“You know, this ten-mile race is outside. It’s different from the treadmill. You really need to start training on the road.”
—MIRA HARWOOD
THE REST OF that summer, I research online for a way to amp the volume on my iPod. I need to drown out the sound of Jack’s brunch story with loud Rob Zombie and Breaking Benjamin. Logging miles on the treadmill and blasting loud music are my solace from the images and sounds that burn inside my imagination. Running on the road is still out of the question.
The world is full of two kinds of people. Runners and everyone else. I suppose the cliché can be applied to any group of people who hold themselves above the average joe. For some people, running comes so naturally. Not without effort, but running goes along the grain of how they are built. I am without doubt in the second group, but still I struggle to be in the first. Every step is a struggle, yet once in a blue moon, I hit a stride and can go for miles without noticing. And without wondering if the smoke killed those women and children or if it was fire. Those transcendent moments of losing myself and my thoughts come without warning and without a formula. They just happen, and the quest for another moment like that keeps me running. Keeps me pretending.
Our family is under constant, white-knuckled strain. But at least women who feel the same, even if we don’t talk openly about it, surround me. My children are robbed of their father’s physical presence and robbed of my mental presence. I am still anywhere but with them, lost in the images that overwhelm my ability to connect with them in the moments they need me most.