Chapter One--House on the Lake: of love and running

Rounding the bend, the sun struggled to find its way through gray skies. Tamped gravel led the way down the path. Trees on the left created a canopy, blocking the view of the sewage culvert that flowed along the final six miles of the course. My feet moved forward slowly. I struggled to find air. Erratic breaths, wheezed in—and then out—and then in again, between parched lips. I blinked. I ran slowly. One foot, the next foot, each connected to tree trunks that once were legs. Heavy and awkward, I labored to keep my balance on the trunks that held me up and moved me forward. One foot forward. The next dragged and followed. I wobbled to one side, fought to regain balance—one stride, two strides, stumble, balance, step forward, stride, stumble, stride. My body was trained to continue moving, but had lost equilibrium and began weaving left, right, left… step forward, then back, left, then right, stumble forward.

Hands from behind grasped under my armpits and held me steady, yet continued to move me forward. A low gravely whisper, “Move forward. One foot. The next foot. Move forward.” For some reason, my body listened. “One foot. The next foot. Move forward,” the whisper came again.

I continued. Wheezing in. Wheezing out. Moving forward. Tree Trunks—balance—whisper repeated.

The whisper comforted, “Move forward. One foot. The next foot,” as a cup of water was emptied over my head.

Water wetted my hair and dripped down my face.

Hands released my body.

I struggled to continue moving. Whisper repeated… “Move forward.”

Hand gripped my wrist and urged me to continue. “Move forward. One foot. The next foot. Move forward.”

Hand pulled me forward silently.

I began to move—to move more—to again move with a sense of purpose. Trunks began to lighten. Legs returned. Breathing slowed and regulated. I continued to follow the hand on my wrist. I gained strength with each step, enough to run as if my body knew where it was going.

Hand let go. Feet continued to move. Breathe in—Breathe out. Lungs filled and fueled my body. Feet moved forward.

The hand that held my wrist now ran beside me in tandem. It was Old Man #2. We ran together, quietly, but at a good pace and with life. Trees wished by on the left. Gravel crunched underfoot.

I managed my breathing and controlled my gait. My legs moved forward on their own, in stride, as they were trained to do. On cue, my arms began to churn with force, swishing, one and then the other, on opposite sides of my body.

I lifted my eyes and peered forward. Some ways off in the distance, I saw the end. The finish was near, within my grasp.

I picked up my pace. My strides lengthened. My breathing deepened and slowed. I begin to run without effort—my feet bounding, gliding, not touching the ground. I floated, I flew, I ran on clouds above the gravel pathway.

Striding forward, I felt nothing, save the wind through my body. All weight, all effort transformed into energy propelling me forward, faster and faster, to the end.

Trees ripped by on the left. Old Man #2 glided next to me, stride for stride. But I heard nothing.

Running continued. Feet moved forward, afloat, not touching the ground.

Without effort, I pulled myself in. My arms pumped. My legs floated, one in front of the other.

I was out of body, yet fully within and connected, totally cognizant of my weightlessness.

I ran free.

I came to the end.

I slowed down.

I walked.

I dropped to my knees.