Laugh at Me Running
You may want to laugh at me, that’s OK—
It was on my training plan.
I’m used to the sideways glances,
the double-takes from dog walkers and delivery drivers
as I shuffle by at dawn,
sweating profusely,
wearing as little as possible,
in colors that clash on purpose
because I want to be seen, and they were on sale.
You’ve probably seen me,
arms flailing in some wild attempt at “form drills,”
or skipping or walking in place at a red light,
because stopping completely would mean “losing my momentum”,
and, let’s be honest-- it wasn’t on the training plan!
I am surely training for something
that demands me looking like this—
a race you’ve never heard of,
with a medal I’ll wear around town, cherish for a week
and then hang on a doorknob,
and clank every time I open the closet.
You may have caught me
staring at my wrist,
so engrossed in my GPS watch
that I run straight into a mailbox,
or a low-hanging branch,
once, a near miss with a very patient cat.
(and a pulled hammy as it sauntered away, no doubt laughing at me)
Yes, I wave at strangers with the enthusiasm
of a politician on parade—
because we runners have a code:
if you cross paths you acknowledge that stranger,
even if you’re both gasping for air
struggling for "hi" with a nonchalant nod at the top of a hill.
Laugh. That's OK-- I do have gels and beepers
tucked into places that would confuse a TSA agent,
and yes, I have mastered the art of drinking from a cup while running...
which mostly means spilling it down my shirt, or on my shoes,
and pretending it’s part of the plan.
You might see me "stretching and strengthening" unproductively at a park bench,
grimacing in ways that alarm small children,
or talking to myself—
perhaps negotiating with my legs,
promising them rest and carbs if they just get me home from my long run.
Yes, my toenails are often a mosaic of black and blue,
and I can recite the location and reputation of every public restroom
within a ten-mile radius of my home...
And yet, despite all my careful planning and laughable evidence to the contrary,
I often take myself far too seriously—
debating shoe models like a rocket scientist,
agonizing over split times
when really, my only prize for all this effort... a banana?
If I’m lucky, a knick-knack age group award on my dusty shelf?
OK, I’m in!
So yes, you may want to laugh at me,
and that’s OK— it is all pretty funny.
But along the way I made a few friends
who are just as stalwart, quirky and ridiculous as me.
And maybe, after all, some laughter is exactly what was on the training plan.
by Mark Lane-Holbert
