Bonnie Park

I wrote this essay a year ago in a creative writing course.  At the time it was just a slew of anger typed out on a page but now I realize that it was the motivation that pushed me through the last year of training.  I still hold a little bit of that anger, but that’s just the stubborn Irish in me.  To those that run, I hope you can relate this to your own therapeutic, mind-wandering runs. To those that don’t, yes we are crazy, and no, we wouldn’t change it for the world.

 

 

I’m not even quite there but the right hand turn is comforting. The backside of the park creeps up and through the trees are peaks of the pavilion nestled between two oak trees. My spot, three down from the gate, welcomes me in‐‐ I park. Crinkled leaves litter the freshly mowed grass. A puddle stands beneath the drinking fountain, where the side faucet has leaked. The Rocky River splashes along the edge of the bank as a biker rides along the concrete‐laid path.

While the marked pathway will easily guide you along your way, I prefer the back trails. Every twist and turn, hill and muddy patch, I’ve been through. I love the way the western trail floods every time it sprinkles, erasing footprints from the days before. And how the spray‐painted mustangs on the birch trees welcome you to the eastern rolling hills.
It’s funny how to strangers the distance travelled can drag on, but I can point out each marker. The sharp right is the second mile, a stump sits at the third. For a distance runner home is the familiar path that puts you at ease; where the air forced in and out of your lungs doesn’t raise your heart beat, but allows it to sink into a rhythm, coinciding with your feet along the dirt.

This is where I fell in love with the sport, eight years ago. A spike in adrenaline sends a chill down my spine, raising the hairs on the nape of my neck. My quads tense in anticipation. They’re itching for the hills, the challenge to keep stride while fighting the lactic acid burn. Last time I was here it had been summer, humidity so thick it formed a sheet to pass through. Now the chilly air breezes by the park, taking the last remains of summer blossoms with its gust. The wingstems surrounding the pond have all lost their petals, geese are preparing to depart for their travels south. There’s something refreshing about the park on mornings like these when only a few cars are scattered in the lot. The trails aren’t polluted with conversations, or stroller moms’ music buzzing to the beat. This silent sanctuary opens up a niche for your mind to unravel‐‐to run free.

The limbo between seasons allows for the rare freedom to run the pace my feet decide on. Months spent meticulously controlling runs are erased. Warm autumns like we’ve had make the brisk cold winds of winter seem sharper than they should. But I enjoy the crisp air. The way it pierces my lungs‐‐ that’s the sensation we’re after.

A tug at my hair tie and I’m off bounding into the woods. In front of me a flock of swallows scavenging for fallen seeds disperse as I approach. A sharp right sends me deeper into the trees, where the sun’s rays faintly slice through the canopy. The first hill is in sight, I laugh‐‐ almost forgot how steep it is. Loose stones fall down the elevation as my feet push against them. The top brings a sense of relief—the worst one is out of the way. As I sync into a rhythm, my feet move forward while my mind wanders off. Glimpses of idealized races often bounce in and out of runs. It’s Wisconsin, the only uphill finish in our schedule. On track for a huge PR, I’m sprinting the final stretch as cheering fans beckon the runners to the finish. I fly past trees like each one knocks a point off our score. But as I cross the line, the fantasy blurs into reality and the trail welcomes me further into its darkness. I was the only distance runner on the team to not race a 6k last season. A lump gathers in my throat, I speed up and then it fades away.

A mustang comes up on my left, the stream trickles over cobblestones as I ease into the turn. Magazine articles promote the practice of running on positivity, but how can I avoid the haunting memories of disappointment when they’re so readily available. And why is it easy to set goals that are somewhat intangible? A flaw I find in myself. Season ambitions are set before the season even begins. New personal bests, traveling to Big Tens, qualifying for the National Championship. Ideas are left to manifest, frequent thoughts of reaching these goals create a false sense of reality that comes crashing down when left unattained, for next year. This sport should be a healthy habit yet running is just an accepted form of self‐mutilation, for some of us at least. Tearing the body down, straddling the line between success and injury, yet not knowing exactly where the boundary lies. Or even running through an injury, ignoring the fact that your body is screaming for you to stop.

I suppose being the alternate to your goal isn’t the worst that could happen, although being the 8th woman is a lot harder to swallow than being the 9th. But again, there’s always next season, right? I glance at my watch to get an idea of the pace for those last five miles. Fast, but nothing out of my limits. Turning around for the way home, the fun begins. The test to see if you can return faster than you went out is one I love to take on. Descending down the last conquered hill, my legs take off chasing time.

The last couple hills are the worst. It’s the battle between determination and exhaustion, giving up, and getting off. The difference between becoming faster, and maintaining fitness. Success is supposed to come from hard work, effort, but what happens when life is put aside for months, just for 21 minutes of success that never comes? So much time has been spent grinding on trails, shivering in ice baths, all to run with the Block O on my chest, and my teammates by my side. The chance to drop doubters’ chins with every lap. But it never came. Five months of focus chalked up to being an alternate, the last one left behind. It’s easy to go into the next season coming off of the high from triumph, but working up to another stretch of disappointment doesn’t heighten excitement quite the same way. The wind whistles through the branches, wiping a tear from my cheek. My stride shortens and I’m climbing again.

I’m ahead of where I was on the way out, but only by a minute and some change. My legs increase the pace again before heading up the back of the last hill. The harder I exert my legs now, the faster I’ll be on the track. It’s only half a mile to go, I can push for a little longer. With that I’m surging, panting heavy—wheezing even. A disturbing sense of satisfaction that I’m near my limits. The swallows are back at their seed collecting, but they scatter at the sound of my steps. At last, the final flat stretch of the woods opens up, the pavilion is straight ahead. Once I reach the starting mark on the pavement, I hit the stop button and slowly fade my stride into a walk. Hands on my knees, pain radiates through my legs, but it’s pleasing. The last big breath of fatigue leaves my body, escaping my lungs with a sigh, and a smile.

 

picture: Bonnie Park Pavilion with some light snow covering