When I could run forever
I picked my head up and actually looked around on my runs. Here's what I saw.
I have been writing this in my head for months now. I guarantee whatever appears here will be nowhere near as good as the weekly versions I wrote in my head.
All spring, summer, and now fall I have gone on weekly long runs. They are my zone 2 runs when I keep my heart rate in a lower range to try and increase the efficiency of my cardiovascular system. Literally, I am building more capillaries in my muscles to get my body to more efficiently exchange oxygen. It’s fascinating and I could talk about it more than you would probably want to hear. Basically, it’s trying to find the sweet spot where you can run forever. An easy pace.
Which also can mean, boring. At first, I had both eyes on my heart rate monitor. For something that is called “easy,” it is not. Especially for someone who considered themselves somewhat fit. I knew I could push my heart rate in HIIT classes, but this long-term cough *easy* cough run was anything but. It took a while for me to adjust, my body is still adjusting (what will I be able to do next year?!), especially when the heat of the summer hit and I could not keep my heart rate down. There was a lot of walking. And annoyance. And asking myself why am I doing this? Over time it got a little easier and I started looking around more. When you are out running for an hour to 2 hours you cover a lot of ground. And you start looking around more and the loop you usually stick to expands. And the runs turned into what will I see today?
I live in a small community with about 12,000 people. It’s organized fairly well. The streets go one way and the avenues go the other way with sidewalks in most residential areas. Property lots around here are spacious compared to bigger cities. Maple trees line boulevards making it worthy of a color drive at peak fall colors. I mean, truly, it’s quite idyllic. I don’t know of any other place where I could go for a walk or run at any time of the day and feel reasonably safe.
I do, of course, have my dog with me. He is a medium-sized Gordon Setter, named Copper, who deserves long stretches of woods to run through but gets my slow-ass on sidewalks instead. I use a hands-free leash, one that either loops over my shoulder and rubs against my neck or one that clasps around my hips, which ends up around my waist, because, well, hips. Somewhere on me is poop bags because I swear my dog holds everything in until the run. In my hand is my phone to check my heart rate. I use a chest strap monitor, which I find more accurate than my Apple watch, but the watch isn’t as off as I thought it would be, it just takes longer to read. And I want quick updates. On my feet are Hokas the color of my dog - black and copper. We match and it has nothing to do with Hokas having terrible color schemes, not at all.
I always start my run off the same. Stiff and awkward, like is anyone watching? I swear I did a warm-up. Copper is like, wiiiieeeee, we get to go on a walk. I can’t think he thinks this is a run. It’s much too slow for him. I run parallel to the lake before winding my way closer, my goal to reach the lake about halfway through my run to let Copper get a drink and a moment to cool down. I never bring water with me. Running for an hour basically demands water and a snack, but the thought of carrying one more thing... Once I did drink out of a fountain at the park. I didn’t die, but the water tasted awful. Not like a garden hose which is what I expected, but like hot plastic. Do not recommend.
I pass houses with neatly tended yards. I pass houses with yards so strewn with kids’ toys it makes me feel better about my own backyard, which has similar strewn toys. I pass houses with yards that have grown butterfly gardens and local plants - a mess of plants that would be seen on an untended roadside or an open field. I love these yards the most. Daises, milkweed, coneflowers, and local grasses push up against garden barriers, not to be contained. And the yards that do not contain, I wonder how they got around the City Property Maintenance Codes.
As I get closer to downtown the houses get closer together. They get a little more rundown. More cars are parked on the streets. But there is construction going on here, too. Lead service lines are being replaced. Potholes are patched. Whole sections of the road are re-asphalted. Sidewalks and curbs are being redone, the cement bright, the dirt freshly seeded in the boulevards.
Between the construction is the utility workers. Men up in their buckets trucks, installing fiber for internet; men on street corners shoving fiber down into the ground, making internet access more equitable for all. And it all has to be done in the few non-snowy months that we have.
Besides the men hanging from poles, there are the birds flying overhead that always have me gazing up. Where are they going? Now that it is fall, I see mainly geese, their tight V’s spreading across the sky. If I didn’t have my headphones in, I might be able to hear the noise their wings make as they fly overhead, the air forcefully pushed away as they climb higher and higher into the sky to become dark dots against the blue.
Other birds I have seen:
Blue Jays
Starlings
Ducks
Robins
Crows
An eagle
Seagulls
Chickadees
Pigeons
A baby bird that must have fallen out of its nest and my dog pounced on it so quickly and unexpectedly that I shrieked out loud in surprise, not expecting the sudden jerk on the leash. I wrestled him away and I believe the baby bird was okay
Common grackle
Cardinal
Cormorant - I have a picture of this bird, but it’s so bad my husband thought it was an otter. I, unfortunately, have never seen an otter on my runs.
all the other birds that I do not have names for but are surely known by better birders
There are times I pull on a baseball hat and block out the sky. My gaze narrows to my dog’s tail, my feet, the pavement, my breath. I notice the brand-new sidewalks; I note the ones that will be slippery in the winter. I run over sections of the sidewalk that have mostly been brought to rubble by the roots beneath it. I hop over the sidewalk that has heaved and pitched from years in the frost and the heat, but still intact. There are the moss-covered sidewalks, just a little slick, even in the summer. Then there are the sidewalks marked with little handprints. Names are etched into a corner or drawn with a finger. One square of sidewalk is marked with “Rose Red” which makes me wonder if I’ve been pulled into a fairy tale and a bear will lumber into my path. Which, I mean, being the U.P., could happen. There is a stretch of sidewalk permanently etched by the needles of the spruce trees that hang above it. Then there is half a block with little footprints and beside them, adult footprints. I wonder if it was done on purpose, a moment to be remembered or was it a mischievous child, running to the off-limits area with a parent close behind, arms outstretched, a “Noooooooo,” piercing the air? Then there is the occasional maple leaf or an errant bike tire tread pressed into the cement. All stories I can only guess at. Then there are the ants making their home among the cracks. The chalk art. The acorns crushed by those of us passing by. Soon to be swept away by rain or snow or the human with a broom who sees disorder. Then there are the squirrels. The damned squirrels everywhere who are out gathering their seeds and nuts but distract my dog so much just about every neighborhood I have run through probably has heard, “Copper! Leave it!”
I run on, I run over, trying to let my feet slap the pavement as gently as I can in a midfoot strike. What was here before the sidwalks, the asphalt roads, the neat boulevards? Whose land am I really running across? What would it look like if we hadn’t forced our orderly control onto this land? Who would, or should, be here? My city’s name derives from the Ojibwe but I know there are parcels of land here and there that qualify as Potawatomi land for tax purposes. I plod along noting the fences - wooden, plastic, wrought iron, stone, chain link - that line parcels, block views, keep dogs from leaping out at us, corral children, and dissuade intruders. They are our attempts at separating, at privacy, at saying this is mine. Sometimes I am appreciative of them, especially after being chased by a dog a time or two. I am very appreciative that I can cross these sidewalks without complaint. The sidewalk is really a sign of community, of welcome, of easy passage. “Come back soon,” they whisper as I try to loat over them.
And from the sidewalk, I see wet noses pressed against spaces in the fence line sniff sniffing at us. Paws clawing at the base. The hollering bellows of some dogs. The excited yips of others. Once a dog sounded so much like a screaming child I jumped from fear and peered around, was a child injured? until I saw the little dog pressed into a window, screaming until we walked away. There’s the occasional cat, sitting on a front step, staring with calm hatred. One German Shepard sits with his butt on the top step of the porch and his front feet on the step below and calmly watches everything - a guard dog on duty.
People use just about anything to decorate their yards. Old tires, old bikes, old shoes, old farming equipment, plates, bathtubs, lifesize Raggedy Ann dolls. One house has, at least, two dozen wind chimes and makes me wonder: what does it sound like during a wind storm? Just a cacophony of sound or something softer, a melding of sound against the anger of a storm? Right now autumn and Halloween decorations are appearing. I ran past a blow-up Pennywise, an 8ft skeleton (where do they store it when Halloween is over?), spiderwebs, vampires, and fake headstones. But summer still mostly reigns as evidenced by the flags that are everywhere.
From Memorial Day to Labor Day and beyond, American flags line the major streets. They fly in yards, off porches, as banners, pennants, and bunting. Mini versions line a walkway up to a house. They hang in windows. They decorate gardens. Pallets are painted like a flag and propped up against the side of a house. Most are in pristine condition. One yard sign thanks neighbors for the flag initiative. Was it someone’s goal to make red white and blue as ubitiquous as the maple trees that line the boulevards? No one would ever confuse us for Canada.
Between the American flags are flags for just about everything else. POW/MIA flags. A “Don’t Tread on Me” flag. Flags for Trump. Fuck Biden flags. One Star Wars Rebellion flag. Pride flags, maybe as many as the Fuck Biden flags. Faded Ukraine flags still fly, the only thing, besides high school sports, I’ve seen my community rally around. Military flags for just about every branch, usually next to and below the American Flag. Welcome Fall flags. One state of Michigan flag.
Unseen, winding among the flags and yard decorations are, and for some reason more vivid in my mind than anything else, the scents. Firewood burning. Burgers on a grill. Simmering Italian food. Cigarete smoke. Fried dough outside a place that sells elephant ears. Spray paint. The overly fake scent of today’s laundry soap. Lilacs in early summer. The smell of rain on hot asphalt in late summer. The overwhelming scent of a nearby portapotty. The fresh scent of cut grass. The sometimes fishy scent of Lake Michigan. It smells like fall now, more earthy and damp, a smell that I cannot separate from the sound of leaves skittering over sidewalks.
I’ve found three Little Free Libraries containing no books I want to read. I’ve gotten lost. I’ve smiled at countless people. I’ve nodded at fellow runners, wondering if they wonder why we are out here, pushing ourselves this way. I’ve listened to dozens of audiobooks and podcasts. I’ve chatted on the phone to my bewildered dad who asked “Why are you running?” I’ve talked, chided, and threatened my dog that if he doesn’t stop pulling we will turn around. I’ve turned around. I’ve listened to albums on repeat. I’ve listened to new and old music. I’ve sung aloud when my watch and heart monitor are dead and I need to use the talk test to see if I’m still in Zone 2. I sometimes also sing for the hell of it. I’ve imagined wild scenarios, solved made-up mysteries, wrote essays for this newsletter, worked out problems, and meditated. I’ve slipped into the hurt locker, not able to escape the limitations of my body. I’ve stopped to stack my shit, plugging my ribs over my hips, bemoaning the fact that I have to think about how to manage the pressure in my abdomen. I practice breathing properly. I walk. Alot. I’ve cried. I’ve tripped. I’ve sweated buckets. I’ve dodged kids’ toys left on sidewalks and goose shit down by the lake. I’ve been smacked in the face by tree branches - mostly just one that's near my house and I swear it’s out to get me. I’ve run through rain and blazing heat and felt like I’ve been plunged into a tub of sweat by the humidity. I’ve gotten up early, run late, kept an eye on the time, lost track of time.
I think this essay could go on forever. I would add on to it after every run, detailing the thing I’ve never seen before or the thing I’ve seen before and forgot about or the thing I’ve seen only once and was never able to find again. But I will end it here on the slow steady walk up to my house, leaving the maple tree-shaded sidewalk behind. The front door opens. I walk inside.