The 125th Annual Turkey Trot, Buffalo, New York, 2020
I'm afraid, if it ever comes down to it, that I will not be able to run for my life. Swim, maybe, but not run. I can see now the asthmatic particles clouding my chest after just a minute in motion. Feel my throat seal, causing my breaths to sound like that of a pack a day smoker's, which, granted, they are; I am. I'll probably be clutching my juul close to my heart as I run, knowing that while it isn't the sole reason I'll meet my end at the hands of whomever or whatever I am running from, it certainly impeded the effort.
I'm afraid, if it ever comes down to it, that I will not be able to save myself in the most literal sense, when saving myself is all I've been trying to do these last few years. Retreating from crowds of people into the corner of my second floor bedroom, telling myself that I'd spent enough time around people this week. Now it's time for a reset, a respite, a break. Spending hours, days alone, undisturbed, afraid to look anyone in the eye for fear they would ask too much from me, whether that too much is caring about the unjustices perpetrated onto them or a simple hello in return.
I'm afraid, when it comes down to it, that I will not be able to run the entirety of the Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving morning this year, as I have not been able to do in the seven years my family has committed to participating in the race. Afraid that once again I will be the lone walker they're waiting for at the end of the 5 mile stretch through downtown Buffalo, standing at the edge of Colonial Circle, cheering me on as I'm swallowed by a crowd of runners channeling that last bit of adrenaline to propel themselves over the finish line.
I was afraid when I was young and fueled by TV non-realities and the desperate need to Get Out of a space that didn't need escaping that if the day ever came when a man, young or old, stepped out of a blue box and told me to Run, I would not make it. I would not become that companion. I would not see the world.
And I'm afraid that because the do not of running has become a cannot, I will stop, suspended in a three-walled cubicle in an open-floor plan office, content with walking and pacing rather than chasing. I'll let my lungs fill, my bones grow heavy, time slip by simply because I never learned how to run for my life.