Five days after completing a personal-best 5 mile run, I attempted a 7 mile run through downtown Saint Louis and the Gateway Arch park.
Mile one: Mostly uphill from the intersection at 13th and Olive to the Arch. I feel limber at the start and begin with a slow pace. Will the foot hold, I wonder?
Mile two: It’s a crisp 70 degrees F. I feel where I injured my right foot but the pain isn’t severe enough to stop. I remember what my physical therapist told me: “It’s healed enough that you can keep going as long as the pain never crosses, say, a 4 out of 10 on your pain threshold.” I don’t have any specific length of time or distance in mind as I run around the Gateway Arch. I don’t know what my goal is. I recall a scene from Forest Gump when he runs across the country: “Momma said you can’t run from you problems, but I tried.” Or something along those lines.
Mile three: I trot down a long open stairway at the park, down to the Mississippi River, and merge paths with the Mississippi River Greenway, which stretches north to the Chain of Rocks Bridge. “You can’t do this forever,” I recall someone telling me when I described my bikepacking trip last summer. “Maybe,” I respond, “but I can accept going longer than you.” I don’t give a damn about age or “what it’s supposed to tell you.” To hell with age I say. When you’re 20 and fit, people tell you, “Just wait until you’re 26, it’s so much more difficult!” When you’re 26 they tell you, “Just wait until you’re 30!” At 30, “Just wait until you’re mid-30s!” And in your mid-30s, “Just wait until your 40s!” I’ve done fine ignoring these admonitions. The day that I can’t is not today.
Mile four: I’m feeling a little lightheaded; maybe I should have eaten before I started. I had a light lunch, but that was hours ago. I’m sweating. I find myself surprisingly angry when recollecting my 5-mile run the week before. I was an angry competitor when I was a swimmer. It helped me win a world championship gold medal. I held off the Russian relay in the prelims so that Michael Phelps could do his “Phelps” thing in the finals. I was therefore the guy on the relay that “you never read about.” I find my old competitor creeping beneath the skin. I don’t know what use it still serves to get pissed off before competing against someone. I don’t even know where my world championship gold medal actually is. I left it with my parents years ago. They may have thrown it away by mistake when they downsized, following their retirement. Maybe I should call and ask. Eh, I don’t care. I don’t like holding onto those sorts of things. Tell me about what’s next. Tell me about the Arizona mountains.
Mile five: I’m running by a homeless camp and imagining how much it would take for me to collapse. I’ve read stories of runners who collapse near the end of races. I’ve experienced my limit in swimming. At what mile would I simply keel over?
Mile six: Back to the Gateway Arch. I have a slight pain in my left hip, a dull ache in my right foot, and my breathing is raspy. I practically hurdle myself back up the concrete steps, back to the park, and run around the park trail. What is my limit? Where do I aim to go? Even now I don’t have a mile marker; I can only assume that I want to bike across some of the craziest places this world has to offer. I need to be fit to do it. But really, why am I exercising like this? Because an object in motion stays in motion. I aim to keep moving. To stop is to die. And running is a nice counter to cycling. I realize that I still have not killed my old competitor. There is a part of me still visualizing “the race” and I can’t turn it off. I am a living paradox. It’s true that I don’t run with a pacer… but I still have a pace in mind.
Mile seven: an older jogger in the park attempts to pass me. I think about how it isn’t fair that he’s probably barely a mile into his run and I’m finishing mine. I want to curse but keep myself silent and focused. He doesn’t know that I’ve been out here a long time. Life isn’t fair, my mind counters. There are people who start their run before you and people who start their run after you. There are people with better knowledge of sports science than you are more access to cutting edge equipment, and there are people with less. I’m given what I’m given. Runs are never fair. I get my route, I’m grateful for it, and I do what I can with it.
I manage the mostly-downhill jog back to my apartment. The ache in my hip and foot increased slightly, but both are manageable. My calves are tight. I now run with barefoot-style shoes. I’m tired of needing cushion just to go for a run.
I take a walk around my apartment building. I’m happy, but not satisfied. Last fall, at the apex of my injury, there were days and weeks when walking once around the building with the help of a foot brace caused excruciating pain, and every limp forward made me feel increasingly defeated. I’m far from that memory now.
I look to the east and note that the moon is a stark outline against a sliver of fading orange sky. There are worlds within its dark demarcations. It’s beautiful. In my run frenzy, I could not appreciate it. Now I can, so I sit for awhile.