A few weeks after arriving in M—, weeks during which I encountered many locals but made no lasting connections, I decided to join a long-distance running group. I’d never been particularly interested in running or fitness, but it had recently occurred to me that everyone I knew belonged to one fitness group or another. Whenever I picked up my phone I saw posts about someone back home completing a marathon, or winning a pickle-ball tournament, or lifting unimaginable weights. Almost none of these acquaintances had shown much athletic ability in the past. And yet, here they were, achieving new feats and transforming themselves well into their respective adulthoods. Maybe they knew something I didn’t, I thought. Maybe I’d better get out there.
According to Instagram, the run group met every Thursday at the craft beer brewery in a historic downtown neighborhood called The Heights. They gathered outside on the patio to stretch and warm up before the run. When enough people arrived, they’d set off into the neighborhood on some predetermined route. Then, one by one, starting with the fastest and ending with the slowest, they’d return to enjoy a little beer and camaraderie at the brewery. It was called Lagers and Joggers.
I looked at every image posted by Lagers and Joggers—mostly group shots of thin, leggy people in neon shorts and mirror-like sunglasses. They were well-tanned, in various degrees of shirtlessness, and perpetually glazed with sweat. They drank unfiltered ales and at least one of them had little wings tattooed on his ankles. I could tell by the Lagers and Joggers Instagram that these people believed in running. It wasn’t just a sport and it wasn’t just an activity. It was a lifestyle open to any willing soul who felt called to run, not to or from something—simply to run. I was starting to feel like I understood runners, like I already knew these particular runners pictured on the Lagers and Joggers page. I even started to feel like I was one of them despite having run not one single mile. I searched Amazon and ordered a pair of running shoes and shorts and sunglasses. I bought a moisture-wicking shirt and a “run-belt” designed to hold my keys and phone in place against my hip. All my gear was set to arrive at my apartment within days, just in time for the Thursday meet up.
When Thursday came, I found myself on that same patio with the people I’d seen on Instagram, all of whom looked a bit more sinewy in person. And it wasn’t until standing there among the runners, stretching in all my new gear, that I began to feel strange, exposed in my little shorts and neon hat. Did I stick out? Could they tell I was new? I saw some people jogging in place during warmups and decided to give it a try. It felt normal and no one laughed. Maybe I’d be fine, I thought. But I wasn’t sure. I needed help, a friend to talk to. I leaned toward a bearded guy in little black shorts with two water bottles strapped to his hips.
Hey, I said.
Hey.
He was standing on one leg with the other folded up like a flamingo. I mimicked his pose.
This is my first time.
Nice!
Hope I do okay.
Hey, man, you’re out here. That’s half the battle!
He was right, I was out there. And I’d been right about running—a free and democratic activity anyone can do but only a few partake in. My confidence came just in time because suddenly, without any notice, the group formed into an amorphous blob of semi-naked limbs and moved into the street like a school of fish. We were off.
According to the fitness app on my phone, I’d run less than one half of a mile when I realized I was alone. I’d been watching the ground blur as it passed beneath my feet. When I finally raised my eyes and looked forward, I saw nothing but long rolling hills and sleepy little houses. There were no runners, no thundering herd, only the rhythmic crunch of asphalt beneath my own short, shuffling steps. Luckily, I remembered the group’s route from my research. I knew it was an “out-and-back” and decided to fall in line with the group when they passed me on the way back to the brewery, but this never happened. I gasped and shuffled all the way to the interstate bridge where, supposedly, the group made their turn back to the brewery. But I never encountered another runner.
On the way back, my run had been reduced to something like a gimpy skip. An elderly couple eyed me as I passed by their front porch. I thought they might cheer or offer words of encouragement, but they only stared with faces of measured concern at my methodical progression.
Night had fallen long before the brewery finally entered my line of sight. I picked up the pace. Finish strong, I thought. Tell them you got lost. But my right leg felt like a piece of lumber and I hobbled my way to the patio, where I dropped myself onto a bench and waited for my breath to return. For a moment I looked up at the stars. They appeared strangely refracted and seemed to move as if they were not properly fixed in the sky. My heart rate finally slowed and my breathing became less labored. Only then did I come to notice the empty patio and the chairs stacked on tables in the dark taproom. The brewery was completely void of human activity and had been for some time. My phone chirped. I removed it from my run-belt and read a notification banner: “Lagers and Joggers just posted!” When I clicked the banner, my phone displayed a group shot of all the runners I’d been with earlier. They were smiling, sweaty, and hoisting pints toward the camera. “Another one in the books!” read the caption.
I ran every day after that. A week went by and I was no faster. Then two weeks. I did research. An article I read said to figure out what works for you, so I tried everything I could think of. Running with music, running without music. Fasting before runs, feasting before runs. I tried water and I tried Gatorade, stretching and not stretching. Eventually I was able to shave a whole minute off my mile pace. I was still slow, but less so. How fast need I be? I didn’t want to win any races. I didn’t even care about keeping up with the group. I just wanted to be there when the joggers drank their lagers.
I finally returned to the run group one Thursday, but not without a plan. During warmups, I took inventory of all the runners and, judging solely by appearances, attempted to identify the slowest among them. I decided on a woman who had neither the gaunt cheeks nor the sinewy limbs of the other runners. Her skin was pale and un-weathered. Maybe she too was a beginner. I could probably manage to keep her within sight during the run. Maybe I could even ask her to run with me. But no sooner had these thoughts crossed my mind than the collective movement began to occur. Again, I found myself shoaling with the other runners in a gigantic blob of heads bobbing up and down the street. I attempted to keep my eye on the slow-looking woman, but this proved more difficult than I’d imagined. I caught a glimpse of her ponytail and attempted to surge forward and catch up with her, but she surged too. I kept dashing and cutting in front of others, desperate to keep up with her, but the harder I tried, the more elusive she became. Eventually I completely lost track of her and I was overcome with extreme exhaustion. My efforts to run with the slow-looking woman had the adverse effect of wearing myself out much too quickly. I let my eyes fall to the ground and fixate on the blurry asphalt scrolling beneath me for only a brief moment. Or so I imagined. I suppose more time had passed than I initially thought. When I lifted my gaze I found myself, again, alone on the rolling hills of The Heights.
From there, my second group-run was a reenactment of the first. I made it to the interstate overpass without encountering another runner. Night descended. Elderly residents looked on as I clawed my way back to the brewery, which, of course, was already emptied of people by the time I made it back. Again my phone chirped: “Lagers and Joggers just posted!” Another group shot, this one featuring the slow-looking girl, front and center, holding her frosty mug and smiling a knowing smile.
I didn’t go on one run the following week. The weather wasn’t so bad, but it wasn’t particularly nice either. I guess I just didn’t feel like getting out there. And then, without much warning, winter arrived and everything got damp and cold. Night came early. I found it difficult to run during the middle of the day no and I stayed in my apartment most evenings. In fact, I spent most of my free time researching and shopping for new gear online. My social media feeds were suddenly chock full of advertisements for cold weather running apparel. I bought long tights to wear under my shorts and a running vest with reflective fabric sewn into the shoulders. I bought a beanie and a headlamp and gloves with touch-screen-fingertips to wear while running. Whenever new merchandise arrived at my apartment, I’d try it on immediately and observe myself in the mirror. Sometimes I’d pose in a frozen running position, one leg slightly bent with the other kicked up behind me, arms frozen mid pump. Sometimes I’d grab a glass from the kitchen and hoist in in the air with a smile. I really did look like a runner in all my gear. But Winter came and went before I had a chance to put my cold weather gear to use. At least I had it for next year, I reasoned.
March arrived and the days began to warm. I noticed more activity from the Lagers and Joggers Instagram showing up in my feed. I saw some familiar faces—the bearded guy, the guy with the winged-ankle tattoo, the slow looking girl—but I also noticed a few newcomers I’d never seen before. More people who were getting out there, I thought. Maybe these newcomers made New Year’s resolutions. Maybe they were sticking to the plan. Good for them, I thought. Good for them for getting out there.
I soon found myself at the brewery for a Thursday evening run, this time more determined than ever. When the group set off from the patio, I made sure to fall in the back of the pack. Once they made their first turn, I stopped and watched as they bounded down Laurel Street. I listened to the grippy sound of their shoes began to fade as they crested the hill and disappeared on the descent. Then I turned around and walked back to the brewery. I’d decided to lie in wait until a critical mass of the run group had returned. I found a booth where I could hide from the main entrance and ensconced myself in it. I ordered a beer and I drank it slowly. I scrolled on my phone and looked at different Lagers and Joggers posts from the past. I imagined the post that would come later that evening, imagined seeing myself among the others, seeing myself in all my new gear, lager in hand. At some point I realized I’d finished my beer. I poked my head from behind my booth and looked for any familiar faces or bodies donning activewear but saw no one. Then I got up and checked the patio. Nothing. Maybe they’re doing a longer route today, I thought. I ordered another round and returned to the booth with my phone. I scrolled on Instagram and searched Amazon for more running gear. I must’ve been feeling the effects of my beer because I clicked “Buy Now” on a four pack of compression sleeves without really understanding their purpose.
I was on my third beer when I noticed the brewery employees closing the taproom. I’d been scrolling mindlessly and wasn’t sure how much time had passed. A bartender interrupted me and handed me a plastic cup. Here, he said. We gotta close shop.
What about the joggers? I asked.
Huh?
I started to explain Lagers and Joggers to this bartender. I started to tell him I belonged to a group of long-distance runners who met every Thursday for a group-run and happy hour. But something stopped me. Somehow I knew this would mean nothing to him, a non-runner. I said nothing, poured my beer into the plastic to-go cup, stood up, and, feeling a slight buzz, made for the patio.
The sky outside was caught somewhere between night and day. It was early spring and a flock of migratory birds was perched noisily in a leafless tree. Their black silhouettes looked like music notes dotting the tree’s branches. I downed the remainder of my beer and crushed the plastic cup with my hand, the noise of which sent the birds into a frenzy. At once, thousands of birds launched from the tree and formed a giant pixelated oval in the sky. The oval shifted slightly and became something more bean-shaped for a moment just before the entire flock descended and populated the naked branches of another leafless tree. From there they continued their noisy perching.
I felt the urge to check my phone and found notification banner that had been awaiting me for some fifteen minutes: “Lagers and Joggers just posted!” Another group shot, all smiles and sweat and pints hoisted in the air. It was taken right here on the patio, the same empty patio where I now stood. Only there was something different about the picture, something was off. The trees, beautiful green trees. They weren’t at all leafless. They were in full green foliage, a deep green only seen the depths of summer.
The thing about running is that anyone can do it. Even me. It’s just matter of getting out there, and what was I if not out there? Maybe that’s all that mattered. I slid my phone back into my run belt, leaned forward, and without much thought or hesitation, took off down the street. I ran down the hill on Laurel Street beneath the orange glow of the streetlamps. I ran past all the sleepy little homes of The Heights with their windows open and illuminated from within. I kept running and running. I felt faster and lighter than I’d ever felt before. I ran all the way to the interstate bridge and back to the brewery without seeing anyone. Then I left The Heights and jogged down State Street, which was completely empty of any form of traffic, pedestrian or otherwise. I ran right down the middle of the thoroughfare until reaching the tall stone buildings of downtown M—. I ran past the governor’s mansion and the old capitol building and the old clock tower without seeing another person. I ran past an abandoned church with broken gothic windows through which sparrows flew in and out. I ran past a drive-through pizza shack billowing white smoke into the air. I ran all the way to Mill Street, where, finally, I paused, bent over, and vomited all the beer I’d consumed at the brewery. When I stood up, I could see an abandoned industrial building—an old mill—covered in a vine-y growth but not much else beyond that other than brush and trees. It was strange, I thought, that a city would have such an acute edge, such an abrupt ending. I thought of turning around, but I wasn’t tired. In fact, I felt restless. I felt like running.
The dirt path that led to the mill was littered with old washing machines and printers and abandoned vehicles and heaping piles of trash. At first I could see my way by the residual light of the city. But, the closer I got to the building the darker it became and soon my footsteps landed blindly along the tire ruts and large roots protruding along the path. Still, I ran toward the abandoned mill. my pace increased with each blind stride. I’d never felt faster, lighter, or more agile. I kept thinking to myself I’m really getting out there. I’m really far out here. And then, without stopping or slowing down, I tried to turn my head around. I wanted to see the city, to see how far out there I was getting. But just then, just before I could see the city over my shoulder, my right foot twisted beneath me and I felt a crunch in my ankle. I lost my connection with the ground and felt the sensation of falling. I reached into the darkness before me, reached for the ground. I churned my feet, raising my knees higher and higher, desperately searching for the ground. But my hands and feet found nothing, only more darkness. I clawed and groped at the nothing and continued falling into darkness until I saw something approaching at a distance—a small light in the darkness growing larger and larger. As it got bigger, I could see that it wasn’t one light but many lights. City lights. It began to look like a miniature city, like a city in a snow globe. But not just any city, it was M—. And I was approaching this little city, I was looking down from on high. I was high above the abandoned mill, high above the darkened dirt path littered with trash and old appliances. I was way out there, moving at the speed of sound and looking down on this beautiful little city, looking down on the Standard Life building and the King Edward Hotel, looking down onto all the little houses and churches, looking down on the bars and restaurants and the brewery, which I knew with certainty to be full of people drinking and smiling and taking pictures with one another.