Wolfbait

I was never a runner for the sake of it. I tried for years in high school and college when 2000s diet culture implied that I was out of shape if I got out of breath too quickly, despite participating in sports most of my childhood and adolescence, primarily tennis. Put something in front of (like a bouncy neon green ball) or behind me (a like a lion or a cop) and it’s a different story – catecholamines fuel the thrill of the chase regardless of my role as predator or prey; lung capacity extends to every cell in my body; nerve endings tingle with oxygen as my electrified heart pumps fresh blood; eyebrows saturate with sweat, collapsing their delicate arches as the droplets fall against my cheekbones.

One Saturday a couple of years ago, I finished getting ready earlier than usual and timed my leave for work to wait on the platform for the J train for only five minutes instead of the eleven that Citymapper predicted. I grabbed the packed lunch that I usually forgot to take with me in a rush and double checked for my work ID in the back part of my backpack’s front pocket before slipping into the parochial slip-free, lace-free Dansko mules my job provided. The high platform required sturdy ankles, unruly weight distribution an accident waiting to happen. The slip-resistant rubber soles moved vertically, good for stomping or sprinting. I met the above ground railroad as I left from the building’s train-facing exit, crossing Broadway and briskly covering another block before hearing the not-so-distant rumble of an oncoming train. I slowed down my pace as much as I needed to sense the direction of the sound’s source and to handle my phone for an updated subway ETA. Temporary relief washed over my shiny forehead beading with sweat when my senses processed the train was going the opposite way of me. When I looked down at my screen and noticed a mysterious new train was scheduled to come within the next three minutes. Citymapper predicted a seven going on six-minute walk as I was inching closer to Chauncey St. I suddenly remembered a random line from Pulp Fiction, Mr. Wolf: “That’s thirty minutes away. I’ll be there in ten.”

My legs caught wind, sending my knees up to my chest in the one technique I remembered from short-lived track and cross-country stints in high school. Weekend traffic made jaywalking a breeze, and speedwalking in between sprinting extended my stamina as I began to taste penny-flavored phlegm and saliva from burst blood vessels that couldn’t handle the oxygen overload. I was close, and also beginning to think that it was actually possible I could make this train despite my hatred for running? I mean, my hatred was never as strong as my hatred for losing, and I consider making a train I wasn’t “supposed” to make a huge win.

As I approached the stop’s only entrance/exit on Rockaway Avenue, I once again heard the familiar rumble of the tracks, this time knowing which direction it was heading toward without having to slow down. Knowing that indecision was inefficient, my body bypassed my brain’s say and took the stairs two at a time, readying the MetroCard to swipe after the first two flights and before the last two. Weekend trains carried less passengers, less commuters to exit and flow against in the final few yards. The train conductor unintentionally buys me a little extra time making announcements about planned track changes irrelevant to my commute. I catch my breath on the top step for half a second before I hear the ding-dong of the closing doors. My limbs bypass my brain once more as my legs carry the rest of my body inside the car in two flat-footed leaps before my arms and hollowed chest slump around the closest pole to hang onto. I bent my knees a bit to center my balance and straightened my arms to allow my upper torso to sway in the non-crowded part of the car while I caught my breath for the next five stops, avoiding direct gazes at the harsh fluorescence above me. The synergy of dopamine and endorphins relaxed my shoulders and brought a sense of accomplishment despite not even beginning the work day yet, as well as an earned craving for cold brew to rinse out the metal flavor in the back of my throat.