RUNNER

I am a runner. Not in the athletic or running-away sense, but in a joyful, childlike sense . When I see a smooth, clear opening in front of me, whether it be a sidewalk, a hall, or a stretch of grass, I want to take off running. Of course, at my age I don’t. That’s pretty much frowned upon, so I restrain myself – at least in public.

As a little girl, I had plenty of opportunity to run: from the house to the barn to the shop to the corral to the garden to the house; across pastures, pond dams, creeks, terraces. Terraces were fun. Running full tilt across a terraced strip of earth could send you tumbling. Back then a tumble was an added attraction and barely broke my stride. Today, it would break my hip!

Running was a way of life. When my dad said, “Run get me a crescent wrench from the shop,” he meant RUN. When he needed help driving cows to the lot, I ran. He often said, “You can’t outrun a cow. You have to out-think her.” Out-thinking a cow was something I never quite got the hang of. They all seemed smarter than I was, so I ran a lot.

Occasionally, I would achieve a runner’s high, although at the time I didn’t know there was a name for it. It just felt like pure joy. It was as close to flying as I will ever get.

I still run but only in short bursts and almost always in the house. I will suddenly think of something I need to do, and I will hop up and take off. I never really thought about it being odd until my husband mentioned that he thought it was funny when I would sprint down the hall. That put a bit of a damper on my running. What I thought was perfectly natural as long as I could still do it seemed comical to other people; consequently, I am not as apt to engage in spontaneous running in situations where I can be observed.

The other morning, my husband noticed a bruise on my upper arm just below the shoulder. It was of the purple and green variety, a little larger than a fifty-cent piece. When he asked what happened, I explained that I had run into the bedroom and my house shoes slid when they hit the carpet, and I slid with them. The fall was insignificant except for the drawer pull I hit on the way down. Besides hurting almost to the point of tears, it left evidence of my imprudence.

His response was, “I saw on the news last night about how dangerous it is for elderly people to . . . .”

WHOA.

“Elderly people?”

“Well, people our age.”

“People our age?”

No response. Smart man. He already had both feet in his mouth.

Now, I know that I am no longer middle-aged. I would have to live to 120 plus for that to be true. But, I am not elderly. I don’t intend to ever be elderly. Elderly is for people who have forgotten the joy of running. Of course, there may come a time when I have to use a cane. That’s when I will learn the joy of hobbling, but I will NEVER be elderly.