Thursday, April 17, 2008

Master of My Domain





Last month I traveled to Europe for the first time. Week one was spent in Belfast, where runner types were conspicuously absent. Next stop: London, where it was hard to avoid them.

My last day there, I managed to squeeze in a morning run. While winding through idyllic Hyde Park, I met runner after runner; each time, a familiar feeling tugged at me, one I traced back to August's trip to Missoula, to January's stay in Santa Monica, to last year's rendezvous with Madison, Wisconsin. In sum, to most anyplace I'd ever donned a pair of running shoes--anyplace that wasn't home.

The feeling: Reverence, homage paid to the resident runners of a stomping ground that isn't my own.

As I skirted the ovular fountain, memorial to Princess Diana, I thought about the red-vested, thirty-something guy, presumably a Brit, whom I'd just passed. What went through his mind when the momentous stone structure entered his sight? Anything? Maybe it's the Serpentine, lake at the park's center, that holds special significance for him. Or maybe it's something less obvious, something that only he is privy to: a particular grove of trees, a certain house on the periphery of the green.

Regardless, I exchanged several looks over the course of my run. On my end, these looks were meant to convey respect, a quiet acknowledgment of the relationship that my British counterparts have with their environment as experienced through running. In my way, I was thanking them, masters of their domain, for allowing me to share, and enjoy, their turf.

It's different at home. When it's my own turf I'm treading, I've been known to get a little, erm, possessive. I have a tendency to act as though certain landmarks along my tried-and-truest routes--the gnarled tree stump that bears an uncanny likeness to the plastic trolls my Norwegian grandmother hordes, the row of poplars that takes me back to the home of my childhood, the city street on which I was running when I had that minor epiphany--grant me some sort of ambiguous territorial claim.

"So where do usually run?" I ask, addressing my new coworker upon learning that she, too, is a runner.

"Well, I'm a big fan of the Belt Parkway trail in Brooklyn, been running there for years. You ever run it?"

"Um, yeah. That's actually my all-time favorite running spot," I reply, a slight edge to my tone.

I was jealous--frankly, a predictable reaction. After all, when I look back on my running career to date, it isn't the PRs that come to mind, it's the unswerving relationships I've formed with my surroundings as I've worked to achieve them. Unfortunately, relationships, particularly those of the romantic variety, tend to invite jealous feelings into the mix. In the case of my running, a part of my life with which I'm very much in love, I wanted that trail--that is, the fondness I’d developed for it--all to myself.

What I need is to get the whole sharing thing down, take a mental trip back to kindergarten to re-learn this basic life skill. Of course other runners have bonded with the same sights as I--the retro diners, quaint cafes and Gothic style cathedrals, cattail-flanked duck ponds and Saturday morning Little League games--but this shouldn't detract from my own unique experience. The comfort should lie in the understanding that no two relationships are identical, including those that exist between person and place.

I've been practicing. Take the other day for instance.

I'm running through Brooklyn's Prospect Park--my old standby route. A familiar runner approaches, a guy I've crossed paths with a dozen or so times in the last few months. In addition to my typical restrained nod, I summon a little something extra: a small smile and sustained blink of the eyes. It's my 'reverential look' and it's intended to express the same thing here as it did in London and Portland and Sedona: respect. Regard for one runner's distinctive relationship with, this time, our turf.

Posted by princess kanomanom @ 8:06 AM