Cover photo courtesy of Jon Jonckers
Recently, I was on a training run on the Centennial Trail with my two kids tucked into a double stroller. It was a Sunday, the trail buzzing with runners, walkers, dogs and cyclists, and I’d had an overwhelming week. The river tumbled like fraying ribbon below, ospreys floated in tight circles above, and my breath came hard as I pushed my bike-trailer-made-stroller and its extra 70 pounds along the concrete.
Shortly after passing a high-perched osprey nest, I realized the mileage I needed would include running down Doomsday hill, an inclined section of the Centennial that has gained notoriety from the Bloomsday course. I didn’t know this when I headed west from Kendall Yards, because specifics like trail topography are at the back of my mental load when packing two kids for a stroller run. Whatever. I pushed the stroller around the corner that would dip down Pettet Drive and pounded down the hill, weight on my heels.
On my way back up Doomsday, I crossed paths with a runner on her way down, which I was happy about so that someone might bear witness to the stupidly stubborn feat I was pulling. She shouted “Impressive!” and I was glad about that too, lifting my hand from the stroller bar long enough to give her a wave of gratitude.
The truth was that running with a double stroller up Doomsday had been the easiest part of my week. A family member had had an unexpected medical emergency, my husband had been sent to Chicago for work, and I was operating on sleep interrupted by long hours of cradling my daughter while her fever raged during an ear infection. The truth was that running up that hill was not as hard as motherhood. Hauling ass with a heavy stroller was something I could control.
Everyone has a week like that. Or a month. Or a year. But people don’t say “Impressive!” just for making it through the day.
In that five-second exchange, what that other runner had really said to me was “I see you,” which was not something we say often enough to our fellow humans these days.
Calves burning with catharsis, I made the top of Doomsday hill. I pushed the stroller back past the ospreys, still circling. I arrived in Kendall Yards sweaty and red-faced, walked the stroller back to the car, and fell into the familiar pattern of buckle, carry, break down, buckle.
Later, I thought about how other people on the trail that day might have been there to escape life’s stressors. How we turned to the outdoors for neutral space, a place to process, a place to refresh. How a small acknowledgement in that space could resonate as a large kindness.
What I’d like to say leading into summer, a time when our trails are most packed, is to remember the impact of a five-second wave, a head nod, shakas, a thumbs-up, or whatever gesture you might convey when you’re sweating like hell and breathing worse. It can matter a whole lot to someone when you say I see you. I’m here too. We’re on this trail together, and that’s as good a metaphor as any.
- Lisa Laughlin, managing editor
