across the lawn, struggling in the ruts made by footprints until I began to wonder if I'd done right letting it go. I stood by watching for a while, then, seeing it approach me again, I decided perhaps I should carry it home after all. But as I started toward it to pick it up again, it flew up into a tree. A pick-up truck sped down the street where the bird had been and around a corner. "Okay," I said to it, "I feel better knowing you can fly. Be safe, my friend."

Soon afterward, entered Naylor's Run Park, past the plowed road and across a snow-covered playing field, up an icy/snowy trail where I'd either bury a foot in snow every time it touched ground or land on a packed, slippery coating of snow/ice. Chorus of crows cawing at something I couldn't see--a hawk? A fox? I've been told there are foxes in that park but I've never seen one there. I'd like to someday. I have seen them in the cemerery, but not for over a year.

Crossed the playing field and headed for a bridge over the stream that leads to a trail--only a few minutes left to the run, so chose not to run the trail but stopped a moment on the bridge and saw rocks come to life and turn into mallards. So it seemed. Suddenly the stream was alive with ducks. And as they drifted away from me, I set off to finish my run.

It took, in fact, much longer than the hour and 34 minutes on my watch and led me past time, into timelessness. And I held a finch in my hands.


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