Not So Proud

Getting down and dirty

This autobiographical story was written in 2017. Five years on, it is fantasy fiction.

I started running (again) at 55. I’d been a mediocre 8:40s race-pacer 13–16 years prior, between 44 and 47, those 3 years comprising a 3-months-on/off-running-sucks cycle — over the course of which I made no improvement whatsoever, despite intensive training during my on-periods.

When I divorced my trainer — literally; he was my husband — I divorced running for good.

So I’d vowed. After 8½ years of abstinence, I started flirting with my ex (hobby, not hubby) during a period when I reinvented myself — as I am wont to do once per decade.

My challenge, as always, is to do the last thing I want to do: ergo, running. Not only did I hate it, I wasn’t good at it. The only time I’d ever made the top 10 in my age group had been a (distant) 9th of 9.

Cutting to the chase: 16 years on from an 8:40-plus runner at 44, I am a 7:40-minus racer at 60. I win my age-group — by minutes — nearly all the time now at 60 (unless the elite runners show up). I would often still have placed — even win — in the 50’s division.

Fellow runners are awed at my accomplishment — kudos abound — and I will not deny that I am pleased to accept them.

Proud? Not so much. I can’t help thinking of an earlier self-reinvention — 4 years prior to my becoming a re-runner. That is, 9 years ago, when — demoralized at being unemployed — I had to do something to feel worthy of taking up space on this planet.

Back then, I determined to clean up my corner of this planet by doing the last thing I wanted to do: getting down and dirty — literally.

And so I did. For hours each week — over the course of a year, then over the course of another year after a 2-year hiatus — I hauled trash from the woods, from the streets, from the parks.

Nasty stuff. Tied for first place: a sack of dead fish and a creepy voodoo doll decked out like a porcupine. Fortunately, someone warned me about a dead cat as I was about to enter its environs; I gave that area a wide berth for months, until I was assured that the cat had been properly buried.

I would amble roadside, my “spear” at the ready, stabbing what little litter — foil wrappers, cardboard coffee cups, unsodden paper scraps — was pierce-able. Major trash-battling required hand-to-hand combat — that is, grabbing left and right, stuffing bags to bursting. Passersby were awed at my accomplishment — kudos abounded — and I will not deny that I was pleased to accept them.

Proud? Yes! Cleaning up was something to be proud of. Because it was for the benefit of others, not for just myself.

But running? Running is for the benefit of just myself. As I got more serious about running, I got less motivated to clean up. Friday had been my designated day of duty; thereafter it became another running day.

That was 3 years ago. The faster I run, the easier it is to avoid seeing the mess on the streets. In these 3 years, I’ve become — albeit with intermittent set-backs — increasingly faster overall. I am pleased. Quite pleased, indeed. Pleased, but not proud.

So much for a show of guilt-tripping whilst seated safely — comfortably — at a word-processor. High time I redeem my indolent self and its slumbering social conscience.

I spent 2½ hours in the muck today, by the pond, picking up all sorts of trash — garbage! — such as sullies the spot shore-to-shore and into the street. You name it — they dump it. Anything you can — and cannot — begin to imagine. I’ll spare you the details: suffice it to say it ain’t pretty.

Nor am I — me in my muddy boots and their smeared sidekick, namely, a tangled hank of hair. Just washed yesterday; shouldn’t have bothered. I emerged from the mire looking and feeling as fearsomely beaten as I do when emerging from a heat-stricken, hills-from-hell 10K race.

It’s been 3 years since my last clean-up spree. I used to devote Fridays to stoop-n-scoop detail. Weekly maintenance kept the environmental eyesores at bay back in the day, and it had been rewarding to survey my spic-n-span surroundings when my work was done.

I don’t recall specifically when and why I summarily quit this self-created 2-whole-hours-a-week job — it was sometime in the summer of 2014. By then, I’d become a dedicated daily 7-miler, and after an hour of pavement — pounding, the last thing I felt like doing was garbage-grabbing. One bout of unpleasant tedium per day was quite enough, thank you very much.

Back then rain days were my respites. My vacation time was hard-earned; I wasn’t about to sacrifice even an hour to the cause of civic duty. I’m loath to get wet as it is; all the more so while working in the muddy trenches.

The upshot was that I had unceremoniously resigned my commission. Now, 3 years on, ready to re-up, I was dreading the fall-out from my long-since-broken commitment. Surely, the accumulated litter — filth! — would be overwhelming.

Despite having done my best to avert my eyes these past 3 years, I couldn’t help but see the scattered scut and such, ugly testament to my neglect.

“Here goes,” I muttered grimly as I set out this morning, wielding my pincer-on-a-pole, pushing a cart over-stocked with never-enough trash bags.

A mere 2½ hours later — to my astonishment and delight — my work was complete. I’d covered ¼ mile in each direction of the cater-cornered legs of Swains Pond Avenue — its matching pair of cross-street signs amused and confused neighborhood newcomers.

While I worked, two people stopped to thank me solemnly for my service, as if I were a war veteran worthy of honor. A man walking by just as I’d begun my tour of duty had expressed profuse appreciation; this over-the-top, in-advance award both obliged and inspired me to earn it.

Then, 2 hours later, as I was on my last leg — that is, leg 2 of the splayed street — a woman driving by pulled over, pouring praise.

“And by the way,” she’d added before departing, “I see you running every day. You are truly inspirational!”

I thanked her for giving me inspiration to continue. To continue trash-picking, that is, not running. I didn’t have the heart to disillusion her, nor the guts to tell her not to over-credit me, that is, for running “every day.”

Not anymore. Not on Fridays. On Fridays now I’ve got more important — less self-important — things to do.

Postscript: Later this morning, cleaned-up and headed-downtown, I was hailed by a woman I know as she drove by. She — also named Liz — told me I’d been a major topic of discussion — and admiration — at her cook-out yesterday. Apparently, I’m the favored front-runner amongst the vast local population of maraschino-haired, 60-something, racer-ladies.

Some 10 seconds after my newfound namesake drove off, a man on a motorcycle called out: “Nice job on the clean-up.”

Made my day!