Running is one of the best solutions to a clear mind.
~Sasha Azevedo
I couldn’t stop my mind from cataloguing every ache in my body as I lay prone on that hill in Afghanistan. Rocks pressed into my knees and shins, my eyes burnt from the dust, and my feet and back were both screaming at me after the week of abuse. I was hungry, tired and ready to go back to base, but the mission was not yet complete. So, I lay there watching an empty stretch of dirt that wound into the mountains.
“Hey, Sarge,” I said. “Is that a group of people coming our way or just some goats?” The ever-present dust hanging in the air made it nearly impossible to identify anything clearly. All I could really see was movement.
“Goats… I think.” He paused and squinted down the path. “Yeah, definitely goats. People would ha…”
His words were cut short by an unexpected squawk from the radio at his side. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but the look on Sarge’s face told me that we were about to get moving. In anticipation of the instructions, I rolled onto my side, slid my arms through my rucksack straps, and struggled to my feet like an overturned turtle.
“We gotta move… now!” Sarge said as he stood up. Before I knew it, we were running down the hill and onto the winding trail behind us that we had used days earlier to get to the hilltop.
Running. Always running. No time to breathe. Just pounding the dust and dirt and rocks as fast as my short legs would take me.
My body isn’t meant for running. I am short, stout, and slow. My body heaves itself around like an elephant. I may be built to carry heavy things, but those heavy things are going to move to their destination at a slow pace. But on that hilltop, I ran because I had to. Each step caused the muscles in my calves and thighs to burn. I gasped for breath as my lungs tried to suck in the thin air. Instead of expanding freely, my lungs found my armor pressed tightly against my body. I hated it, but I pressed on because that was the mission.
Then, I saw flashes and heard explosions. My world lit up. I looked everywhere, but couldn’t figure out what was happening. Then I stopped running and started falling.
* * *
Frantically, I awoke, cold sweat pouring down my face.
It was the same dream again, a dream that I couldn’t outrun. Or was it a memory? No, that didn’t really happen, at least not like that. As my conscious mind took hold, I realized that the dream was a mixture of memories, fantasies, and fears. Missions merged and swirled into each other to form a dream that wouldn’t let me forget Afghanistan, that wouldn’t let me move on. It had been over five years, but the dreams never stopped, the memories never stopped. Nearly every night, I found myself running… running… running…
It was driving me mad. I needed to make it stop, by any means necessary.
An old friend knew I was lost and confused. I had confided in her before. And when I was at my worst, she offered up a piece of advice: buy some running shoes and go for a run. She rattled off the science and research, but I continued to doubt. At my best, I wasn’t a runner, and after five years of post-military gluttony, I had gained 60 pounds. I wasn’t stocky anymore. I was fat and heavy.
I was skeptical, but I was also desperate. I bought a pair of running shoes and went for a run. After a half-mile, I was winded, sweating, and exhausted. I walked back home, feeling defeated.
That night, I collapsed into my bed, and the dreams didn’t come.
* * *
It was too late to stop running. I had come too far. The woods seemed to flow by me like a river, blurred by the sweat in my eyes. My ankles, knees and muscles ached. Each running step on the trail required concentration. Any distraction would lead to a root or a branch tripping me up.
Ahead of me, I saw other runners. Like me, they had a slight smile that looked a little odd on a sweaty, red face. They had a glow about them. I passed the nine-mile marker and knew the finish was around the next bend. I increased my pace.
As I approached the finish line, strangers started to cheer for me. Music and the buzzing of conversation filled the air. I wasn’t finishing ahead of the pack, but I was finishing. And finishing was the only requirement to receive support.
I crossed the finish line a few feet behind another runner. He turned around and gave me a hug. We were both beaming from our success and newfound camaraderie. I never saw him again, but I counted him among my friends that day. I’d run hundreds of miles since putting on those running shoes years earlier, and I was thrilled to log another nine.
As I got my bearings, I saw my wife standing nearby, trying to take a picture. She was failing because our dog was doing all he could to run to me. He pulled on the leash, desperate to make sure I was safe after my absence in the woods. I gave him a hug, kissed my wife, and cheered on the others as they crossed the finish line.
That night, I was asleep before my head hit the pillow, and my dreams were happy.
— Peter J. Neiger —