Running away

I went for a run today.

I expect you might find this unremarkable. I’ve written about running in this space before. What I have probably failed to mention is that 90% of the time I run on a treadmill, in the sterility of the gym twenty stories above Chicago streets in my apartment building. I run in the morning, on a schedule, in a mild rush, tracking metrics, Dax Shepherd chirping in my ears.

All of this is fine. It gets the job done, I suppose. But it’s not the way I want to see my running life. It often feels perfunctory, a line item in the daily to-do list, a method for keeping the machine going and aging at bay. I cannot afford, nor am I interested in, obsolescence.

I fear a doctor saying, “Whacha got there, a ‘64 model? Oh man, they don’t make parts for the vintage ones like that anymore.”

But today, today was different. We are up in Wisconsin visiting our friends Chad and Tiffany. They’ve got this beautiful lake house right here in the middle of nowhere.

Perfect.

Since I came back to the sport a few years ago, there are frankly not many places off the treadmill where I’m comfortable running. I find myself anxious running outside, the post-traumatic result of a very dramatic marathon, I suppose.

I’m working on it.

In the meantime, there’s a stretch of road up here that is my very favorite place to run. It is miles long and effectively deserted, rarely a human or vehicle in sight.

So, I was scheduled to run today in my head. I got started right outside my friends’ house here on the lake, and after about a half mile, I turned the corner onto that road.

Without even thinking about it, I felt my shoulders drop and ease. I felt myself calm down. I found my pace and my breath. I realized that until now I have been thinking, thinking, thinking. Thinking about the First Amendment. Thinking about the Second. Thinking about violence. Thinking about fear. Thinking about work, my schedule, the Cubs making the playoffs, life, death. One thought after another, not a break in between. Up until the moment I turned this corner, I was more tense than I had any idea.

Now, on this beautiful stretch of pavement, I am just here. I’m thinking, frankly, about nothing. Nothing at all.

Almost immediately, three deer bound gracefully across the road right in front of me. They’re gorgeous. I greet them briefly.

“Hey guys! What’s up?”

And then I run on. I start to scan what I’m feeling. And I land on the word peace. I feel peace-ful. And that’s way too rare of feeling for me. And I’m guessing for you.

I’m thinking about how badly I needed this moment of clarity and ease. How badly I needed to free my mind of the clutter and, frankly, trauma of the past several, what? Weeks? Months? Years?

I can see these bursts of color among the trees, reminding me why I secretly celebrate the onset of autumn while the rest of the Midwest mourns the waning, shortening days of summer.

And the smells out here. Pine. Lots of pine. What’s that other smell? Maybe just soil, earth.

Smells good, healthy, real. The unmistakable smoke from a fireplace somewhere around here hits my nose.

I don’t hear much. A bird here and there. Some faraway thrum of cicadas. The wind. And my own breath. I pay attention to that for a while, using my breathing as a metronome for my pace. And that’s working, organically, easily. I’m feeling that strain that tells your body it’s exerting, without losing my breath altogether, a rare sweet spot for me.

I feel this familiar pinch on the left side of my body, starting all the way down in my foot, running up my leg and back, all the way up to my shoulder. I’ve seen a PT about it, and he gave me some stretches to try.

But today, out here on the road alone, just me and the sounds of nature, I can hear a difference between my left foot and my right foot as they hit the pavement. I can barely hear my right foot. But my left foot is striking hard, loud. Too loud.

I look down. I’m looking for differences, answers to that pinch. And I can see that my left foot is turned out away from my body just a hair, just a few degrees. And my left knee, almost imperceptibly, is following. I slow down. I take a moment to straighten out, to adjust.

And then I listen. I really can’t hear either foot now. This feels better. A simple adjustment. Nice.

Every so often over the next several miles, I feel that little pinch again. I look down, adjust, listen.

Look, adjust, listen.

And it works. My body is telling me, in the most organic way, how it wants to do this, how it wants to move, wants to run. And for once, I can hear it. And I can feel it.

Because I’m present. And it’s quiet. I can hear my body, literally.

An intrusive set of thoughts hit me rather suddenly:

“Oh this is interesting. Maybe I’ll write a Substack about it. Wait, no Substack. You’ve been Substacking way too much, John. It’s gonna start to look like either a trauma dump or a manic episode.”

So I table that thought. At least until now.

Deep breath. Back to the run.

I can feel that undeniable autumnal cool in the air, mixing occasionally with the heat from the sun-soaked asphalt, summer’s last gasp. Feels good, that contrast.

In the meantime, I keep running. I count 19 cars total, but I might’ve missed one. I’ve waved to every driver. I linger on that moment. Here we are, two people on this deserted road with each other, just the two of us. I don’t know what they think about politics. I don’t know how they voted. I don’t know if they’re religious. It was just nice to have a moment of connection with someone.

And frankly, it was nice to move on from that moment as well. It feels good to be alone out here. In fact, I had planned on going a certain distance, but I decided to push forward through a few miles further. I feel good. Good to be out here alone.

I think about the fact that I’m older now. I think about my dad. I don’t think he ever once did this in his life. Run like this. I wish he had.

I think about him a lot when I run. He overtaxed his lungs with the obvious, and I wonder often what life would have been like had he not. Would we have ever shared a run, like George and I have?

There’s cows over there. Five of them. Wait, six. I look around. It’s just me and the cows out here. So, I yell:

“Hey guys! What’s up? What are you doing out there? Do you wanna go and do something later? Text me, OK?”

I realize I’m laughing. I’m playing. I should play more. I try to run backwards for a while up this hill. Not a great idea. Almost landed right on my ass. But I’m glad I tried it. It was fun and kind of funny.

I’m getting a little gassed here and there, legs giving way, especially on these hills. I’m gonna slow it down a little bit. I want to stretch this thing out.

As I write this now, I consider why I’m always pushing running on my clients. I must be getting on their nerves, clearly carrying an agenda in into their sessions. But today I realize why.

It’s for this. It’s for the recognition that your body can carry you for eight or so miles, and you can marvel at all the inner workings that allow for that. And this may well be the answer to a lot of our problems. Not running, per se. But not not running either.

The important part, I think, is the silence. My world has felt harsh lately, nonstop, and this little run has been placid and calming, quiet and healing. A client of mine told me her central nervous system lately is lingering far too often on high alert. And I realize that’s true for me as well, probably most of us.

So, if you’re a runner, I encourage you to get out there and run. If you’re a swimmer, swim. If you’re a walker or a hiker or a biker, do that. But I think right now, in these days, we need a break, not just from headlines, not just the traumatic stories of the day, but from just about everything.

We need a break from ourselves. From our own ragged minds.

I got mine today, and I can tell you that it makes a bigger difference than I would have anticipated.

As I write this, I’m sitting outside, sweating, gazing out at the beautiful, shimmering lake. And I can feel that my nervous system is calm, quiet, relieved of the stressors. That feels important. It’s important to me.

I think a lot of us are seeking answers these days. And we’re talking and rage-posting, protesting and praying, I suppose. And today, I’m thinking that perhaps part of our solution lies in the serenity and nature here along placid, peaceful Noquebay Road.

Just consider that, whatever it might mean in your world. And for some undeniable reason, today I want you know that I appreciate you.

Find your peace, even for a moment. Trust me, it makes a difference.