3WW (Abandon, Gradual, Precise): Exits

I exit.

It’s a long walk to the beach, but I don’t mind. I take the time to stretch my legs. And to reflect on a long day. To let the cool, damp air engulf me on my gradual descent to the ocean.

A Camry passes at breakneck speed. Then a Lexus. Then a silver SUV that could be a Honda or a Toyota or a Kia. The drivers are all at an age that requires them to get their respective Jacob’s and Emma’s of the world to soccer games across town five minutes ago.

I hear the ocean first. Like the sound of a highway on which all cars are traveling at or exceeding the speed limit. Except cleaner. I soon spy the lapping waves. Not big waves. There are rarely big waves in sounds.

I lift my knees a bit higher as I approach the road that parallels the water. Beach Avenue, I believe it is appropriately, though unoriginally, named. I reach the corner. Lift my right foot back until I can grasp it with my right hand. Stretch. Do the same with the left.

The Milwaukee Brewers t-shirt hangs loosely around my emaciated frame. The navy blue Adidas shorts are far too big, but I have tied the front string to ensure their stability throughout. I tell myself it enables me to have proper ventilation.

I start slowly. It’s all about pacing. And the precise synchronization of arms, torso, legs, and feet. My breathing is haphazard to start. Like a 63 year-old wheezing ex-smoker. I cough a bit, rid myself of the phlegm lingering at the back of my throat.

I think of a fast moving song. Then realize I’m trying to sing the song in my head with perfect intonation. I lose focus. Cough more. Keep my legs moving in a motion that reminds me of a drunk duck. I regain focus. Right myself. I think instead of a rhythm, a beat. No music this time. No lyrics. Just a beat. I center the breathing around the beat. I settle.

Cars become masses of blurry metal whirring past. People become avoidable objects. Each jutting slab of concrete becomes a death trap for fragile knees and ankles. I navigate a subtle obstacle course unseen to drivers and walkers alike.

I feel a twinge. It starts as a nagging pain. A dull ache in the right side of my knee. I recall the woman in the running store stating that every person who runs has that one chronic injury. I wonder which yours will be, she posited. Shin splints? Stress fractures? Pulled muscles? None of the above, I can now admit with confidence. Runner’s knee.

I ignore it. More accurately, I focus on another muscle. Perhaps my left calf. Or my right bicep. My lower back. It dulls the pain enough for me to endure. The pain subsides eventually, as if it no longer thinks it important to tell me about itself.

I hit my groove at mile three. Or at least what I think is mile three. No more pain. Entirely focused. I don’t notice the people I pass. I am barely aware of the ebbing tide’s wafting fragrance. I hear only my rhythmic breathing. I feel movement but can no longer discern my feet padding on the concrete. Sweat trickles down the nape of my neck.

It’s the home stretch. As is my custom, I increase speed. A holdover from my days as a team sports player, I must finish at a full sprint. My wobbling legs inch forward with full abandon. A perfect circle. Almost there.

I don’t see the death trap, the depression in the sidewalk. Just a stone’s throw from my starting point. I falter. I hear a pop, a bad pop.

I won’t be running for a while.