Run On

I am not a runner. I love a crazy long bike ride. I enjoy a weight training class. Yes, I’m an exerciser, but not a runner. I am, however, a light jogger, very light. I have added this little element to my exercise routine a couple of times a week as a challenge. I don’t want to be a runner. I have no half-marathon, marathon, mud run, color run or even 5K aspirations. Sometimes I lightly jog 2-2.5 miles all at once, checking the mileage on my phone the whole way making it seem even longer than it is. On the days I don’t think I can string all that together, I do intervals, lightly jog ten minutes, walk three minutes for 3 sets or so.

I am proud of my light jogging. I even sometimes call it running. I’ll text my husband, “going out for a run this morning”. I feel accomplished! When I pass other runners and light joggers, I do the nod. I feel as though I look just like them. When I see my shadow, I’m reminded that I don’t, but I keep going because my head says “I’m just like them”. I do this thing I’m not crazy about for the physical challenge, to say that I can lightly jog 2 miles at once, and maybe even 3! I have also found it to be a great mental challenge, pushing myself that one minute or quarter mile more. I love to see the workouts rack up on my Garmin. Nothing for the record books. Except my own.

Recently, my light jog took me through a neighborhood of grand homes, peaceful lakes and statuesque trees covered in Spanish moss within a golf cart community. It also took me to a place of embarrassment. As I ran through this neighborhood I passed a couple of walkers and three or four bike riders. (Boy, am I always jealous of the riders I see. It makes me wish all the more it wasn’t a running day!) We nodded, said “Good morning”, and commented on the lovely day. Even the riders in golf carts and regular cars waved and smiled. Then IT happened. Another man drove by in his golf cart. I smiled, waved and said good morning. The normal. He leaned way across the passenger seat to get closer. I guess he wanted to make sure I heard him. “PICK UP THE PACE!” was his beautiful morning greeting. Immediately, without any conscious effort, I could feel my pace slow, my rhythm became sloppy. I didn’t hear the music in my ears, I heard little reminders of how slow I was. I was more focused on how hard I was breathing rather than enjoying my light jog. I didn’t see myself as that runner in my head. The shadow of my slowness on the ground was bigger. Perhaps he meant it as a joke, but I didn’t know him at all. Jokes pointed at you aren’t funny if you aren’t in on them, too.

The rest of my time spent moving my feet in something more than a walk, but clearly less than a run according to Mr. Sunshine in the cart, was focused on what his half second comment zooming by in the golf cart did to me. I admit I am super sensitive and should have just let it blow by me as quickly as he did. I wondered about his insensitivity crashing into my sensitivity. I wondered if he thought he was funny. I wondered if he had any thought at all about who I was.

Maybe I was recovering from an injury and this was my first run testing the waters. Maybe I’d had knee replacement surgery and this was part of my slow climb to full use of my new knee. Maybe I’d never exercised before and this jogging thing was a brand new endeavor that I’d never been able to do before and it meant all the difference to me and my health. Maybe I had a disease like MS and I was doing all I could to keep going with the reality of the disease looming large in my mind. Maybe I was like many people with disabilities that face these comments all the time that often come in silent stares, too.

In that shattering second, I realized how much more folks have to climb through than just their disabilities. I thought about my son and the person he is. Determined. Determined to be who he is. Determined to participate in life on his terms. I wouldn’t let someone break this young man’s spirit who has many physical reasons not to run or, in fact, to chose to sit on the sidelines. Thankfully that isn’t Alex. Thankfully his normal is to put himself out there. Braces on his legs, instability and all. He plays basketball in the driveway and falls a lot. He exercises at the gym at his college. I’m sure the stair stepper machine has known longer climbs at faster speeds than his. He always cheers people on and he leads with love and kindness. Mostly because of who he is, but I’m guessing because he knows what it is like to be on the not so fun receiving end of comments like the one I heard today or stares that speak just as loudly. He lets those intruders to his self-esteem blow by him as fast as an unthinking man in a golf cart.

There is a world out there where normal is letting things come out of our mouths without thinking. Making off handed comments that weren’t meant to hurt, but were delivered without a thought of how much it might. Without thought of who the recipient of those words are. Not just to people with disabilities-but those whose clothes don’t look the same, or who look, learn or act differently. I want Alex’s normal. I want the world to have Alex’s normal where no matter what, you fit in. No matter what, you don’t question someone’s ability or value. People would think and lead with encouragement, a kind word and a smile. No one would feel different, left out or less. All would feel important. I want that normal.