12/2/2022: 7.12 Miles
I was bored with the idea of running so I decided to run to my old cross country home course, Larz Anderson Park. A fun loophole with running alone: When you can’t build up the motivation to run, just run somewhere that you haven’t been in a while, and think of it as more of a trip than a run. Then you’re checking of two things on your to do list at the same time. Multitasking!
Unless you live in South Brookline, it’s quite a hike up to Larz as it’s one of the highest points in town. If you climb up the big hill in the park, you can look out and see a great view of Boston. The grass is always green there, and the rows of trees establish the different landscapes and territories of the pretty park. It’s a surprisingly extravagant display of nature for a mostly urban environment.
But I didn’t wander through the fields today, and I didn’t climb the hill. Instead I came to the entrance of the place and I leaned against the fence. Looked to the left, at the woodchip path that defined a stretch of the cross country course. That wasn’t always here. Looked to the right, at the old outhouses and the playground behind it. When will it all rust away?
Ever since I came home for this short respite from the west and started this blog, I’ve been thinking carefully about my high school running career in the hopes that I could capture its essence and inject it into my words. I ran around the same ponds and buildings that I did every week back then, and noted how each step landed both now and then. I looked deep into the eyes of my high school teammates and tried to understand their perceived vision of Tim the high schooler, still reflected in their eyes after all these years. And I read older, rougher words of mine that were written about problems of the distant past, and I tried to relearn how to empathize with that boy. I think I’m ready to write the story of that boy.
At Larz, I looked ahead, to the field that stretched out before me before dropping away in a yield to a steep hill. It was 10 meters in front of me that my coach said the words that would commit me to this sport; 20 where I lined up for a race that I thought I would win. 40 meters ahead was where I finally passed my first long-term rival after two years of being unable to match him. 80 meters where I dedicated a time trial to someone who never cared about me. 200 where I questioned what I was still doing with this sport, 400 where I rediscovered the reason why, and that cycle would repeat over every 400 meters of this course, and meter 517 is where I ran with someone who encouraged me to pass him and meter 612 is where I extended my hand hopelessly towards those I could not hope to beat and meter 684 is where I wondered fleetingly if I would have the energy to finish my homework tonight and meter 685 is where I decided it didn’t matter and meter 777 is where the course bends out of my present line of sight but I kept looking forward, forward, forward, so far forward that I looked through everything that occurred from this one starting point, looked over it all until my vision wrapped all the way around the planet and then I looked at where I am now, after the whole journey, and I looked into my heart and I could see reluctance mixed with resolve and pride mixed with shame. And in that dissonance I saw humanity. If possible, I believe humanity ought to be shared when we know a story that possesses it.
Flashback #2 is coming soon, and Tim is still running.
I like this one!