To Be Near Water While Running
The feeling alone hydrates your perseverance
For two weeks in July, I walked the half mile from my house to the larger of two lakes in my neck of the woods. My wife and our daughter were on the road, the humidity in North Jersey was its usual brutal self, and we hadn’t used the lakes much to that point of the summer. Plus, my mental rut required something different, so I decided to switch up the routine and show a little love and respect for water, the element I hoped could help unstuck my mind. On an arbitrary level of the ampitheater, with a smallish patch of sand in front of me and the concrete pier to the left, I’d sit and sweat.
During my first weekend alone, because I’d broken a bead and the glare was preventing me from navigating my phone, I B-lined it to the diving board and dove up, out, and deep. Sweet release, body regulated the second you break the plane, the feeling never gets old. Sidestroking to an area closer to the floating dock, I watched the action off the high dive. Then vertical and scissor-kicking to maintain location, I began to see beyond the antics and the bravery, the flips and the gainers, past the complex and the houses and the trees. To the road that I could visualize from the miles I log walking or running. The lake wasn’t bath water yet, but concerns about beach overcrowding were on full display. Still, as I rotated counterclockwise to continue my Google Earth view of the circuit from the water, I heard not a single sound over several revolutions save for my feet on the pavement. Like a car at the wash, I was getting a fresh coat of clean.
When my family returned, I’d hit my stride in my running reboot, cutting through the heat as if it were 50 degrees cooler. No PBs, but my times were solid. Consistent. Mental state trending in a positive direction, though the emptiness of August weighed like a day-old bowl of clam chowder. On a Sunday, I stopped to speak with a friend after running four miles. We caught up on kids and work for 10 minutes, but instead of easing back into my pace, I bounded away and felt a twinge on the inside of my right leg and greater discomfort where the ball and socket meet. This, a day following a butterfly stretch that might’ve gone too far. Took a few steps to find my rhythm, but throughout the mile to my house from the dam between the lakes, I put things into context and, of course, feared the worst.
I hobbled around a subset of my loops for the next two days, then my streak of at least one timed mile a day came to a halt at…the number doesn’t matter, but I was happy with the tally. I could’ve been upset. Pissed. I could’ve calculated how long it’d take to eclipse the mark, by what year, but my competitive side was more dormant than I would’ve thought it’d be. Wasn’t even sad: Records are nice, but they prove nothing compared to the accomplishment of sticking to the decision to change your every day. And it might just be with one part, not the whole. But while conversations on the side of the road can provide untapped perspective, including from a bird’s eye, sometimes a different type of plunge must happen to alter your big picture.
A trip to the ortho earned me a prescription for anti-inflammatories. One a day for six days and I was much better. Modern medicine, crazy. Maturely, I adhered to the advice of the doc and waited three weeks before starting the cardio regimen again—next level patience for me, to be clear. The hiatus allowed me to sleep in a bit more, if waking up at 5:30 instead of a half hour earlier can be considered that. I relished crushing games on The New York Times app in bed. While on the phone or to soak up the sun and the tunes, I did meander on occasion to prime the walking engine. My gait and my mindset were improving, heel to toe toward the beach now to look across the lake. Meditation of sorts, with eyes open and a jamband or a metal outfit playing in my ears. Peace and quiet as September approached, but the real work was about to begin.
Undulations of the road. Knowing where the puddles and pools are post-rain or when the crown is too sloped, forcing you to the street’s high point of the double yellow lines. Winding turns with blind driveways, many corners with an immediate incline or decline, a variety of pothole shapes and sizes. You do it enough, the environment becomes second nature, and here, you do it with the lakes on your right or your left. Or both. The sources to fuel a community and, in some cases, to inspire. Each person has their own relationship with these bodies of water, and I sense a newish connection forming with them. There’s no talk of the tides, but to sync with the movement of the lakes remains a metronomic experience that, even when not totally in the zone, gets me off and running every day.
