Running In Place

Author's Note: Running and music have always been a massive part of my life and I wanted to pay homage to the two things that have gotten me through hard times... especially when it comes to like and love. Enjoy!

I flopped into bed around midnight. We got dinner at Thai Basil, then Kim suggested just one drink. Of course, just one drink was total horseshit since we hadn’t seen each other in months after spending the first two years of undergrad together—we had to make up for lost time. We both hailed from the San Luis Valley, never crossing paths, yet, found ourselves in the same classes; the requirements for medical school and pharmacy school were remarkably similar. Each morning we sat in a windowless auditorium—that, ironically, overlooked Colorado Springs, Garden of the Guards, and in the distance, Pikes Peak—exchanging friendly smiles from afar.

Kim took the daring first step of actually talking, after coming across me hacking up a lung in the chilly late-autumn morning—visible mist and germs hanging in the air.

“Dude, are you alright?” Kim asked, voice tinged with concern.

Wheezing, I looked up through blurry eyes. “Oh yeah,” I croaked, suppressing another coughing fit. “Totally fine except for this TB. It really acts up this time of year.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I groaned inwardly. What kind of weirdo made a joke about having a communicable disease when first meeting someone? Expecting her to shrink away, never to speak to me again, she surprised me:

She laughed and offered me a cough drop—Halls even, not the cheap store brand stuff.

We became instant best friends. Weekly America’s Next Top Model viewing parties, organic chemistry lab, untold relationship drama, parties, sharing a townhouse with two other girls, late night chats, serious life shit, a shared obsession for Italian food and running. For two years, we were inseparable. Our codependency ended when Kim scored early acceptance to pharmacy school—I still had two years left at UCCS.

We stayed in touch, paying each other infrequent visits that often centered around races. Mostly 5Ks with a smattering of 10Ks. We worked our way to half-marathon distance which meant more time in our running shoes. The long hours only cemented my love for Colorado Springs’ trails. Hoofing it on the trails branching off Austin Bluffs, listening to Daft Punk while the sun dipped behind Pikes Peak, casting brilliant shades of orange, pink, and red over the soft dirt. Hiking—then at points, crawling—up The Incline in Manitou Springs. Meditative runs where I took off with no destination in mind, allowing my feet to take me where they pleased, Crystal Castles or Tiësto pulsing in my ears. My junior year, Kim drove from Denver, and we scaled Pikes Peak—just shy of 14 miles—capping off the hike with a donut purchased from the shop atop the world.

And then—like the absolute idiots we were—we decided:

Let’s run a marathon!

The idea seemed genius to me. I’d received my medical school acceptance the fall of senior year (alleviating a TON of stress) and my last semester of college was mostly composed of fun and/or easy subjects. I was also newly single and after much soul searching, realized, oh shit, I’ve liked women this whole time, haven’t I? As you could imagine, I had oodles of inner turmoil and training for a 26.2-mile race while ruminating over women I found attractive seemed a brilliant way to pass the time.

Such thoughts bled into my dreams and fueled by the drinks we tossed back last night (vodka cranberry for me, cider for Kim), my slumbering brain conjured up last weekend’s steamy make-out session and played it out on my personal big screen—born from fond memory and oft repeated daydreams.

Bass rumbled and throbbed throughout the basement: Benny Benassi’s Satisfaction.

Push me and then just touch me

Till I can get my

Satisfaction

Satisfaction

Lips met mine under a rainbow of lights that cut through the darkness. Laughing, she pulled me onto the bean bag with her and snaked her arms around my waist. I kissed her as colors strobed, seen only through closed eyelids as I fought back a smile. Hands rested on my hip, roughly shaking me.

A ripcord pulled, interrupting my blissful unconsciousness—jolting me out of the best damn dream I’d had in months.

“Dude, wake up!”

I groaned. Images of a cute blonde with blue eyes swirled out of reach.

“Dammit Kim, what?” I said, wrenching my eyes open. Beyond the closed blinds, the atmosphere hung heavy and gray, making it impossible to tell if it was just before dawn or merely a gloomy morning. I asked, “What time is it even?”

“Nine. I woke up early because the plow was beeping its ass off outside.”

Wait… the plow? Oh shit.

“You mean…?”

Kim grimly nodded. “It snowed last night.”

I sat up slowly. No headache, always a plus after a night of drinking. “How much?”

“Too much.”

“Too much?” I repeated, raising my eyebrows. Turning, I fumbled for my glasses on the nightstand. I despised running in snow as a rule—fearing broken bones, icicle chapped nipples, and eating shit on a patch of black ice—but we had a long run to do. There was only a month left in our training schedule and the long run had to happen this weekend before we tapered our mileage to get our bodies race ready. We had no choice, we had to get it done.

All 22 miles of it.

Kim sighed. “Way too much snow. It’s a legit blizzard. They said it’s dumped about sixteen inches already with no signs of letting up.” Her forehead creased. “Running outside is not an option.”

“Shit,” I muttered, putting on my glasses after knocking everything else off the nightstand. Her glum face sharpened. “We’ve gotta get it done this weekend. Next month starts the taper and I can’t drive back next weekend.” I shot her a bright grin and waggled my eyebrows. “I have a date I can’t miss.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course, you have a date that you can’t miss. Not that I can blame you.” Kim let out a groan. “I wanted to knock it out today—with you—then gorge on pasta.”

“Same.” We’d made it a habit to hit up Johnny Carino’s, inhaling every carb in sight. A thought occurred to me, and I snapped my fingers. “Hey, I have an idea but… you’re not gonna like it.”

Kim narrowed her eyes and glared at me. “What?”

I told her.

She didn’t like it.

Truthfully, I was skeptical myself.

***

“Oh, this is gonna absolutely suck,” Kim said, sitting down. Off came her snow-caked boots, thickly insulated pants, and Columbia coat.

I pulled on my running shoes—colorful ASICS that perfectly supported my pancake flat feet. “It’ll suck if you have that attitude! You’re setting yourself up for failure before you start.” Double knotted my laces.

“Since when did you develop such a positive attitude? You can’t tell me you’re actually looking forward to this,” she said, eyes locked on her iPod’s screen. Pupils flicked up. Down. Up again.

I snorted. “Even I’m not weird enough to want to do this.”

Kim sighed. “You’re used to running on the treadmill though. I’ve never met someone that could study biochemistry and run at the same time.”

“Yeah, but it’s all a mind thing.” I’d gotten a head start on treadmill running, spending hours on the one in my parents’ bedroom during high school when the weather was shitty. I tapped my temple. “Gotta retreat into the ol’ brain and think about stuff.” Tilting my head, I popped my ear buds in.

Kim frowned, then motioned to her ears. “What are you listening to these days?”

I shrugged. “I dunno… a lot of techno and dance mostly.”

She gave me a knowing smile. “From that girl?”

Busted. “Yeah.” Unable to help myself, I grinned. My cheeks grew hot.

Tipping me a wink, Kim said, “It’s like in middle school when your crush burned you a CD. Cute. Meanwhile, I’m gonna listen to Daddy Yankee.” She secured our dripping winter coats in the locker and turned. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” I muttered, following Kim out of the locker room. On our left, a yoga class was in session; each participant folded into a pretzel that looked horribly uncomfortable but was probably euphoric and totally enlightening. Rows of spin bikes were to our right; ten occupied, their occupants panting to What a Feeling by the Global Deejays, legs churning.

Kim smirked. “I bet this is the type of stuff you listen to, huh?”

“Darn tootin’!” I said, elbowing her in the ribs.

“Ow, stop! You’re gonna make me fall down the stairs,” she protested.

I rolled my eyes. “Please, you’d probably pay me to push you down the stairs.”

“A broken neck would get me out of this run...”

I nodded. “It really would.”

The treadmills were on the second level of the gym, overlooking the lifting floor packed with grunting men and women—some rather intriguing on first glance. If needed—and it very well might be—there was an elevator next to the stairwell.

Kim selected her machine. Leaving a treadmill between us as a buffer, I picked mine, reaching out to stroke the tan brick wall next to me. Rough. Better not fall off the fucking thing and scrape myself to high hell.

“Ready?” I asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” Kim replied.

And… we were off.

The belt started to move. I walked, then broke into an ambling jog. Not too fast since I had 22 miles to go. No use in blowing my load early. Daft Punk’s Around the World blasted through my headphones, my go-to pump-up song. Before each cross-country race and track meet, I started with that track and whenever it came on during my runs, a boost of energy filled me.

Around the world, around the world

Around the world, around the world

On and on it went, a song consisting of only three words. But I loved it. Sometimes simplicity was best. At first, my lungs felt tight but after half a mile, my chest loosened, and I felt like I could breathe again. That was one of the things I loved about running, afterwards, I felt almost superhuman, every breath easy and deep. I quickly fell into a groove, my eyes flitting from the mounted screens displaying different ESPN channels, sitcoms (subtitled since each TV was muted, leaving me unable to hear the accompanying dialogue or laugh-track), and musclebound men ogling themselves in the mirror after an especially grueling set.

4 miles down.

I glanced over at Kim. Her eyes were focused on the opposite wall, arms and legs pumping. She looked strong despite her earlier protests. Doing great, just like I knew she would.

Fischerspooner’s Never Win came on and I smiled remembering Kim’s question about my music. From that girl? Sure was. Before leaving her apartment, she handed me a thumb drive packed with her favorite music—mostly electronic or trance. Diligently, I transferred each track to my library and with each run or drive to school, jammed out, reminiscing about that weekend.

I don’t need to need you

Tell me what to do

Tell me what to say

Don’t you want to help me

That weekend, the temperature hovered around 20º F and with each inhalation, the fine hairs in my nostrils froze, feeling tight and prickly. So, we elected to hang out in her warm, cozy apartment. Her artwork covered every square inch of wall, making a beautiful wallpaper. I recognized some of the pieces from our thrice weekly art class, but most were new to me.

“You’re such a great artist,” I said, admiring an acrylic and pastel piece.

The corner of her lip curled. “Thanks.” Her eyes crinkled.

“Wanna watch a movie?” she’d asked, dark eyes dancing over me in that way she had that made me feel flustered—in a good way.

Did I want to watch a movie? Any excuse to sit next to her, I’d take it. “Duh! What do you want to watch?”

Gone with the Wind, it turned out. I’d read the thick novel in high school but hadn’t seen the movie. The Civil War played out, along with Scarlett O’Hara’s frustrating love life. As Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable smoldered onscreen, I ran my fingertips through her hair; cut into a fashionable bob, buzzed short on her neck. Electricity coursed through me each time I brushed against her skin.

I glanced down, pulling myself out of my thoughts. 6 miles down; only 16 more to go.

Crystal Castle’s Celetica cued up. Sleek electro melancholy.

When it’s cold outside, hold me

Don’t hold me

When I choose to rest my eyes, coax me

Don’t coax me

I thought about snuggling in the lofted bed, exchanging lazy kisses; walking down the street as snowflakes streaked to the ground, each breath visible, holding hands through thick gloves; dining at the pho place a few blocks from her place and between mouthfuls of rice noodles, she talked about her family back in Vietnam with a wistful look in her eyes. A pang of sadness shot through me; we hadn’t been able to repeat the weekend since she moved across the country shortly thereafter.

A twinge tore through my left calf and I winced, fighting to keep my steps even though I desperately wanted to change my gait. From much experience, I knew that was a fool’s folly. I looked at the treadmill display: 8 miles.

I groaned. Hoping for a distraction, to take my mind off the pain, I directed my attention down to the squat racks where two women—both clad in formfitting yoga pants—took turns with the weight-laden bar. Between sets, they exchanged easy smiles and encouragement, evident even though I couldn’t hear their words. Maybe they were girlfriends who shared an apartment and a bed, raising cats together. The thought pleased me and not for the first time, I longed to find a beautiful woman to share life with.

The cramp in my leg eased and I cruised into mile 9.

Tiësto’s Break My Fall dropped, and my heart painfully clenched.

We enter the room

You brighten the darkness, my love

In moments with you

There is no ending or beginning in you

The song played as we left the party together, after a steamy make-out session on the beanbag. Before pulling me inside her apartment, she gave me a shy smile. “I’ve never done anything with a girl before.” I didn’t say it, but thought, yeah me neither. Shucking our shirts and pants, we tumbled into bed and twisted our bodies in the covers. Soft caresses over curves, gentle kisses, and we fell asleep together. I was the little spoon and I drifted off, feeling content and whole for the first time. I woke up before her the next morning. Prepared coffee and made toast. She woke with a groan, clutching her forehead. I added two Tylenol to her breakfast tray and handed her a glass of water.

“I’ve never had any guy do something thoughtful like this,” she said, rewarding me with a beaming smile that made my heart soar. “I could get used to this.”

So could I, I thought.

She dropped me off at my apartment, leaving me a lingering kiss. “See you later,” she said, her light blue eyes twinkling. I’d hurried into my apartment and gushed about her to Nico while he sat on my lap and purred.

Except… less than a day later, she sent me a text: Hey, I had a great time. But… I don’t think I like girls… sorry.

Remembering the rejection, the pain, I hit the speed button on the treadmill, and increased my pace. I’d wanted to reply: Didn’t seem like you minded a girl in your bed the other night, instead I replied: No worries. I had fun but it’s okay. It wasn't. After setting my phone down on the bed, I put on Allure’s Somewhere Inside, basking in the sad lyrics and haunting melody. Remembering the despair that filled me—except the hollow space at my core—I selected the song on my iPod and allowed the hurt to wash through me.

What do I do?

What can I say?

It’s nothing new

The choice was made

But what if I lose my way?

And run right into you

Deep inside we’ll never be anything other than lonely

As the beat built, tears sprang to my eyes. I blinked them away and looked down.

Mile 11. Halfway there.

My diaphragm ached and a sharp twinge echoed from my IT band ever step. I hit the STOP button. “Gonna take a potty break,” I told Kim. Still in the zone, she nodded. And she was worried about this, I mused. Legs trembling, I made my way to the locker room, pulled down my neon yellow running shorts, and sat heavily down on the cold toilet seat. Rubbing my tired thighs, I muttered, “Damn. Shit hurts.” Having emptied my bladder, I squirted a Gatorade gel into my mouth, replenishing the glycogen and calories needed after hoofing it through nearly a half-marathon on the treadmill. Locating a vacant mat, I stretched my burning legs, feeling the ache ease in my IT band. My body throbbed and my scum brain whispered: you could just quit, you know. The idea was attractive, but I shook my head and forced my weary body up.

I wasn’t finished.

Climbing back on the treadmill, I readied myself for 11 more miles. Only halfway done, I thought then amended: no, already halfway done.

BT’s Force of Gravity started—its beat evoking a deep yearning—and soon, JC Chasez (yes, he of NSYNC fame), crooned lyrics that sent daggers through me:

Do you cry your eyes to sleep?

Is it peace you seek

At night when your body’s weak?

Did I leave you

With the scars of a war torn ravished heart?

Do you cry your eyes to sleep?

As the belt whirred, I thought about how each night I climbed into bed alone—save for my grey buddy, Nico. While brushing my teeth and washing my face, I wondered what it would be like to share a bathroom with someone I loved. Hers and hers sinks. Stealing glances in the mirror, watching her lips move, hoping those lips would soon explore mine. Inside jokes, cooking together, snuggles on the couch… it was all I wanted.

ATB’s Ecstasy came on. Mile 14.

What have you done to me?

I’ll never be the same I’ll tell you for sure

I’ll never be the same I’ll tell you for sure

I’ll never be the same I’ll tell you for sure

I remembered coming home from college last year and running into high school friends— one of whom I had a massive crush on (still). I hadn’t realized it during our high school years, not understanding that: no, girls didn’t feel this way about their friends unless they also were in love with them. She was brash, sometimes even abrasive, but I admired how she didn’t take any shit from anyone. Meeting again, years later, we were older, and maybe wiser, and being of the drinking age, shared a drink at the Weekends bar, town-renowned for offering Hurricane mixed drinks that knocked you on your ass for only three bucks.

“Hey, did you know I still have your shirt?” she said, taking a sip of the bright blue alcohol-laden drink.

Frowning, I asked, “What shirt?”

“The cross-country one, with the bird on it,” she replied. “It’s tan?” Instantly I knew which one she was talking about. We’d voted as a team and picked a design with a big white bird on the front, sitting on two fat eggs. The back of the shirt said: Got Huevos? Implying it took a special kind of idiot to run cross-country, not that I had any huevos—only metaphorical ones. She took another drink. “You can stop by my place tomorrow and get it if you want.”

And I did.

After exchanging some awkward small talk (me asking about her boyfriend who frankly, I didn’t care much for, especially since I thought I’d be better for her; her asking if I was dating anyone), I grabbed the shirt and left. Halfway down her road with dusk shrouding my car, I brought the shirt up to my face and smelled it, smelled her, and burst into tears. I remembered sharing a bed before track meets, wide awake, terrified I’d accidentally brush up against her arm or leg, but hoping it happened all the same, luxuriating in late night talks where she told me her innermost secrets.

Even years later, I missed her so much. Or at least, the idea of her.

The treadmill display read 17 miles. “Only… five… more,” I panted. My head swam and my legs protested every step. You get to rest in five miles, I told myself without any discernable response from my lactic acid-laced muscles.

Kreo’s Burn For You started and I sighed. The back beat echoed that of my wounded heart and as the music built, I fought back tears… again. Running always made my emotions go haywire.

Let me tell you something you don’t know

Let me tell you something you don’t know

If you keep the secret I won’t show

If you keep the secret I won’t show

I’m burning for you

I thought of my friend back at UCCS—we'd met in Anatomy Lab—coincidentally also training for the same marathon we were. Unlike us, she’d been lucky enough to get her run in yesterday—donning black Under Armour against the cold, cloudless day. She had a boyfriend and it seemed serious. Enough anyway. Except… for the time we went out to Dublin House and bolstered by liquid courage, she turned to me. “You’re really pretty,” she’d said, brushing a lock of my brown hair behind my ear. Stunned, I couldn’t think of how to respond although I’d long thought her gorgeous but had put her in the off-limits category given that she was straight and had a boyfriend. She tipped my chin up and kissed me, tasting of vodka sour and mint gum. And it wasn’t the sloppy kiss of a drunk girl experimenting—it was slow. Lingering. It took my breath away. I felt powerful, happy, and all my wants and needs rose to the surface. But… in a tale as old as time, the next morning, it was like the night before hadn’t happened at all.

And my heart ached.

Cresting on a wave of sadness, I looked down. 21 miles. Only ONE left! And my iPod—as if knowing I’d spent the last hours wallowing in self-pity—shuffled to Daft Punk’s One More Time, and as expected, my spirits rose. The percussion kicked in and my dopamine roared into high gear.

One more time, mmm

You know I’m just feelin’

Celebration

Tonight

Celebrate

Don’t wait too late, mmm, no

We don’t stop, you can’t stop

We’re gonna celebrate

One more time

One more time

The treadmill’s display hit 22 right as the beat dropped:

Music’s got me feeling so free

We’re gonna celebrate

Celebrate and dance so free

One more time

I hit STOP again—this time for good. My quads and hamstrings quivered, and my calves screamed. Grabbing a towel, I wiped the sweat from my face and swigged a lemon-lime Gatorade.

I’d done it—gone 22 miles on a treadmill and squeezed my longest run in, even amid a massive blizzard.

And if I could do that?

I could take all the memories—good and bad—and forge onward, knowing one day; I’d find the girl of my dreams… once I completed the damn marathon, assuming I didn’t drop dead at the finish line.

***

I found her during my Emergency Medicine residency when I least expected it. Wearing a light blue scrub top over surgical green bottoms, she walked into the room—cool as a cucumber—and effortlessly placed an IV during a chaotic code. Together, we saved lives, becoming friends and then… something more. Much more. And I knew, this is it. I found her.

I have a whole batch of songs that make me think of her—my wife—but I leave you with The Chainsmokers and Bebe Rexha Call You Mine; the lyrics always bringing her to the forefront of my mind:

You said, “Hey, whatcha doing for the rest of your life?”

And I said, “I don’t even know what I’m doing tonight”

Went from one conversation to your lips on mine

And you said, “I never regretted the day that I call you mine”

So I call you mine

And so, I call her mine.