The houses pass by with silent motivation as she counts steps. Inhale, one two three, Exhale one two, Inhale one two three, Exhale one two. Every in and out breath is a different foot strike, keeping the impact of her body balanced. Less sustained injuries overtime. More even strikes to get rid of the pain now. She breathes just as silently as the houses, yet their looming speaks, pushing her onward. She’s braving her normal route, the boulevard full of ideal American houses, the road he drove numerous times with her while he designed their future in his head. The house coming up on her left, the one with the flag hung on the doorstep, reminds her of him. She takes another long stride and pushes her breath. Keep the pace steady. It’s just a flag, nothing says it has to belong to him. Run past it. The next house is a one story with blue shutters, just like he once painted for her. It’s a house, only a house. Don’t let your foot turn over. You can’t afford a rolled ankle for one distracting thought. Run past it. As her pace moves her down the boulevard she feels the breeze picking up some, fluttering the front of her pink running top. Only then does she realize her strength as a woman running. Run past it, she tells herself.
* * * * *
That pink running tank is an odd object compared to my childhood. Pink was an unpleasant color when I was younger. I absolutely loathed it. My mother must have been forewarned by the fates before I left her womb because my room had not one ounce of pink on any of the decorations. I’m almost sure that I came home in a yellow outfit. I don’t know if it is the fact that my mother wasn’t completely sure I was going to be a girl, or if the fates told her, or if she just hated pink as well, but the color didn’t come into my life until the time I dressed up as Rock Star Barbie for my 10th Halloween. Whatever the reason, I was absolutely against the color. I wouldn’t wear it, I wouldn’t color with it, I would hardly even eat bubble gun because the pink was so daunting.
Now as a runner, my most favorite possession is my hot pink sports bra. I can’t seem to buy enough girly pink running clothes. Somehow I’d like to think it’s some sort of a weird phase, that maybe I missed out on the whole idea of pink being a girl color. That I was deprived in my wardrobe as a child or neglected my femininity. But it’s none of those. Because when I walk into my closet in the early morning to dress myself for a run, I have options, but I also have enough pink to last me from laundry day to laundry day. So I pull out one of my many pink tanks and pull it on finding strength in myself for a six am run.
* * * * *
She tried running the day he told her he wanted to call off the wedding. When it initially happened, when she read the words in his email, her lungs stopped. It would be amazing if she could breathe steadily through a pace. But she knew she had too. She wasn’t sure if it was because she was away or if he really meant it, but at the time, running was all she could think about.
Pulling her pink jacket and running shoes out of his military suitcase he sent with her, she ambled down the stairs and out the front door. When the wind hit her face she found her breath. It was easier out here. One loop. That’s all you have to make it through. Don’t let him take this either. As she stands up from tying her shoe, the sun peeks out of the Irish clouds. A day forecast for rain yet somehow, there’s a brightness. She lets her feet slowly pick up and they thunk on the heavy asphalt. She knows she is holding back, moving too slow. Come on, you need this. He cannot take this from you. You are the one moving, pacing. Let the heaviness go. Run past it. She thinks to herself that it won’t be easy, life’s never easy, but she has to move forward. There’s a reason. The anger inside of her was building and she felt it propelling her strides. You’ve found your breath, your lungs are working, you’ve got this. Don’t let him take it. She picks up the pace and lets her strides pound away every ounce of love she once gave away.
Suddenly she thinks about what she is wearing— a fucking pink jacket because he hates it—and her strides lengthen, pushing her up the hill. When she’s done with the loop she vomits. This run changes her life.
* * * * *
Nike holds an annual marathon just for women every October. It is now in its fifth year. Twenty six point two miles of running on
Even without the perks the Nike Woman’s
* * * * *
She plans to run October 18th, 2009, — it’s one thing he’s given me— to prove that he didn’t take her future with him. The hills waiting for her on the golden
