Originally posted 03.08.2004

Corinna pulls away from me, arms scissoring behind her at an angle, elbows bent, the waffle soles of her shoes flashing, short blond hair flopping side to side. Her feet barely touch, a staccato toe, the heel snaps back. She is second to last in our group, and I bring up the rear wondering if there are rubber bands connecting my ankles, compromising my stride. How can this be? I am fast. There are medals, trophies, plaques that say as much, boasting small, prime numbers: 7th place, 3rd female. We fly around the reservoir, digging in at the curves, and send the damp gravel up in sprays. This night, the first warm one in months, everybody wants to run, and they’ve congested the path like any other city sidewalk. Kelly calls out, “On your left!” and they squeeze politely to their right, amiable, well-mannered. I overhear snatches of conversation as I pass, and wonder what it feels like to run socially, to make a date of it. My breath jags out of my lungs, forced and raw. There are dark patches on the path, uneven and dicey and I struggle for faith to pull me through to the next pool of streetlamp light. Hopelessly behind, I slide my eyes left for my consolation prize: a glimpse at the skyline, the city like a great, jeweled fence granting me enough distance to love it. I have a membership to a New York gym, keys to a Brooklyn apartment, and the ability to pass an entire day without eye contact, but I forget I live here. In the middle of a park at night though, when I can see the forest for the trees, the city for its buildings, I slip back into first love. Finally visible, at the end of this mile, my coach stands, watch in hand, calling off the seconds as we pass.