because they told me to

People wonder why I run. They wonder why I insist on going so far, and then farther still. Two miles used to be my max. It's not even a workout, now. I'm juicing up my ipod for the morning, adding new songs to do a quick 5 miles at 7 am. 5 miles is nothing now. Better make it 6:30.

Indoor gym. I get flashes of the early morning activities as I round every corner. At first cute man conceals himself in a corner to do his ab work. But soon that little woman who has started following him around has discovered this hideout and comes to chat next to him. They sit like that for 15 laps. He's cute, sure. But, whatever. I don't need that guy or his recognition. I focus on my feet, making sure that my toes always point forward, making sure my weight doesn't start to sway from side to side. Everything must point straight on to the goal. Rounding another corner I see my own reflection in a safety mirror. Lest we forget, there, in those sculpted features, is the goddess.

But that's not why I run. I run because they told me to.

"Run back there and tell them to get out of that pond!" The moms yelled, upon finding out that their tween-age sons were back catching frogs at a pond deep in the woods. They were worried, the boys were not. The great disadvantage of the whole conversation was that messages of warning and responses of rebellion were all being conveyed by me. Neither party really wanted to listen to me. So the argument between mothers and sons continued and all that hot summer afternoon I ferried messages between them, running through the woods. Finally, when I came back panting and sweating, Mrs. Schiltz looked at me and asked "are you RUNNING?". The argument promptly stopped.

"Go get your brother! NOW! I need his help!" Something was wrong with Dad. He had mentioned earlier that day how his stool was coal black. Mom took one look at him and knew he had better to go into the hospital. No one knew it would get serious so fast and she wanted him to take a bath, first. But in the bath dad lost all strength and mom couldn't handle his bulk. Oh yeah, he was still big, then. She yanked the door open and yelled to me and something in those words told me this was serious. So I ran. I ran the mile to the CCD building as fast as I could and demanded my brother be released from class. When he saw me, he started to run, too. We were back home in under 20 minutes.

A mile. That's just 12 easy laps around this silly little track. A mile is nothing. I could sprint that, now. I could make that dash for help faster, now.

At seeing us home so fast mom turned to me with incredulity "you ran!" I've since wondered if he knew. Did Dad know that I ran out of fear for him? The only private moments we get, now, me & his stone, come when I escape the house to go for a run. The route takes me about 5 miles. But at 4.25 is the cemetery.

The term for all this activity - at least the way I use it in my life- is called "athletica nervosa". But they just don't understand. Someone has to run. Someone has to be the go between who holds the works together.