The whole point of going to a running group is being with
the pack. Carry on a conversation while trying to regulate gasps of breath. Act
as though it’s nothing to sound like a heavy-breathing asthmatic as you talk
about, oh, let’s say Seattle rain.
I could have run at 7 a.m. when my alarm went off. I’d
looked out the window and the pavement was dry. With rain in the forecast for
the entire weekend, this was an opportunity.
Run for it! I told
myself. Forget Frontrunners. They don’t know you. You don’t know them.
And yet in my mind I felt I’d made a commitment. It was the
only definite part of my Seattle weekend itinerary. 9 a.m., Green Lake
Community Center, rain or shine. I am not the flake that all those other single
gay men seem to be.
Thirty minutes later, I heard the sound of car tires
swishing through puddles. I looked out my hotel window to confirm that my
hearing remains entirely adequate. No hearing aids just yet—a silver lining.
By 8:30, I began my walk to Green Lake. The half-hour stroll
provided the opportunity for a pep talk. Smile.
Be friendly. Listen more than you talk. You don’t like talking while gasping
anyway.
My legs were sore from a couple of weight workouts this week
and a swim session in which I swam the last thirty minutes with intense quad
and toe cramps. It had been foolish. Afterward, I awkwardly limped to the hot
tub as the keen new lifeguard chirped, “Great swim!” She had the good sense to
look away as I hugged the rail while bent over as leg spasms failed to relent to
the misinformed self-therapeutic prescription of hot, bubbly water.
I tacked on a pep talk addendum. Don’t try to be first. Go easy on your legs. Stay with the pack. This
is about being social.
But not too social. I paced myself so I would arrive just in
time for the group circle wherein everyone says their names. Thankfully, I didn’t
have to stand around ahead of time, listening to idle chitchat about, oh,
Seattle rain. Wouldn’t want to run out of topics before, “Go!”
I adhered to the pep talk. I smiled. I said my name several
decibels above my family’s default mumble. I even said “Hello” and laughed. To
someone’s black lab but it counts. That lab was on a leash held by an actual
person in the circle. Alas, the dog turned away, resuming squirrel patrol.
Within two minutes of my joining the circle, we dispersed.
Having run with this group three weeks ago, I knew which way to begin for the
four- or six-mile option. I recognized none of the runners, but I settled into
the back of the pack, following someone else’s pace and pretending that jogging
in the rain is pure joy. Or mildly tolerable. That’s as upbeat as I could
muster after I sloshed right through sidewalk water that I dubbed Wolf Lake.
Yes, that’s it. Stay
with the pack. Your pack.
The woman beside me said nothing. I could have introduced
myself and asked the only non-weather icebreaker I could think of: “Are you
running four or six miles?” But after three hundred yards of silence, the
moment had passed.
One guy broke away, setting a faster pace, one that I wanted
to go. No! Be social. You run alone all
the time back home.
ALL the time.
The men immediately in front of me talked about Halloween
plans. They seemed engrossed. One looked over his shoulder briefly, perhaps
annoyed that the woman and the new guy were on his heels.
By the time we’d gone half a mile, the cracks in my pep talk
became unsightly. They’re not going to
include you. Their backs are boring. Stop listening. They’re not talking to
you.
I could have imposed myself. I’d given up a few miles of dry
running for this. I should make the sogginess mean something.
But I knew I was done. The fast guy was getting away from us
and I could not recall the zigzagging route through streets and park trails. I
needed to make a quick decision: stare silently at these backs for the next fifty
minutes or catch the lead rabbit.
And so I bolted. Social experiment over. I knew the lead guy
wasn’t social either. That’s why he’d set off on his own. I caught up but then
gave him a five-yard gap. I’d get lost if I passed and I didn’t crave another
round of awkward silence.
But he cut off for the four-mile run and I veered to the
right and uphill for the six-miler. The rest of the pack was out of sight
behind me. I’d have to wing it. Run what I could recall of the route, take a
fateful wrong turn, wind up hopelessly lost and then stop and ask a police
officer or a kindly homeless man for directions once my shoes became intolerably
drenched or my feet returned to their painfully blistered state of being.
A heretofore untapped sense of direction kicked in. I
continued to jog familiar terrain—the street with roadside cement barriers that
resembled mini tombstones, the museum that I surmised was loaded with hokey dioramas,
the University of Washington’s big fountain and the forest trail that
paralleled a highway. I even made the correct meander choices through the
ravine trail, jogging under bridges I recognized.
And then when I knew I was back on the leg of the run that
was a retread from the start, I turned back in the direction of the hotel. I’d
pushed myself to a better than expected pace and I’d successfully navigated a
route that I could have sworn I would never be able to do solo. Still, I knew I’d
failed.
Specifically, I’d failed to register. At all.
Let them forget me. Let us start again next time I’m in
Seattle. I’ll refine the pep talk. I’ll get my teeth whitened. Superficial confidence!
Maybe someone will include me from the start, posing his own safe introductory
question: “Are you new here?” Yes, I’d say.
Maybe Miley or Lindsay or Britney or Justin will do
something incredibly stupid again, providing more innocuous fodder than the
weather. I’ll find a way to fit.
Or maybe I’ll bravely set off on my own trail, get lost and
finally meet an incredibly cute police officer or homeless man. As long as it’s
in the future, anything remains possible.
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