The Next Light Pole
I was exhausted.
I’d spent the whole day—day 38 of 40—at home with my son as he recuperated from a broken leg suffered after getting hit by a car. There were video games played, and Lego structures built. He had a friend over in the morning, and a teacher came in the afternoon. We walked to our local library for story time. And there was the constant attention. If he was hungry, I brought him food. If he was thirsty, I brought him water. If he needed to go to the bathroom, I held the urinal and aimed the stream.
I’d been up since a quarter-to-five and had eaten nothing but three day-old chicken wings and a slice of pizza for a late lunch at 2pm. So at nearly 7pm, when I got the chance to get out of the house, even for just a half an hour, I took it. I laced up a pair of running shoes, strapped on a head lamp, and started running.
Like most of my runs these days, I felt great just having gotten out the door. Clear skies and a mid-40s temperature made for perfect running weather, and despite my forgetting my gloves my hands didn’t feel cold. My breathing was not rushed, and I felt like my stride was fluid and relaxed.
That feeling continued for the first couple miles of what would amount to a four mile run. I felt wonderful. Better than wonderful. Great! I felt like my old running self, strong, fluid, easy stride; relaxed breathing; leading with my core, running from my chi. I had the first running revelation I’ve had in a number of years, a hope/dream/belief: I still have something in me; I’m still a runner. With the right training, the right motivation, the right discipline, and most importantly the will, I thought I might have some masters records in me. At a minimum, I knew in that moment that my running life was not over. That this was only the first run of the next phase.
I felt amazing.
Until I didn’t. A mile later I felt terrible. Awful, really. As in, this was an awful idea and I was an awful person for thinking of it. I hadn’t run at night in a year, maybe more, and for a half a mile there I felt like I was in the midst of a 100 mile run, it was the middle of the night, and I was getting delirious. I thought I was stumbling, bumbling, shuffling, sideways running fool. I was winded and tired and my legs seemed to not want to carry me anymore.
And that’s when I ran into my second running revelation of the evening—perhaps even a re-revelation. I looked up and saw a circle of yellow light shining on the pavement at the end of the elementary school driveway. It was about 200 yards away, and I told myself I was just going to run to that light.
When I first began my running life 20 years ago, I was a smoker who hadn’t run a step in six years. But I was ready to make a change, to do something different. During long training runs for my first marathon, when I was feeling particularly tired or ready to stop, I would play a trick on myself. I would give myself a goal post, something I could see. A stop sign at the end of the street, or a particular mailbox. I would put all my focus on reaching just that point, and when I got there I would immediately find the next goal post, and on and on until the feeling of being tired left me or until I was back home.
It was a small goal, but when I hit that light I immediately found my legs again. I felt strong again, my legs were carrying me again. And now it wasn’t about the hope of running a 100 mile race again, or a 50 miler, or even a marathon. It was simply about that run, and getting to that next goal post.
I found another at the top of a short hill that led to the downtown strip of Main Street. I let all my worries and fears of being too old or too tired or too weak or too lazy or too anything—I let all of them go so I could put one foot in front of the other and make it to the tree by the church. And then I saw the visitor’s center another 200 yards away, and I ran to that.
And then the whole world felt manageable. Working on a story that has dogged me for months suddenly seemed feasable, and when I got home I pulled out the laptop and started writing. I gave myself a goal post that had nothing to do with story or characters or plot. It was simply to let myself get immersed in that world for ten minutes and to simply write what I saw.
That goal post passed quickly so I kept going, and going, and going, and before I knew it an hour had passed and I’d managed to write out the skeleton of a first scene.
When the run was over I stood at the car in the cold and took deep, slow breaths. I was winded, and the last mile was tough, but I was more sure of myself as a runner, as a writer, and as a person, than I had been in a long time. Life isn’t always about reaching the finish; most of the time, it’s about the journey it takes to get there.
Sometimes all it takes to start is to get to the next light pole.
