Born to Run

Today, I went running on the Red Cedar Trail for the first time in almost eight weeks. It was a lovely Spring afternoon; the air was dry and warm, and the sun remained hidden. In front of me, a group of bikers pedaled happily conversing. They didn’t see me in their glee.

I had been running on the tread mill for the past week with the permission of my physical therapists. I have worked with three of them: Jeff, Lucas and Deb. Each of them brought their strengths to my rehabilitation, and I am grateful to each and all. On the tread mill—as per instructions—I walked two minutes and ran one. (Actually, I was instructed to walk four minutes and run one minute, but I tend to overdo things. For example, my doctor told me to take ½ aspirin every day to maintain my healthy heart, and I told him that since I already take mega-vitamins, would it be acceptable to take a full aspirin. He smiled knowingly, and nodded his head). But, I found the treadmill particularly boring; even listening to Bruce Springsteen sing “Born to Run,” I could not maintain much pace at all. With all of those beautiful bodies about me, I couldn’t sustain any enthusiasm. And I was fast running out of breath.

So, on Friday, at my regular appointment, I asked Luke if I could run on the trail. No, actually I didn’t ask Luke if I could run on the trail: I told Luke I wanted to begin running again outside. He smiled (knowingly), and nodded his head.

Thus it was that today I went running on the Red Cedar Trail for the first time in almost eight weeks. And while I was running, I listened to my MP3 player which I had programmed over eight weeks ago in the days just preceding the event. And as I uncertainly ran, with not a little dis-ease, suddenly there sang the Byrds through my mind. The song was “Wasn’t Born to Follow.” I’ve always loved that song; identified it of course, with the film, Easy Rider. And there occurs this incredible moment in the song—between verses two and three—which epitomizes for me my sense of the 1960’s which extended into the 1970’s. I loved those formative years, and though Wavy Gravy says that if you remember the ‘60s, then you weren’t there, I remember dearly those years. They live in me to this day.

The moment occurs immediately after the lines, “And if you think I’m ready/You may lead me to the chasm where the rivers of our vision/Flow into one another." Suddenly, two guitars (one I’ve always thought as the legendary sound of Roger McGuinn’s 12-String Rickenbacker), play against one another, and slowly, inexorably, between them a tension builds.

Alas, I am certain there is something technical I ought to know about what the musicians are doing, but alas, I don’t know enough to hazard even a naive description of their skill. It is a hard tension I experience in this break; it is about struggle, and growth, and hurt and pain. “Wasn’t Born to Follow” is, for me, a song about struggle and growth and hurt and pain. This was what I experienced during the 1960’s which extended into the 1970’s. I loved them and I hated them. I love them yet.

And then, suddenly, during this break, when the tension seems unbearable, there happens a resolution, and the disquiet between the guitars resolves into a harmony and flow and ease. Like the rivers of our vision, the guitars flow into one another, and there is calm. This, too, was what I experienced during the 1960’s which extended into the 1970’s. I loved them and I hated them. I love them yet.

In the end, she’ll surely know, I wasn’t born to follow.

Tomorrow, I run for two miles.