About a year ago, Chris and I took up running for exercise. We haven’t entered any races, and if you’re my friend on any social media platform, this is the first you’re hearing of our new hobby because I don’t post regular updates of my distances or times. Running, for us, became a way to burn a few calories while spending some much-needed time outside -- beneficial to mental and physical health. Surprisingly, we began to enjoy it.
Pre-COVID 19, we ran most mornings after our boys got on the bus for school and before our work day kicked into gear. We live just a few blocks from Como Park, home to a lake, a zoo, and plenty of paths to run on. Strangely, we found a community on our morning runs. We gave the other regulars nicknames -- “Young Grandpa Forest” for the hat-wearing man who reminded me of my late grandfather (albeit this grandpa usually carried an energy drink, something I couldn’t picture MY Grandpa Forest enjoying on a morning walk); “Older Dad” for the man who reminded us of my dad in another ten years -- gray beard and all; “Dog Grandpa” for the man who, you guessed it, walked with his sweet little Scottie dog. Not everyone was 70+ on our route, but many were. We exchanged pleasantries and smiles when our paths crossed, no matter the weather. We could always count on seeing our “friends” as I had taken to calling them. One morning “Young Grandpa Forest” called out to us as we ran past. “Come to the orchid show at the conservatory this weekend!” We didn’t make it to the orchid show, but the next Monday, we did stop to talk when he asked if we had made it. It turns out his name is George, not Forest. (I decided not to hold it against him.) He lived on our side of the lake. While I don’t think we shook hands, we definitely stood closer than six feet. After that morning, we always greeted George by name. “Hi Chris and Kim!” he would shout with a smile as we met on our path. And then the virus came, disrupting all of our plans and procedures, even our running. While we have still been running, our route has changed. The path around the lake looks too populated most days to keep proper distance, and because we don’t want to run with masks if we don’t have to, we’ve opted for less populated routes. We also are running later in the day, usually during a lunch break. For these reasons, we no longer see our friends, and of course, if we did, we wouldn't feel comfortable standing and talking too close. On a couple of occasions, we’ve seen Dog Grandpa and Older Dad from a distance, but for months now, we’ve missed George. Every time we’ve driven by the lake, my neck craned, searching for him. I can’t explain why. Maybe it was a symbol of “normal times.” Maybe I was worried about him. After all, he’s in the more vulnerable age group. Maybe I missed that steady routine, that well-worn route where we could watch the ice creep over the lake and then months later recede, where I could run across the bridge near the pavilion without worrying about keeping distance if someone was coming the other direction, where I could gasp in delight at the crunch of leaves beneath my feet and laugh as our eyelashes accumulated snowflakes. Maybe seeing George nearly every day meant that my biggest parenting worry was remembering to sign the form for basketball and finding out what time practice ended that day. It meant that the virus lexicon of antibodies and social distancing and contact tracing was as unfamiliar as my newfound worries for my son’s social health as they miss friends and long-term academic concerns as I attempt to teach algebra and geometry. Months passed and no George, until Saturday. On a whim, we decided to add an extra mile, looping back around an extra block before rounding the final stretch home. As we prepared to turn east from the lake, I saw him across the street, wearing his signature trilby hat. He was too far away for me to call out, but I nearly did. I suspect it was pure joy, not running endorphins, that plastered the smile on my face as we finished our last few blocks. “We saw George!” I told our kids later. Even they knew I had been looking for him. They were surprisingly happy for me, perhaps recognizing this meant something more than just some strange man on the path around the lake. This isn’t my symbol that life is back to normal, far from it. But it is a reminder of a life we once knew, a life we will live again, someday. And you can be sure my eyes are going to be scanning the path around the lake when we head out on our run again tomorrow, hoping to see some of our familiar friends.
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September 2020
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