Missouri dirt road – Key West, winter, 1993-94

I have twisted my ankle or fallen may times running that dirt road. Rocks, ruts, the downhill slope, staring out onto the view…all contributing to falls or injuries received. Rolling pastures on the right, tree line, bluff, lake, more pastures and view, to the left. The road leads past a farm, up and down two smaller hills, then to a fork in the road.

To the right, the gated part of the road leads almost directly to the lake. I have been there many times. My father and uncle used to fish there. When I didn’t want to run the full distance, I would take the right fork. And I would end up here. The lake that used to be a river’s dam-controlled current rolls by, a constant 53 or 54 degrees. The air is heavy with fog or humidity, depending on the time of day. I would stay here, catching my breath for a moment, then turn and begin the walk up the many hills toward home.

But, if I chose to run further, I took the left fork, which sloped rather sharply downhill. My speed could not help but increase. Looking down at the my vibrating legs and knees and shoes that preferred to go pigeon-toed, demanding rigorous thought for opposite results. Stretching out, each graceful, successive shock, meeting the downward sloping earth, sure-footed, cautious, but faster each time.

My friend Inertia goads me on, urging my legs to keep time with some theoretical construct involving mass, velocity, and resistance with no consideration to rocks, ruts, and variable terrain. Inertia whispers “Faster, faster!” The sound of wind rushes by my ears. I become aware of my grunts that correspond with the shock of each step. Then, the hill levels out and my pace slows, re-adjusting to the flattened terrain of the road next to the lake.

Trees and the waterline on the right, a green, sloping and sheer bluff on the left, and the rutted dirt road, leading through the outskirts of the magical forested mountain. To the left, the sounds of animals in the leaves. They observe from a protected distance as I pass through their territory. Lake Taneycomo floats gently by, its heavy, chilly fog rising and dissipating. The occasional fisherman passes by in a motorboat, breaking the lake’s glass-like surface. Sometimes the fog eliminates visibility entirely on or near the lake. Although those conditions make running unsafe, the reduced temperature and liquid air are comforts on the last stretch of the four-plus mile trek.

My beating heart and breaths fell into rhythm miles ago. My thoughts focus on faraway constructs and situations. I am not really running. I am somewhere that is not…there…or anywhere else. I am thought as I exercise my body. I am years ago. The lake, the stillness of surroundings, my heart, the quiet, and my recuperative breaths are this world. I long to stay here.

I get off the Stairmaster. My 45 minutes are up. All around, guys are lifting and cruising, laughing, talking about the upcoming night. Where they’ll go, what they’ll do, who they’ll do… All set to the beats of the DMX blaring techno music throughout the gym.

None of this is familiar. None of this is comforting. Everyone seems so happy. I can’t connect with any of it. I feel lost. I stare at some of their faces for clues on what I might be missing. Nothing. I don’t understand.

I leave the gym quietly and unnoticed. As I walk back to the apartment, the people that pass by begin to fade. I start the long walk back up the hills. I take care to mind the ruts, slowly traveling the road back home.

It’s January of 1994, and I run that dirt road more now than I ever did when I lived in Missouri.