At first glance, this is one of too many started and left to rot blogs littering cyberspace. Each time I thought about a new post, I reasoned that there was something higher priority on the To Do list. Often, there was, but excuses are all the same. My new plan is to make the goal more manageable. This will be a space for observation about running, and maybe some other musings, in Oklahoma. When I'm inspired to write something more, I will. Most of the time, I won't and I will try to limit the guilt from that, which has kept me away for so long.
I've been back on the ground in Stilly now for a couple of weeks. After spending too much money and getting no results at physical therapy this summer in Michigan for my Sciatica (best guess) I'm, for the moment, running through the pain. That worked well in Michigan, but I'm battling now. Maybe passing other runners in neighborhoods and especially on the weekend on the bike paths helped me deal with the pain, but I'm struggling now as I shuffle through the empty streets just after sunrise. I'm cheered on or maybe it's jeered at as I pass dogs in their yards, warning me to keep moving or pleading with me to pause and visit with them.
I have moved to the other side of town, across both Main and Perkins. My new basic route, which can be as short as three miles, as long as six, or neither and be a warmup and cool-down with hill repeats in between begins on the streets and loops through two parks in an effort to include some softer terrain. Call me crazy, but Oklahoma streets feel harder on the joints than those up north. Does the heat melt the asphalt and then fuse it back together more solidly? Do the mild winters keep it from breaking down? I have no science to back this up, but my legs tell me it's true. Or maybe it's the unfriendly cant of the roads and the uneven shoulders I'm forced onto where there are no sidewalks and vehicles refuse to give me any berth or yield.
The empty morning parks do offer me solitude, which, as a running group failure many times over, is what I seek afterall and the rare, lush visage of Oklahoma this late summer does fuel me. The grass is always greener and in this case, I can't wait for it to yellow. The abundant rains have swamped the grounds of my route and while I'm not squeamish when it comes to wet feet, the run in sponge-soaked sneaks, sloshing with each footfall is not desirable. The tall grasses hide their swampy roots and my wandering mind fails my steps.
Most days, I run through the parks without encountering anyone else, but a few times a week I see an old man and his two cranky old dogs, one Chihuahua and an arthritic yellow lab mix. The lab shuffles along off-leash and emits a low growl, but never looks up from the ground while the Chihuahua scurries around, hyperactive and always pressing the bounds of its taught leash, yipping and baring its teeth at me. The man never says good morning. Sometimes I look towards him and think I will if I catch his eye, but he's always wrangling the Chihuahua and anyway, I've gotten out of the habit of pleasantries since moving to Stillwater. Small town American friendliness is nowhere to be found on my runs here.
So this morning, I doubt I looked up. I slogged off the dirt and gravel path into the wet grass to avoid the sharp little teeth of the Chihuahua and just before we passed each other, the man spoke up.
"Watch your step around the corner, honey, it's puddles everywhere."
I was so surprised to hear from him that I had to call my thanks back over my shoulder after I found my voice. I did my best to splash lightly around and through the standing water on the next section of path, but there wasn't much relief and as I headed across the next wooden footbridge, my sneaks sucked and spewed the excess water. My footfalls were audibly soggy through the next park, back through the first and along the roads back to my house, but the feeling and the sound didn't bother me quite so much and my legs felt fresh and stronger than they had since I'd arrived back here to the plains. And while my mind was afforded a break from pity over my body, it occurred to me that my practice is a foreign one to most people here. I'm either strange or intimidating or just unknown. What the old man did to reach out to me, was quite something, but from here on out I'm taking responsibility. I'm the alien, the foreigner and it's up to me to change that. Next time I'll extend my hand, or to avoid a sweaty exchange in this case, a morning pleasantry.
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