Running I
sit on the stairs in the hallway, reaching down to tie the laces of my running shoes, and Mike comes out of the office. “You running again,” he says. “Yeah,” I’m not sure if he expects a response but I reply anyway. He is in the doorway watching me as I focus on securing the double bow. When I stand he has gone, and I pick up the hall mirror from the floor, hang it on its nail and quickly check my face as I fasten my hair into a ponytail, then hide the reflection into the skirting board again, before opening the front door. A couple of months ago I realised that I hated catching a glimpse of my face every time I left the house, so I took the mirror down. Then last Sunday, everyone I ran passed stared and when I got home, and went to the bathroom to shower, I saw a smear of newsprint across my face. So now I check before I leave. The day is cloudy and warm and soon I am sweating as my feet pound the pavement. I choose my usual route: along the valley out of town, popular with runners, with only a shallow incline. It’s only when you run it that you realise it’s not flat at all. The only other alternatives are the petrol-fumed main road into town or up the steep valley sides. I used to do a little loop that took me up, up, up and away from the river and along the narrow lanes connecting the hilltop farms. The view across to the moors always widened my eyes and lifted my pumping heart, before a sudden drop took me past the school, the church, the cricket pitch and home. It was a good quick run to push myself when time was short but I was training for a half-marathon or a 10k. There is nothing to rush home for now. The late afternoon sun breaks through the clouds and glares into my eyes, so I focus on the grey tarmac and my feet. Keep moving, heel, toe, right, left. It’s like a mantra of movement: each heel connects with the ground and my foot rolls forward, before disconnecting to be replaced by the other. Connect, disconnect, connect, disconnect; it’s all I can do, over and over, keep going. Me and Mike were connected from the moment we first met, at a party, both feeling like outsiders. I’m not good at parties with lots of people, chit-chatting joke-telling laugh-louder people. I normally end up in the kitchen, and when that is full I sneak out and home. But this was my sister’s engagement party so I made the effort to stay a little longer. I’d slipped out to the garden for a bit of space, saying hi to the few smokers and tokers, and walking to the wooden bench that I knew could be found at the far end. Mike was one of the smokers and tokers. In fact, he wasn’t a smoker at all but like me had been trying to find a moment’s calm, away from the over-exuberant atmosphere. He followed and politely asked to join me. With the party muffled and just the neighbours’ dark windows watching I learned that he was an old school friend of my soon-to-be brother-in-law and knew no one else. It wasn’t long before were laughing together as we discussed the pros and cons of my sister’s music choices (indie rock and Duran Duran) and we soon persuaded each other to make our way back inside. Mike took my hand as we walked up to the house and never let go. I know we need to re-find that connection. Everyday we take furtive glances at each other, but then dis42
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edge-zine
