It didn’t help that I was full-on talking to myself.
I slipped into my trainers and exited the closet.
Mr. Tom waited for me by the bedroom door with his hands out in front of him. On his palms sat an 80’s style sweatband with a green stripe running through it and two matching wrist bands.
“Nope.” I pushed past him.
“Well at least take some water with you. Here.” He hurried down the hall.
I didn’t wait, instead heading to the stairs.
Mr. Tom met me there, carrying a small backpack with a water tube extending out of the top.
“It was only used once. I decided running wasn’t for me. It’s in great condition.” He got to the bottom of the stairs, his cape fluttering, and held it out. I heard water sloshing within its depths. “It’s important to stay hydrated.”
“It was only used once…but did you change out the water?”
He paused in his urgency. His eyes dipped to the backpack.
“Or wash the water tube?”
A relieved smile crossed his face. “Don’t worry about that. I don’t backwash. And water doesn’t go bad.” He extended the backpack a little farther.
There were no words.
“Wait! Do you want me to come with you?” he called after me.
I walked down the stairs and into the cooling night. Although I wouldn’t go running in certain L.A. neighborhoods at night, I wasn’t too worried about O’Briens. Even still, there was Broken Nose Harry and the normal safety concerns of being a woman out at night. I’d only keep one earphone in so I could hear if someone ran up behind me…
I stalled on the walkway, realizing I’d forgotten my earphones in the mad dash out the door. I did have my phone, at least, having managed to slip it into my sweats when huddle-changing in the closet. At least I could call for help or use GPS if needed.
I noticed movement from Niamh’s darkened porch. She stood as I neared.
“What are ye at?” she asked, a rock in her hand and only two next to her chair leg. She was apparently selective in her weapons. “Goin’ for a jog?”
“Yup. Need a little air.”
“Here. I’ll come. Wait there.”
Why did everyone want to escort me everywhere?
As soon as she’d disappeared inside, I took off. I needed alone time, and I felt like pushing myself. It was mean to say but running was a different beast than walking fast. I didn’t want to be held up and Niamh didn’t look so spry.
It only took until the end of the street for me to realize I did want to be held up. By a hammock.
My knee twinged in pain, my lungs burned, and everything ached. Running with music was so much better because I could get lost in the rhythm and lyrics and forget the pain. Forget some of the pain, anyway. Without it, I had nothing to focus on besides each jarring step. Each tree slowly passing. My ragged breath.
Feet thudded behind me rhythmically. Someone faster than me was rushing at me.
My heart stuttered and my adrenaline spiked. Self-defense lessons I’d taken in my twenties cycled through my head. I looked over my shoulder, playing it cool.
Niamh was on my tail, wearing an 80’s sweatband nearly identical to the one Mr. Tom had offered, a wrist band set and tiny running shorts showing off wiry, bleach-white muscles that nearly glowed in the streetlights.
I slowed to speak, or at least grunt, but she put up a hand in a wave and passed me by. “Meet ya at the pub after. First round is on me.”
I gulped air in her wake, watching her form practically zoom up the street and around the corner. The woman was trucking it! What an ego crusher.
Legs wobbly, I carried on. If she could do it, I could do it. Eventually. One day.A half hour that felt like years later, I finished a large circle, landing me at the opposite end of the downtown strip from home. Deciding it was time to cool down before I fell down, I slowed to a walk.
All in all, besides the fact that a woman twice my age had mopped the floor with me, it had been a decent first run. Everything hurt and I probably looked like Quasimodo, but at least I’d gotten out and done something. Which didn’t mean I was about to join Niamh for a drink.
The downtown strip, all few blocks of it, was mostly quiet. Loud laughter came from the hotel down the way, with soft orange light spilling onto the wide sidewalk from the open door. Someone—a woman it looked like—stepped out of a little cottage a block down, probably some sort of business rather than a dwelling, and locked up.
I straightened up, still panting, sweat dripping down my face, and marshaled on. Darkened or covered windows dotted the way. Doors were closed. It wasn’t that late, but most of the businesses had already shut down for the night.