It's the last day of February. What a shitty month. And a shitty year. I pull my hood around my face and walk down the hill. Another hill. Another hill. Another hill. Through the dog park. Across Main Street. Down the stairs behind Bourbon Blue restaurant to the towpath, where I set my pedometer to zero and take off. Slow and steady. Today's not about speed, no, that's what Mondays are for. Wednesdays are about distance. Today is about me.
The rain orchestrates a world of ripples in the canal to my left. I immediatley encounter puddles and my feet are soaked through and through. Glad we got that out of the way. No use avoiding them now. I don't have my iPod. I want to be able to hear Life if it has anything to say.
As I run along the graveled towpath, deserted for once due to the weather, I feel the other me's behind my eyes. They both have demands, plans, questions to ask, lies to tell and shit they've been holding in all week. Go for it. Let it out while the world's not around. I just pass beneath Green Lane Bridge, where the canal and towpath take a slight turn when they let it out. Everything. Every damn thing.
About half a mile in I hit what I call the 'yellow brick road'. It's where a wooden fence painted bright yellow begins, seperating me from the rippling canal. It stretches 3/4 of a mile long, which is half of my usual 3 mile run. This is where I get the guilt. There's a me in here who says everything is my fault. It is, I agree. But she still won't look at me. She hits the ground a bit harder as she runs, dodging the killer geese and their green shit land mines. She tells me what to do to make everything okay. I can't do that. I just can't do that. She hits the ground a bit harder.
At the end of the yellow brick road is where the canal turns into a river. There's a dam there. I rip my gloves off and toss them into a bush as I pass. Her anger is making me hot. I wish she'd cool out. Or it could be the run. I reach the waist-high stone pillars covered in black, silver, red and blue graffitti; usually my turning point but I keep running. I run until the end of the towpath, then I run along the railroad tracks. Eventually I run out of track, then I run along a road until I don't know where I am anymore. And then I keep running. Eventually the other me, the one with the tears on her face, she wants to know why. I don't know. When? I don't know? How are we gonna make it through March? I. Don't. Know. What are we gonna do? I DON'T KNOW! What if we break into pieces and all the kings men can't put us together again? I stop running. I don't fucking know. I'm standing in the middle of traffic, cars passing on boths sides of me. I pull my hood from my head and let the rain run through my hair until it trickles along my scalp. I have no idea where I am. Cars are honking. It's raining on me. I stand there for a long minute. Not because I'm lost, because I'm not. I just don't know where I am. It just feels nice.
What a mess. What are we gonna do? Run.
I turn around and I'm off. Every one of me is empty of everything they were holding in. I heard them out. We're relieved without answers and theres nothing to do but run.I don't notice the cars. Or the railroad tracks. Or the geese. Or the shit. Or the yellow brick road. I know when I stop the hurt will be waiting, the pieces of all thats falling apart. But right now nothing matters. Not what I should or shouldn't have said. If someone has or hasn't called. If the mail came. If the check bounced. The boyfriend. The boss. Home. To hell with it all. I'm a shitty play write. I'm impatient as hell. I turn to temptation when that's all there is to turn to. I havn't seen my mind in weeks. And what have a written lately? Shitty plays. I don't need anyones attention right now. No ones approval. I don't have to be anyones daughter. No one's friend. I'm just here Just me. And I'm running and nothing else matters. No one else matters. Not the asses and bastards who don't mean anything they say. And the liars who don't even know they're lying. Everyone making me feel like I'm not good enough, they suck too. Just run.
Without realizing it I'm at the point in the towpath where I began. But I keep running. Right off the towpath. Through the dog park and up the hill. All the hills. The infamous Roxborough hills known to Philadelphians as 'The Wall'. It hurts but what else is new. I lean forward and push. And push and push. It was like zoning out. Eventually, I'm home. I turn at the top of the hill and look out over Manayunk. Somewhere beneath the distant trees and bridge is my towpath. Everything hurt. I sat down in the middle of the street. Rain streaming down my face. I take off my pedometer and glance at the numbers.
5.004 miles.
We'll make it through March. I promise.
