There is a place in this world where you can feel the thunderheads rolling in before you can see or hear them. There's a subtle but electrifying energy in the ground, a vibration that only a runner can sense. As 83rd Street rushes by under my sneakers, I can feel myself getting closer to this place where the concept of unity with nature is a reality. In this place your past is closer to the present than you could ever believe and your future is yours to catch. This place is my truly my home.
They call it "The Bottoms." Why? I'm not entirely sure. It's low-lying, flat land; but then again, I've seen lower, flatter land than this. Last season's corn and soybean crops stretch out in neat rows, and the landscape is marred only by a rotting barn and County Route 34. The road forms a solitary and serpentine black shape in front of me and behind me. Were I to turn around, I'd see the line of trees that borders the Bottoms from the town.
But I never turn around, it's against a runner's instincts. My teammates and I used to joke on our Monday long runs about how we had troubles looking over our shoulders to check a blind spot while driving. It's the race mentality that prevents it. When you race, the world runs on your time. You have control of every situation, and your strengths and weaknesses dictate how it all plays out in the end. To glance back over your shoulder would be unheard of. It means that you're worried about the runner behind you. It means that you think they might be catching up. It means that you've stopped racing.
As I continue, the little pocket of civilization where I live fades from memory and consciousness, and I continue into the known and the unknown all at once. I've run this way more times than I can count. I recognize every crack in the sidewalk, every solid yellow line, and every telephone pole. I can run this road in the dark, in the snow, in ice, in rain so torrential you can hardly see. This is my road.
Even though this is my road, and the cracks in the pavement never move, it changes daily. Each run is completely different because each run brings a new set of challenges to confront and overcome. Pain is the worst of them, but a lack of motivation can plague a runner as well. It helps when the team runs together, but today I run alone. It was fun while it lasted, but everyone has since gone off to separate colleges, and each is lacing up their running shoes in a different location across the state.
The line of trees that separates this place from town wasn't always there. When the Great Depression hit in the 30's, Kansas was already in the midst of the Dustbowl. Topsoil erosion and lack or crop rotation led to the worst dust storms of the century. At least, that's what I was told in American History class. The WPA sent workers out to the plains of Kansas and Oklahoma to plant lines of trees across the barren landscape, and this is one of those tree lines.
The Bottoms used to house the sand plant, but now all that remains of that enterprise is a burned out foundation and the dunes. The dunes meld into the graying fields and those continue on as far as the eye can see. They, in turn, meld into the horizon. You can barely make out that line of infinity, because the sky is that same shade of grey; not really a color, but lack thereof.
The only part of the landscape that stands out is the "Tree of Life." The Hispanics in the town call it La Montaña. I call it the four mile turnaround. But today, I'm going a little farther into the distance. I sense a storm brewing in the distance and I'll try to catch the horizon before the thunderheads overtake me. I continue out into nothingness.
I start to hear phantom footsteps around me, and I am a senior in high school, surrounded by my best friends and teammates. As we jog through the Bottoms, we talk about everything and nothing all at once. Boys, friends, unfair parents, life, death, politics, science, anything. There was a time at which we started telling the same stories to each other over again, because we had simply shared everything about ourselves that there was to know. Then the time came when all of our stories began with "Hey, do you remember that time that…" because we had been together any time worth remembering. But today I hear only echoes; I know it will never be the same again, and yet it will never leave me.
Finally, the distant claps of thunder are audible over my staggered breathing and the hypnotizing rhythm of my Nikes on the pavement. They get louder as the miles fly under me. The sky slowly fades from the un-grey to a glowing yellow color and I know that the storm is almost here. I shift gears and begin to wind up for my kick like a giant rubber band; each step is a twist that that tenses me and prepares me for the final, sprinting release. My pace quickens, my breath quickens, my instinctual fear kicks in and I'm no longer running to escape civilization, but to escape this natural beast that I know is in pursuit and threatens to swallow me whole.
Then I hear it. Softly at first, then louder and closer. The pitter patter of a million little footsteps that start in the distance and speed up. I can hear them coming up behind me and I begin a full out sprint. But I can't run from nature and the sheet of rain catches me from behind. The raindrops that were so threatening a moment before now cool me and comfort me. I stop and stand there a moment, utterly exhausted and exhilarated as I feel the rain beat down on my shoulders and the sting of the sweat that has been washed into my eyes.
The tornado siren from the town over the hill brings me back to reality and I know that it's time to turn around and head back. My family and friends will be waiting, worried that I've gone running in tornado weather again. I guess the horizon will have to wait. I tear myself from the scene, slowly turn and begin the run back into town. But just before I round the final bend that will take me into town I stop one more time. I look back at the tree, the rain-streaked sky, my home. This is the place where I chase infinity, a better understanding of the past, and perhaps a glimpse of my future. A strange sadness passes over me, but it only lasts a moment. I know that this place will be the same when I return. It may be tomorrow, it may not be for years. And yet, despite its continuity, it will be completely different; a new road, a new run, and a new horizon.
n/a
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