There is something beautiful about October
turning into November and all the joy of running under puffy white clouds
against the cerulean of the autumn sky. My footfalls seem lighter and the herd
of kids I ran with earlier in the season have dwindled away, so that all the
middle aged man complaints of achy knees and losing my breath from running sub
seven minute miles in training (god these kids are young!) shuffle away into
the rustling leaves. The opportunity to run solo after months of group runs
with junior high and high school kids is just nice. If that hill is
overwhelming me and I want to walk it I can. I don’t have to run myself through
the guilt trip that I naturally do when I know I am not going to let any of
those kids walk up a hill. “Hills make you stronger.” And so they do, but
sometimes the run needs to just be about looking at the rocks in the road, the
cracks in the sidewalk, the leaves on the ground, the clouds in the sky. Of
course eyeglasses are an important part of that looking.
Just a couple of years ago on a
very brisk Veteran’s day I went for a run in my progressive lens bifocals
(wouldn’t want to appear too old). I was running by the Post Office and
smiling, occasionally waving, at all the people I knew there. A school bus went
by and I waved at my students, looking down at the sidewalk. But where the rise
in pavement should have been was a fuzzed spot through my vanity glasses and I
tripped, falling hard. I caught myself with my right arm but I still fell hard.
Feeling foolish I forced myself right back up to running. After a block I felt
abrasions on my gloved right hand. I took it in my left hand and a bone popped
sickeningly into place. It wasn’t painful, but I heard it. I took off my glove
and swelling had already commenced. No big deal, I thought, and decided to
finish my run. By the time I hit the edge of town it began to dawn upon me that
I had actually broken my hand. Broken my hand? How stupid. There was not ice or
snow. It was the sidewalk! Can I really just publicly embarrass myself and
break at the same time?
I turned back, met one of my
cross country runners and showed him my hand. He said, “Mr. Potter, you need to
go to the doctor.” That part still hadn’t occurred to me. But I heeded his
advice and went and got some ice for my hand and the road. I never really did
feel much pain, but the inconvenience of it all just seemed crazy to me. For
the first time ever, I drove my stick shift pickup with my left hand. Cars
honked angrily at me for going so slow. I raised my broken right iced hand in
reply. I think one of them may have misread my meaning.
When I got home my wife took
over. We went to the emergency room because Quick Care had closed by then. The
emergency room doctor told me it was broken. I told him I knew that. He smiled
and said I might need surgery later on because that spot where I broke my hand
was notorious for messing with the nerves of the little finger. Thanks, buddy.
Over the next couple of months I
learned how to do all kinds of things with my left hand. I wrote on the
chalkboard for my students. They pretended they could read it. I washed the
dishes with one hand. My wife rewashed them. I dressed myself with my left
hand. My wife buttoned my shirts.
There is something beautiful
about October turning into November and all the joy of running under puffy
white clouds against the cerulean of the autumn sky. My footfalls seem lighter
and the herd of kids I ran with earlier in the season have dwindled away, so
that all the middle aged man complaints come into focus. My right little finger
still doesn’t work the same as it did three years ago, but I can write with my
right hand again. I can dress myself and drive my pick up when it will start
(another story)… And now I have lined bifocals.
