Running into Tomorrow
On my left knee, there used to be a blotchy, faint scar. Until recently, it honestly looks like a birthmark or light skin discoloration. You wouldn’t really notice it unless you knew to look. Most of the time I even forgot it was there, but I’ll never forget how I got it.
Two years ago I was living in East London. One Saturday morning I signed up for a 10k run through the neighborhood of Shoreditch with the Adidas Women’s Studio running group. About a quarter mile into the run, as I rounded a corner, I tripped — I can’t really remember if it was over the East London cobblestones or over my own large feet. Either way, I fell spectacularly headlong, with my left knee taking the brunt of the fall’s force. I don’t particularly remember what that fall felt like. In fact, I instantly went into shock, so I’m not even sure how I got home. That said, I remember the weeks it took to recover. The wound wept for ages after I fell, healing and then tearing back open from use. I used a stupid amount of gauze to keep it clean. Even climbing the four flights of stairs between the house kitchen to the bedroom I rented was a painful struggle. I remember how troublesome my morning commutes became, as I navigated my way through the stuffy Canary Wharf and Baker Street stations in rush hour with a bandaged leg, in the middle of a heat wave. And most of all, I recall how hard the next run was, but I also remember why it was so important to get up and run again. That summer I ran to prove I still could.
I woke up at 5:30am one June morning the summer I was 20 years old. The sun had just risen and cast its rays across the small room I shared in the Beaver Cross Camps Staff Lodge. No one else was awake. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t read. There was no one to talk to. So I put on my sneakers and ran the mile and a half loop of hills around the camp property. I couldn’t stop, so I ran it a second time, and as I passed the camp buildings again, I saw one of my friends working out in the sports field, and another playing worship music in the Pavilion. But I didn’t stop to speak to either of them. I kept running. I ran the loop 3 or 4 times that morning because I still couldn’t stop. That day I ran because the world at the camp had changed — we had just experienced a sudden change in leadership less than two days before campers would arrive. That day I ran because I didn’t know what we were going to do. I ran because it was all I could do. And most of all, I ran to prove to myself that I could keep going, and if I could keep going, we all could. And we did.
Today running is a part of who I am; nothing clears my head like a run through the new light of the morning. That wasn’t always the case. As a child I was physically awkward and struggled with large motor skills. I hated sports, partly because I was bad at them, but I also found them dull. I found much more enjoyment in drawing, reading, singing in choir, or dress-up. Until I went to college, I prefered figure skating or various forms of dance for exercise. Now, I proudly consider myself a runner, and run anywhere from 3 to 6 days a week. It was a journey getting here though. The biggest hurdle was overcoming the belief that I wasn’t an athlete and that I simply couldn’t run. These were beliefs that were so ingrained, it took years of lacing up my running shoes and hitting the pavement to overcome. I’m not sure when the shift happened, but some years ago, I realized that the way I thought about running was different. It was no longer a test I needed to accomplish or something I needed to prove. Some days it was a form of selfcare, other days a celebration of my own empowerment, but never a chore, never a punishment. Instead, it was a way that I reminded myself of just how strong I was.
“Running allows me to set my mind free. Nothing seems impossible. Nothing unattainable.”
I think we can all agree that 2020 has been an intense year. Personally, it has been one of the best years of my life, filled with enormous, unbelievable amounts of love and joy. It has also been a year of deep uncertainty, facing the reality of the fragile world we live in. When I run, particularly through nature, and feel the rush of fresh air through my lungs, I can feel my head clear and peace run through my veins. This year, more than ever, I am thankful to be a runner, to have this ritual that reminds me of my own inner strength. It reminds me every day of just why I get out of bed at first light and fill my lungs with cool air, feeling the throb of one foot after another hitting the trail.
That faint blotchy scar on my left knee is darker now, with a few scabs growing over the skin. About a month ago I left my apartment for my standard 6:30am run. I turned on my bluetooth headphones and Audible app, and settled into my stride. Before I’d even gone a block, I found myself falling headlong once more. Was it my own two feet or the uneven pavement of our sidewalk that tripped me this time? Your guess is as good as mine. My hands and knees burned as they slid into the concrete with the full force of my 129 pounds and 10 minute mile momentum. My head hit the sidewalk with a smarting crack. My vision blurred and stomach rolled as I tried to sit up. Safely in its fanny pack, my phone kept playing Milkman, by Anna Burns — it had no idea of the pain I was in or the trauma my body had just experienced. It just kept on doing what it should do. I know it’s unreasonable, but that bugged me. Shouldn’t the phone have had the courtesy to at least pause? Shouldn’t it be hurt I was? Annoyed with the device, I turned off the book, and called my husband. I was too out of it to tell him anything more than that I fell and needed help — it didn’t even occur to me to tell him where I was. Luckily, I was all of three houses past ours and he saw me as soon as he left the house. Austin walked me home, and helped me out of my running things. Washing out the road burns stung, but like my husband reminded me, washing them out and suffering the pain now would be better than an infection to clean out later. As is so often true, he was right.
I know eventually the scabs on my knee with close again and scar over. Right now, though, when I least expect it, they itch. A lot. When I get out of the shower and dry off, I see the blotchy, ugly scar-scab covering my knee and wonder if it will ever completely fade. Or even if it will fade at all? But then I look at my hand, the one I thought I wouldn’t even be able to type with given how torn up it was, and see how it is almost completely healed. I remind myself of the ugly yellow bruise on my temple that is now gone completely. Most importantly, I remember that the road burns only prevented my runs for week. At the end of that week, I bandaged my knee up, tied my running shoes, and hit the road again. That was over 3 weeks ago, and in the mornings, I still face the road. I still run past that same chunk of pavement and wonder just how I fell so spectacularly. But as much as I fear I will, I haven’t tripped again.
So why bother running? Why run when I can still remember how much those road burns hurt and the scars they leave behind? I run because in a year when so many have died from a respiratory illness, it reminds me to breathe. I run because everytime I feel overwhelmed or tired it forces me to appreciate my own strength. I run because when I stand awash in the morning sunlight I know that everytime I fall down, I can get back up again and keep going.
