Running on the Rock (NJ3)


I do not classify myself as an exceptional runner, but I intend to improve my ability to run and, therefore, the quality of my runs throughout the next year.  I remember sprinting “the mile” during elementary school physical education, giving every ounce of effort I had.  In middle school, I remember running “the mile,” but my pace felt slower for that race compared to the mile in elementary school.  In high school, I jogged the mile, this time even slower than middle school.  This was not due to ability but rather the inevitable circumstances surrounding P.E. After all, how unnatural it would be for me to sweat in a class dedicated to physical activity. Really though, sitting in the next class sweating from P.E. the period before is not on the top of the “my favorite things to do” list. Now as a senior in college, I run to revert back to my memory of the elementary school mile and those days of endless energy and persistent physical exertion without reserve. Following this broad pattern, I can only expect that I will one day reach a chapter where the mile is not a sprint, a run, or a jog, but a walk. Today, however, I feel far closer to the energetic child than the man that can only walk the mile.

Harnessing this energy, I began my first steps along the gravel path juxtaposed to the calm Trinity river.  With each of these beginning steps, my Achilles tendon screamed from the unexpected pressure my body exerted onto it. I had only taken a few steps before stopping to massage the interior of my heel working up towards my calf muscle.  I felt my tendon loosen as I forced my fingers to knead the painful areas.  After stretching and beginning again, slower this time, the pressure along my Achilles began to disappear. I focused on taking one step, right, then another, left, one more step, right, and again, left. I have always noticed how slow time passes immediately following the start of my runs. Gradually, time slipped away just as the aches in my joints disappeared from my consciousness.

The pops of my ankles following each step acted as a personal metronome for my pace although I still grasped my phone that displayed time elapsed, pace, and distance traveled. With every pop, I inevitably fell into a deeper rhythm following the natural cadence.  My awareness slid from the environment around me to the wandering thoughts inside my head.  Suddenly, the gravel from the ground beneath me reminded me where I was.  My foot grazed a larger piece of rock.  The awkward connection between my foot and the earth turned my ankle inward. While stumbling to regain my balance, my awareness immediately returned to my surroundings in the present moment.  Focusing again on following one foot after the other, I took notice of the gravel beneath each shoe before I took the next step where my eye refocused on another chunk of the ground.

In my head, I picture gravel as grey shards of crushed rock deposited on roads throughout the countryside.  I find this grey gravel along the undeveloped roadways of rural Nebraska, at least.  The gravel my feet contacted, by contrast, resembled the opposite of my mind’s stereotypical gravel. From beige to brown to silver to black, this gravel had diverse sizes in addition to its range of colors.  I had experienced that range of sizes when one of those larger rocks reminded me I was not traversing the uniform world of manufactured concrete, but rather I was traveling earth’s rock worn down by hundreds traveling before me.  When my foot contacted the ground, the gravel beneath presented a malleable framework that challenged my balance. I thought about how many little pebbles sit underneath my shoe with each stride. All this variability yields a new experience on every contact. Every time I push against them, the pebbles shift slightly. I wonder if anyone or anything may ever experience an identical step. This reciprocal dance between my feet and the earth maintain my attention because I know any lapse might result in the gravel’s gentle reminder that this environment is not perfect. Of course, I guess it all depends on how you define perfect. I find it special that this gravel has been shaped by people, machines, rain, wind, and even me.


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