The days have lengthened and warmed to the point that I don’t like being cooped up when my meal time rolls around, so I’ve begun walking around the base to take in the sunshine and to burn a few extra calories. Well, the other day I had a great surprise when I passed by a gate in the tall fence that surrounds us. The sign on the gate announced, “Running path. Please sign out for accountability.” What! I’d just found the magic gate that I’d heard so much about for the last five months but hadn’t been able to find, even with good verbal directions from several people. It was in an out-of-the-way spot, but still very accessible. I wrote my name on the list that hung there and pushed the gate open.
The path itself was no more than a pair of tire tracks in the brown dust, but it was soft under my feet and it felt good to walk on. I picked up my pace as three Marines ran past in their distinctive dark olive T-shirts and running shorts. “Afternoon, sir,” one of them spoke effortlessly as they flew by me. I remembered a time when I could have done the same, but not now—not after so many years. They disappeared around a corner in the path, blocked from my view by hundreds of beautiful trees, Poplars and Elms and Russian Olives. I broke into a slow jog to get my heart rate up and enjoy some benefit from the experience and I soaked in the beauty of that little, hidden path through the forest at the edge of the Siberian Steppes. Thousands of tiny grasshoppers jumped out of my way as I meandered along the soft, dusty road and the perfume of Russian Olives was heavy on the warm afternoon breeze that whispered in the leaves and the Foxtail Grass.
I was starting to labor just a little with my breathing so I slowed to a walk again as my heart pounded to rush oxygen to my burning legs. It was then that I noticed, through the veil of leaves, a white brick building—a building constructed 50 or 60 years ago by the Soviets, probably under Nikita Khruschev. The trees thinned as I approached until I discovered an entire complex of farm buildings, all painted white with blue and green trim, behind a concrete wall. There was a tall, brick barn among the storage and work sheds and all of them were in various stages of dilapidated neglect. “I need to get a picture of this,” I thought before I remembered that I can’t get a picture of anything. “Maybe just a quick sketch,” I consoled myself. I’ll be back before too long.
I noticed that my heart rate was dropping so I picked up the pace again. I kept my hands loose as I ran and I let my arms hang at a comfortable angle as they swung back and forth in rhythm with the rest of me. I learned to really run when I was three or four under the tutelage of my Dad. I can still remember his face as he demonstrated holding his forearms horizontal to the ground and pumping them, locomotive-style to the front and then to the back to get more energy and speed until it turned into hyperkinesis. Every square centimeter of his athletic frame was a picture of concentrated focus. I mimicked him, swinging my arms wildly in front of my body, back and forth across my stomach, trying to get that same determined look on my face and he laughed. “That’s it,” he roared. “You’re going to be fast!” Once on the 4th of July he entered me in a foot race at the park. It was a hundred yard dash and the winners received a quarter or a dime or a nickel, depending on their placement. I got down in my three-point starting stance, just as I’d been taught by my Dad, and watched the starter without blinking for fear that I might miss that instant when the smoke would blast out of the barrel and an instant before the sound would reach my ears. “Runners, take your marks, get set.” There was a long hesitation as the racers settled. A puff of smoke and I was off, almost a full step before I heard the pistol shot. My feet pounded the grass of the baseball diamond as I focused on the tape ahead—a tape held by two of the Magna Volunteer Fire Fighters who were sponsoring the races. I was ahead of the pack for a moment, but my spirit drooped as the entire group pounded past. I finished dead last and I was crushed. I knew that I had let my Dad down. “Don’t worry about it, Jeddy. Did you see the rest of those runners? You were only half their size and you still managed to keep up with them.” I looked at the runners and I knew that he’d just told me the truth. I was in the third grade that year and the rest of them looked like they were already shaving. I’d been on the verge of tears at the end of the race, embarrassed and hurt. My Dad pulled out his wallet and peeled a dollar bill from his cash. “You really won that race. When you’re as old as the rest of those boys, you’re going to beat every one of them.”
The humidity of the forest growth made the breeze even warmer as I plodded along the narrow tire track, quietly enjoying the break in my day and making a connection with home as I imagined the same trees growing in the hills of
My wasp stings swelled briefly but they were quickly gone. My legs burned for the rest of the afternoon but it felt wonderful. I’d been carried back home for a few minutes that day and now I’m planning to go back to my running path much more often.
