Gutenberg
Over the last couple weeks, I have been struggling with how to respond to the murder of Ahmaud Arbery. It’s not that I don’t have feelings of outrage, grief, and disgust; but many others on this site have written more powerfully and personally than I ever could. Please take a few minutes to read them.
For my small part, one movement that struck home for me was the #IRunWithMaud campaign, in which people ran 2.23 (in memory of the date on which Arbery was killed) in honor of his birthday on May 8. I am a runner, so I thought that this was something I could do. With typical James Smith-timing, I promptly badly banged my knee on that Friday morning and had a limp for the entire weekend, so I ran on Monday.
Heading out the door, I was not sure what to expect. Running, even on the most mundane days, is fraught. A good runner has to accomplish several things mentally, and therein lies a paradox. For one, there has to be a certain level of mental detachment: if you are constantly focusing on the pain, tedium, or how long you have left to go, it will either end up feeling like a very long run indeed or a very short one as my body can almost always find some excuse to turn in early for the day. On the other hand, your mind has to be hyper-focused: How are all your muscles and joints doing? How is your breathing? Is your pace too fast? Too slow? And all the while, running on city roads, you have to be on the lookout for the driver that is going too fast or not paying attention or doesn’t see you when backing out of the driveway. As a runner, you have to develop a sixth sense to watch for “car body language.”
Of course, it is not really the cars; it is the people. Most of the time, it’s innocuous enough, but not always. Harassment is something every runner has faced, but not all of us face it evenly. There has been a lot of needed discussion in the last few days about the discrimination faced by persons of color “Running While Black.” I hope we also do not lose sight of the challenges for female runners. As Jen Miller wrote in her guide for women runners a couple years ago, “Are male runners sometimes called Forrest Gump from some driver racing by? Sure. But gender-based harassment affects 65 percent of women and 25 percent of men, according to the National Street Harassment Report.”
“I want everyone to be able to love running the way I do: to smell blooming trees, hear calling birds, discover hidden parts of the towns we live in, meet new neighbors, and come home and take a hot shower of sore accomplishment running over your body and soul. But that’s not the present reality for everyone in this country.”
This ought not be. Before most Americans had ever heard of COVID-19, we were already struggling with an obesity epidemic. We also live in a country that drives at an environmentally unsustainable rate. Given these two realities, one might suppose that running would be an activity held in universal and patriotic esteem. The City of Three Rivers is doing their part to develop more trails for runners and pedestrians. But when I talk to the average person about the challenges runners face, I don’t get the sense that creating a safe space for runners is a priority. Whenever there is a conflict between a runner and a driver, the person inevitably takes the side of the driver (“Well, runners need to be more careful!”)—which seems strange given the massive disparity between someone in a several ton metallic killing machine traveling at 35 mph or more and someone weighing a couple hundred pounds gasping to hit a 10-minute mile.
More to the point, running helps work against another American phenomenon felt even more acutely in these times: isolation. If you want to go anywhere in running, you have to run through and outside your neighborhood (running around the block does tend to get monotonous after time #12 or so). Even in my 2.23-mile (ok, 2.26; I messed up) route that I took, residents from Three Rivers could tell you that I ran through a few different neighborhoods and wards. Running gets you out and seeing and meeting other people you might not otherwise notice, even if it’s just a quick “how ya doin’?” or the fraternal “runner’s nod.”
These were racing through my mind on my run that Monday, and I had turned around to make the trip back home, when a big white truck slowed down behind me. I thought I heard shouting. I kept running and told myself it wasn’t anything to worry about—or, even if it is, it’s best just to ignore it. But the person continued to drive and pulled up right beside me “PJ!” It’s a nickname some of my parishioners call me for “Pastor James.” Sure enough, it was a friend from one of the churches I serve. “COME ON, RUN FASTER!” I sprinted a block or so until I was out of breath. He and his daughter laughed and shouted, “Stay safe! We love you!”
And it was at that moment that the distances in our society hit home for me.
I do not feel bad that I was privileged to have this interaction with a friend. I want everyone to feel as I do. As I told my wife a few weeks ago, when I’m walking or running around TR, it feels like the whole place is my backyard. I never know who I will “run into,” but I know I will run into someone. I want everyone to be able to love running the way I do: to smell blooming trees, hear calling birds, discover hidden parts of the towns we live in, meet new neighbors, and come home and take a hot shower of sore accomplishment running over your body and soul.
But that’s not the present reality for everyone in this country. Already I am reading accounts of black runners who are staying home or feeling like they have to run in parks instead of in their own cities. And it’s not hard to understand why. In a sense, it’s really impossible for me as a white man to post “#IRunWithMaud” because it’s a totally different experience. When someone slows down or honks at me, chances are it is someone saying “hello” or “we love you.” At worst, it’s a stupid joke or an attempt to impress their buddies.
But when a truck slowed down beside Ahmaud Arbery, he never finished his run.
The people I meet when I run are better than this. We need to start treating all people that way.
James E. Smith is a pastor serving at Trinity Episcopal and St. John’s Lutheran Churches. For comments, questions, or rebuttals, fire off an e-mail at [email protected]. Prosit!
Any views or opinions expressed in “Gutenberg” are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views or opinions of the Watershed Voice staff or its board of directors.
