Catt Scratches

I thought my next long run would be on October 14th, but on Saturday after pilates, my trainer asked me what my running plans were for the weekend. I said, I’m done running until the marathon. She looked at me as if she thought I didn’t understand the question. She asked when my last run was, I told her this past Tuesday, she shook her head, I could feel her disappointment at my lack of commitment. “No, I think you need to run ten miles tomorrow and maybe a five on Tuesday and another short run before Sunday.”

“(Four letter word referring to a common sexual practice!)” I thought to myself. I thought that I was just resting my quads for a week. I resigned myself to another run, thinking at the same time, it’s cooled off now, it’s cooler in Maine and maybe I need to get used to it a little bit.

On Sunday, I had a coffee date scheduled for 11:00 am which meant that my run had to be before or after that. The process of interviewing potential partners in life seems endless. Someday either I or the interviewee will make an offer that the other one will accept. We met at a Starbuck’s in Park Ridge, a neighboring suburb, and sat outside for an hour. It was freezing, but the church crowd monopolized the inside tables. I wished for a moment that Catholics believed caffeine use to be a sin, instead of, well, practically everything else. Then I realized, they’d be there anyway and confess later.

I was chilled thoroughly as coffee concluded and made a quick grocery store stop for some fuel for the run. I got home and sat in my chair contemplating a nap and dreading the cold run. The reluctance to run mounted. I didn’t know what running clothes to wear. If I wore winter running tights I would get hot after a couple of miles; if I wore shorts and a tank top, I’d be fine after a while but the first four miles would be harsh.

I didn’t actually slap myself but I shook my head as if to realign the gears therein. Shoot, Jill. You’re a midwesterner. It’s just the weather. Just get off your ass and dress in layers and peel them off as required. Some people drink too much; I just think too much.

I realized that like grief, running had a similar four stage process. Instead of denial, anger, despair and acceptance, I dealt with laziness, inertia, fear and motion. When all is said and done, I snap my head to attention like a cartoon character and suit up. By the time I have the second sneaker laced, my hesitation blues have faded into memory.

I drove to mile one of the forest preserve run, figuring to maximize the sunshine of my run. The woods of mile zero to one could be pretty chilly. It seems ridiculous to complain, moan and scheme, because it was only 50 degrees not 30 or even 40, but it was the first fifty degree day of fall, and there was a wind chill factor! Okay, that doesn’t excuse my wimpyness, it just explains it. I started to strap on my Ipod and I realized it was out of juice. No rock and roll to keep a beat as I ran. I’d have to concentrate on the world around me without focusing on the pounding of my feet on the path.

Hence the title, Silent Running. (Hey, you try to figure out cutesy titles all the time!)

Just as I get ready to run, my trainer texted me, “Did you run yet? I just did five miles inside! I’m glad that’s done!” I explained the coffee date and said I was getting ready to rock and roll right now. She asked me about the date and I gave the short version.

I was glad for the check in: it made me feel coached. Like the coach wanted to check on her talent. More than that, I felt loved.

The first mile was cold but the cold distracted me from the initial exertion of energy. The second mile was about mechanics; am I lifting my feet, are my arms pumping, are my toes comfortable, are my sun-glasses necessary — just a general visual and sensual survey. The third mile I start to get into the swing of it. Look at the trees, try to hear the conversations of the people who pass me on bike and who I pass on foot, listen to the birds, check out the shapes of the clouds. The familiar sights appear in view – the wall of the maintenance building covered in ivy and the words FUCK YOU! I always say Fuck you too! as I pass. The three glades, the deer, the dip before the Caldwell Bridge, then the bridge itself, which I call the Bridge of Death. I tell myself that if I stop running or try to walk across the Bridge of Death, blue flames will shoot out from underneath and burn me like a pile of leaves.

Mile three to four is woodsy and pleasant, Four to five is the same. Five to six takes me out along Dempster and if I time the lights right, I get like a two minute rest. I got enough time to stretch and then I was off. If I may say so, five to six was run brilliantly, but I was startin to flag. On the way back, six to five started to feel tedious so I started brain games. First, I tried to remember the names of everybody in my eighth grade class. It was a class of 60 people but I got to 57 names. Then, high school, first year, then the name of every high school teacher then the name of every college teacher. Six to five zoomed by; before I knew it, I was out of the woods and into the clearing. Five to four was law school teachers and every concert I ever attended. That reminded me that I had no music so I stopped brain games and concentrated on running. I took a couple of 100 yard breaks between miles three to one but I finished running and in 2 and a half hours. I felt pretty strong still. I could have gone a couple more. I texted E with the totals.

If I can do the same next week, I’ll finish in a little over 6 hours, which would be better than last year. But next week, is going to be different. It’s going to be a thing of beauty in a place of amazing beauty. The things that frighten me will again fade away as I lace up my sneakers.