Away We Go: Drift and Return

When I first moved to Oklahoma, it was a fall tradition to run this race alongside the river. It was sometimes sleeting and others searing. On brand for this state. The initial goal was to finish, then to achieve a time, then to achieve a better time. But this year was different because it was likely my last.

Starting lines are magical places. There is top 40 pump-up music, shivering people of all shapes and sizes underdressed for the weather, worries and excitement swirling above the crowd. This particular race starts downtown and thousands of cushioned rubber soles brought more energy in the minutes before the gun than the high-heeled office denizens did in a week. Everyone’s exhalations were visible, a manifestation of that energy dissipating in a cloud.

I was doing this race with a group of friends that met at dark thirty am a few days a week. This morning we stood in an awkward circle making small talk, cuing up music and blowing on chilly fingers. Then the gun went off and it took a full two anticlimactic minutes to reach the actual start line. Walking when you know you’re in for an hour of running is strangely restraining. Then we were off, dodging and weaving among all the feet flowing in the same direction.

This group of women were used to watching the sunrise and finishing in the dark. We talked about all things inconsequential and deeply personal. It’s hard not to spill your guts when you’re moving in symmetrical rhythm and its dark enough that staying upright is all you really need to process and it’s a path your legs have memorized. There’s no one else awake and it feels like secrets will stay that way.

We were all in the light on race morning and we had all decided to run at our own pace. I started with a friend. Side by side and not far from the rest of the group (at least at first). Thousands of others were around us and looking ahead at a dip in the road there was a river of humans proceeding on foot. Light chitchat seemed more appropriate than our deep dark conversations so that’s what we did. The crowd spread out and the first third was done as the muddy river rippled beside us.

She told me to go ahead so at the first turnaround. I drifted off into the crowd. Saw faces I knew, the benefit of many years in a smallish town. Chatted with a few strangers. Said thank you to the water stop helpers. Waved at my family by the side of the road. Comfortable in the knowledge my people were out there and that I was a part of something both large and temporary.

I’m not much prone to it but got a little teary as I heard my name called when I crossed the finish pads. The end of this race was on the same road I had walked, run, biked, and driven to get to our office almost every day of my working adult life. This place was unmistakably familiar but no longer mine. A new starting line was on the horizon but neither the beginning nor the end would be as definitive as the event I just did.

I started with friends and finished by myself. I soaked up as much as I could in the middle. My group was waiting for me at the finish line but each one of us was different by then. We were all changed by the miles covered. We had done it together but not beside each other.

This is how I would be relating to the people I was about to leave. I wouldn’t be meeting them in the dark very many more times. Our connection would morph into something as yet uncertain.

It would be different. But it would still be.

This story inspired by events in Tulsa, Oklahoma.