Going Faster Miles an
Hour
“Faster! Faster!” I am not amused at this
comment from the peanut gallery, the barked encouragement
of a disheveled gentleman picking through a recycling bin.
Who cares if I get any faster? I took up running again to
exorcise my demons, to clear my mind. It’s meditation with
an elevated heart rate. I need to hear “You’ll be ok!” or
“Don’t worry, things always get better!” The goal is inner
peace, not speed.
The stress of a cross-country move from
the East Coast to Berkeley, a new job for my husband J, and
the unexpected intensity of no-breaks parenthood had
stretched the distance between us. It all came to a head
last fall. Neither of us were sure if the marriage would
make it. The past six months have been spent rebuilding a
bridge to intimacy, two islands reaching out across a wide
gulf. I started running for quietude, to let the beat of my
heart calm the motion of my thoughts.
My feet keep moving, my mind wanders. I feel a burst of
energy in the form of anger, this time at J: why did he
mess with my equilibrium, my hard-won balance? “Why should
I choose someone who hurts me,” I think, “I’ve got family
to do that!” The moment passes as I push up the hill, one
foot in front of the other. Breathe in, breathe out,
repeat, repeat, my mind a blessed blank.
Our new bridge is of solid construction, the rusted
out-struts replaced and repainted. But the still waters of
my past, where love was sometimes indistinguishable from
betrayal, are churning again.
Images cycle through my mind as I rush down the sidewalk.
My brain tracks through old fights and nasty words. I am
fifteen and my mother is explaining to me that I am evil,
as matter-of-factly as if she were noting my eye color.
After asking my father for some support for a fifth year of
college, I open his handwritten reply, angry and
accusatory, blaming me for a lifetime of unhappy
employment. On the evening before my first wedding, I wait
to hear from my mother. My phone calls have been unwelcome
for months and she and Kevin, her long-time boyfriend, have
threatened to boycott the ceremony.
Then the most recent snapshot: suspicious, I check my
husband’s computer for signs of an inappropriate
relationship with a married acquaintance. I find an e-mail
trail of adolescent emotion and hopeful projection, J’s
attempt to escape from the harshness of island life. It’s
all talk and no action, thank God, but I’m flailing in
murky waters now. Breathe in, breathe out, repeat, repeat.
Another hill. I make the slow climb to The Alameda against
a backdrop of bungalows and sycamores. Other scenes drift
past. Kevin is terminally ill. I visit the hospital every
day after work and we reach a peace over the course of a
long and painful goodbye. For four months I live near my
father and step-mother. Despite the deep lows of his
chronic depression, Dad makes a point of seeing me
regularly. I take up writing and my mother supports my
efforts full-force, even when her questionable parenting is
the subtext.
I confront J and he drops everything, declares his love and
deep regret. He cuts ties to the acquaintance. He lets me
be angry. I accept my part in creating the distance. We
begin to bridge the gulf.
As I continue my run, I feel love, imperfect but heartfelt.
We do the best we can. I’m trying, too. Anger and neglect
originate in pain, in good feelings twisted and misaligned.
People who lash out, betray, or lie are suffering, too. I
have to break this cycle in my own life. I have to forgive.
J’s indiscretion had disturbed my carefully controlled
disposition. I hardly slept through the months of September
and October, finally dropping off after midnight and waking
a few hours later, mental waters churning. Long submerged
memories were bobbing to the surface, the past mixing with
the present. Running was supposed to quell my racing mind,
to return memories to a watery grave.
The first runs were plodding, all about continuity and
persistence. As the weeks went on and my body found its
cadence, my mind discovered a rhythm of its own. Runs
became times of reflection and integration. Rather than
jettisoning my memories, I was creating a new story, one of
acceptance, for myself and others. Each workout became a
little easier. Without much effort, my times improved. I
ran through reluctance, bad weather, and physical pain, all
the while piecing myself back together. The movement of my
body propelled my emotions forward.
Breathe in, breathe out, repeat, repeat, a little faster
now that gravity is with me. The final part of my run is
sweet, a long downhill to our house in the flats. My
husband and son have probably just left with the dog to
greet me at the finish line. I’m looking forward to seeing
them, to the run being over.
Across the street, a heavy-set woman slow jogs in the
opposite direction. She shouts, “I just started running!
Does it get any easier?”
“Yes! Yes it does!” I yell back. I see J rounding the
corner with our little one on his shoulders, the dog doing
her waggle dance. I sprint for a hug, full of love, human
and flawed.
