On Saturday morning, my alarm chirps at 5:00 a.m. I punch the snooze button and consider turning it off completely, but in my mind, “November 11” flashes, and I know I have to get up. I have a race in less than a month, and I need to get these long runs in.
I roll out of bed and turn off my alarm. In the dark, I manage to find some shorts and a tank top to wear. I put my hair on lockdown and grab my iPhone, socks, and shoes. I double-check to make sure I didn’t put my tank top on backwards—I did that last week—and I’m out the door.
There’s not much light down at the beach at this time in the morning, so it’s just the whites of the crashing waves glowing under the moon. The start is always the toughest. I don’t know how my mom did it. She used to run in the early mornings, too. My legs are always creaky at the start, and today is no different. I feel like I’m running so fast, but when I check my watch, I can see that’s not true. I bought one of those fancy GPS running watches a few weeks ago. Since I’m training for 13.1 miles—and believe me, the .1 is important—I need to know how far I’m actually going during these practice runs. I have to run six today. Coach said if I can get to ten, I should be able to make it through a half-marathon.
Once I settle in and get past all the early wake-up agony, a peacefulness settles on me. At this point in the run, my iPhone volume is still low, so I can hear the methodical rhythm of the ocean crashing against the shore. It’s cool enough that even though I’m sweating already, the breaths still come easily, and there’s no real pain, only intermittent flutters and sparks.
The best part, though, is the feeling that I’m part of a secret club—the early morning risers. We own the darkness and the silence. I run by apartment buildings still asleep except for a lone light illuminated on an upper floor. I pass the dark silhouettes of beach houses—one after another—until I stumble upon a single lamp glowing in a window. I wonder what gets these people up so early in the morning. Is it insomnia? Maybe they’re chasing a dream, too. Or maybe they just enjoy the quiet stillness of the early mornings.
And it’s not only the people I don’t see who make me feel connected. I feel a real camaraderie with the two bikers and a couple other runners I see each weekend. I may be imagining it, but we have a bond, a shared connection at being in the same place at the same time each Saturday morning. After you pass someone every week for five or six weeks and there’s no one else around, you can’t help but notice each other.
I don’t know any of these people and probably never will, but I treasure this special secret I share with the early morning. It spurs me on, and that’s a good thing because it’s right around the halfway mark that I want to die. The natural high I’d felt just a mile before—when I felt like Wonder Woman and thought I could conquer the world—vanishes like smoke rising into the sky. Everything hurts. The pinball pain starts and shoots from my hip to my foot to my thigh. My legs gain forty pounds each, and I swear I won’t be able to make it back. I curse myself for getting up at such an ungodly hour and debate whether or not trying to achieve Mom’s goal isn’t just some stupid idea that doesn’t even matter anyway.
But I forge ahead. I stop to walk here and there, mostly on the way back, but I’m trying to push through the pain. I want to be tough. I need to be tough. So I increase the volume of my iPhone—so loud that it’s as if the headphones are connected directly to my muscles—and I let the beat of the music bring me home.
When I finish this morning, the sunlight is beginning to peek over the buildings and shine on the bike path. I lean over with my hands on my hips in order to catch my breath then walk over to the drinking fountain. I gulp down some warm water as sweat drips down my body like rainwater down a window. It’s a steady stream that probably won’t stop until I’m almost home. But it feels good. I’m happy and proud and strong.
I remember when Mom came home from her runs. I sat at the kitchen island munching on some cereal when she breezed into the room, seeming to have an electric current running through her. Even though she tried to explain, I never understood why she said she felt so good when she looked like an overripe tomato. She bounced and chirped and sang all while leaving pools of sweat everywhere she went. I couldn’t understand how she could get up so early on a weekend merely to punish herself with something that sounded like torture. She told me it made her feel alive.
As I walk back to the car this morning—not having had my best run but finishing the six miles, the most I’ve ever run in my life—I finally understand what she meant. I feel alive.
Later, Ryan is waiting for me in the parking lot when I arrive at work. He switched shifts this weekend.
“You look tired already,” he jokes and offers me a piece of his donut.
“Ha ha, thanks a lot,” I say and comment on his choice of a boring glazed donut. I don’t tell him that I was awake at five running; I haven’t shared anything about my personal life with him. I’m not ready.
Once we’re inside, we splinter off to separate jobs. Lynn decides to give me a try at walking the dogs. On our way out, I see Ryan has the honor of cleaning the cages today. He pretends to shoot me with the hose, and I laugh.
I leash up a tiny brown terrier mix first. His name is Pepper, and he is extremely friendly. Lynn accompanies me and recites all sorts of guidelines. It’s not as simple as just walking a dog. I’m going off grounds with rescue dogs of all different temperaments. This means there are a lot of if-thens I have to know. There’s even a special way to hold the leash and special commands I need to use.
We walk outside the back of the property and into a beautiful neighborhood behind the shelter, lined with trees and tiny old Monopoly houses. It’s quiet except for the occasional rustle of leaves. Midway through, Lynn hands Pepper’s leash over to me. I guess I pass the test the rest of the way because when we return, she says I’m ready to continue on my own and she walks away to the office.
I put the leash on the dog from the next stall, a little Chihuahua named Buddy. I get him out of the gate and into the neighborhood. I stop a few times right away to adjust the leash so I’m holding it correctly. Buddy jumps on my leg as if to say, “C’mon already. Let’s go!”
“Okay, okay,” I say, crouching to let him sniff my hand. When he gives it the okay, I give him some scratches behind the ears. He licks my arm, and I swear he smiles at me.
I rise, and Buddy leads the way. I think I’m supposed to keep him right next to me, but he’s so excited to lift his leg on every tree and plant, I don’t have the heart to rein in his fun.
When Buddy’s turn is over, I take the rest of the dogs in his row. Mia, the Pomeranian mix, tries to chase a butterfly. Boomer, the shih tzu-terrier mix, rolls on his back in the middle of someone’s lawn, and Jimmy, another Chihuahua, nearly pulls my arm out of the socket chasing every squirrel in the neighborhood.
After I put a whimpering Jimmy back in his pen, I turn the corner to the next row of stalls. The first one had been empty, but now it’s not, so I start with that dog. It’s a larger German Shepard mix; his name placard says Hunter.
“Hey, Hunter. Do you want to go for a walk?” I carefully unlock the cage and step inside with the leash. I’m more of a small dog person, so my hands quiver a little as I attach the leash. Before we’re even out of the stall, Hunter is tugging and bucking. I struggle a little with his weight but manage to get the leash secured correctly and lead him to the back gate. From down the way, Ryan gives me a worried look, but I flash a thumbs-up and head out the back.
We’re not two steps out when Hunter takes off, yanking my arm with him. I take back control, but he continues. He jerks and bucks, and I give the leash a gentle tug and repeat, “Easy, Hunter. Easy.” He tries to chase a squirrel, but it’s not as cute as when Jimmy did it. I think Hunter wants to rip the squirrel to shreds then eat its bones. He barks at a biker riding by whom I also think he wants to devour bones and all.
Moments later, he sits down, and I can’t get him back up. I lean down slowly with my hand open like they taught me, but Hunter snarls. It’s so menacing that I jump back, and this makes him bark at me. I try to coax him, but he won’t budge. I give the leash a little pull and nothing. My heart races and a thread of perspiration unwinds down my back. Hunter continues to growl anytime I approach him. I try again, and he barks and nips at the space right next to my hand. Full panic mode sets in. My eyes search frantically up and down the street for someone, anyone who can help me, but there’s only a single leaf tumbling down the sidewalk. My hand instinctively reaches into my back pocket even though I know my phone is in the employee break room. What do I do? I’m all alone with this obstinate dog that hates me. I need help. I can’t do this.
And then Hunter becomes a symbol for my entire life. I can’t do this all alone. I can’t be in this strange place trying to do everything on my own. Grandma needs more help than I can give her. And what am I thinking that I can run thirteen miles just because I’ve run six? That’s not even half. And like this minimum wage job is going to fund a trip to Greece? I can’t do this. I’m not a survivor; I’m a remnant, a leftover piece of shrapnel. I should’ve gone to Michigan and been that fragile bird everyone wanted me to be. My whole family is dead. That’s what I should be: a fragile bird with broken wings.
The tears burn and fill my eyes until they’re ready to burst. And they might have if I didn’t hear a familiar voice yell out from a few houses away.
“Loukas! Hey!” Ryan is running in my direction. I turn away and quickly fan my face. The tide ebbs.
Ryan slows as he approaches and takes the leash from me. “It’s okay,” he says gently. I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or the dog.
“Hey Hunter,” he says and opens his hand. There’s a treat in it, and Hunter gets up. Ryan commands him to sit. Then he says, “Hunter, come.” Hunter takes a step forward, and Ryan gives him the treat. Ryan and Hunter continue this ritual down the sidewalk, and I follow.
When Ryan has him walking without the treats, he says, “I can’t believe Lynn didn’t tell you to skip Hunter. He’s super temperamental. When I saw you leaving with him, I knew what was going to happen. Sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I had to finish the cage I was in because Jupiter was back from his vet appointment earlier than expected.”
I can only muster a smile and some nodding. I follow behind Ryan and Hunter back to the shelter, grateful to have been saved but not quite sure my internal meltdown is over.
Ryan finished his cleaning, so he walks the next few dogs with me. Gradually, I back off my meltdown ledge as he tells stories and we talk about school. We compare the odd teachers we’ve had and talk about college applications. He jokes with me that the most stressful part of the application process is the ethnicity choice. His dad is African-American mixed with Italian and Scandinavian, and his mom is half-Chinese. He also tells me about the non-profit he either wants to work for or start one day that matches emotional support dogs with veterans.
Ryan’s eyes shine the same whether he’s talking about helping veterans or being the MVP of last year’s basketball team. One minute I’m mesmerized by his fiery passion and the next I’m doubled over in laughter at some silly image he’s planted in my head. Even the few moments of silence feel like a warm blanket around my shoulders. Now that he’s becoming a friend, I want so much to tell him all about me—who I am and why I’m here in California. But I don’t really want to be that fragile bird. I like the way he looks at me now, and I like how I feel in this moment. So I stay silent and enjoy this time as a regular girl.