Thwicka

Not really a poem, but perhaps lyric prose?

Probably written in late 1994. "Thwicka" is the sound of a running

shoe on pavement. I submitted it to "Runner's World" but never heard

back. Re-reading it now, 10 years later, there are some parts that are

bit grandiloquent, but I think I still like it...

----

Thwicka... thwicka... thwicka... I am a runner. On Sunday morning, my

slowly slogging steps trace the broken concrete and cobblestones to

the path by the river. I make the pilgrimmage three times a week, in

the morning, when the air is still.

The sleep has just barely left my eyes, and the pressures of the day

have not yet pressed down upon my shoulders. Inertia tells me to walk,

or even sit on that beckoning park bench, but the faint voice barks

from the depths of my brain to keep on. Thwicka... thwicka...

thwicka... My steps find their measured pace and my muscles whine like

spoiled children. That pain below the left knee, the soreness of my

thigh. Patience, patience, they will pass.

A deep breath gulps the still-cool morning air. The fog has not yet

lifted, and my eyes take in the riverscape like an impressionist

sketch. Deep green, blue and gray -- Monet without waterlilies, in

3D, with sensurround. A single boat skates by silently like a giant

fiberglass waterbug; the path is still empty.

Thwicka... thwicka... thwicka... By the first bridge, I know all is

well. My limbs are still leaden, but the pleading of my aches has

quieted. Though I have run this path so many times, it seems that

each day I must realize anew that I *can* run the distance. Heading

out this morning I had told my wife "I'm going to run the river path

to the end, so I may be out for a while." She knew it, and I knew it,

but only now do my mind and body truly believe it.

Finally the pace feels right, and the rhythm kneads its way into my

thoughts like the rumble of a railway car. I pull my mind back from

the daydream, measure my stride and glance at my watch. A mental note:

too heavy on the heel, *roll* onto the foot. Head level, and hold the

pace. Thwicka...thwicka...thwicka ... and I'm an engineer. Pushing

my body, the locomotive, along its track. Second bridge at 8:17,

right on time. Mentally reach for the steam whistle to blow as I pass

the stalled morning traffic at the light. Stoke the fire at a bend in

the path, building steam for the hill that waits beyond. I can no

longer distinguish my steps -- they are a slow blur in the dance of

steam and iron, pumping their way through my mind. The rhythm of the

tracks, the rhythm of the road. It goes on and on, beyond the horizon,

to the place where we are always going and where dreams come true. We

are always going, and we never arrive, because it's the journey that

matters. Life, like the road stretching beyond the horizon, exists to

be run, and so we run it.

The path levels after a small hill. The track is rougher here, but the

machine is warm. Thwicka...thwicka...thwicka... Back off on the steam

a little now -- no need to fret the watchman. Legs pump like smooth

metal pistons, brass gauges tell a tale to the eyes that watch and the

ears that listen. Oxygen? Good -- out a little more on each breath.

Knees? Keep 'em up -- can't scuff on the forward step, and let them

down easy, but fast.

A brief downhill as the pavement ends and the path lunges into the

carpet of trees at water's edge. Keep it in, keep it close, and keep

it fast. Thwicka..thwicka..thwicka... and I'm a fighter pilot. The now

unstoppable push at my back hurtles me forward along the steeplechase

path beyond Beacon Street. I lean into the turn, pull it close, and

roll into my next step. Wasting no action, no space, no time -- speed

is life. I know the path, and I know the turns. Following the forest

floor, my feet pound their rhythm somewhere far away. There is no time

to take steps, no time to decide how to take the next step. No time to

think, only time to do. I move by instinct, a blur along the path.

Left, down, left again, then hard right and up past the rock. Physics,

aerodynamics, and the principles of turbine engines, long since

distilled into reflex: for each action, an equal and opposite

reaction. Two short steps, then a long one by the broken asphalt over

the rogue creek. The gallows humor of a fighter pilot rises,

evanescent amid the motion: "ooh, now *that* would hurt!"

I run past, beyond, under and over. I now realize that I am in a

race, but with what? It lurks in the periphery of my thought, just out

of sight. Pursued, or pursuing, I can not tell, and it no longer

matters. At each instant I am a step closer, yet always just a step

away. Thwicka thwicka thwicka... and I'm an animal. A cheetah, an

antelope, a lone wolf running for its life. There is no longer any

point in thinking, reasoning, or weighing the cause and effect. There

is only the pounding in my ears and the sure knowledge that survival

depends on running. There is no finish line, only the next step, and

the next one after it. My existence -- past, present, and hope of the

future is bound up in the promise that this next step will not be my

last. Countless generations of evolution and natural selection gave

me these long legs. Years of training toned them to carry me now, at

this instant, in my race to survive against what lies only a stumble

away.

Suddenly, the race is no longer about me. It is about life, a mere

reflection of that epic dance of nature. I find myself watching the

motion from afar: me, the runner, now flying effortlessly in the

distance. Careening along the footpath, I realize that must no longer

try, I must simply *be*, and nature will move me.

Thwickathwickathwicka... and I am the wind. The leaves rustle at my

approach and scatter as I pass. A whippoorwill turns to me and braces

for flight. I touch the trees, the grass and concrete, and the ancient

brick of the old city as they turn me, shape me, give me direction and

drive me on. Crows, and two small children steady themselves against

the squall that barrels down this quiet trail. I am the wind, and

exist only so long as I move. Motion is what defines me.

The old willow sways as I pass and then, without realizing it, I am

home again. Beyond the old footbridge in a shower of fallen leaves, I

slow and turn. I eddy past the sleeping oaks, ruffle the long grass,

and finally settle to the ground, sheltered at water's edge. I am

almost surprised to find myself there, muscles aching and breathing

hard. I think back: how did I come to this spot? As the stillness of

the morning wraps around me again, I remember: I am a runner.