Eyeline
Chin up, girl
The dark and the cold are my favourite running conditions, which is probably how I got my nastiest running injury to date a couple of years ago, falling at great speed and height after my toe caught on uneven pavement just a few hundred meters from my front door. I had been looking out for ice, snag, not local authority backlog.
I still remember the feeling of flying through air like a super hero and knowing that within less than a second there was going to be an almighty thud and it was going to hurt like hell. I had just enough time to angle myself so that I landed on my side and protected my face. It was an early Friday night and thankfully not too many people were about, because my first thought, stupidly, wasn’t Am I alright? but Did anyone see?
I got up and dusted myself off and, again, stupidly, continued with the run because the adrenaline whispered, why not (why not indeed…says the burnout queen). I just scrunched the torn gloves up my sleeve and ignored the holes in my tights. Impressive bruises and a bit of a limp developed over the weekend but everything was, you know, fine.
The following week I was on a work trip in Glasgow and the rush hour train home was absolutely packed. I didn’t have a seat reservation and the only vacant spot was in one of those tables for four where you have zero legroom, well, zero anything room. I was reaching for the overhead shelf with my laptop bag when there was a click and my knee just buckled right away from under me. This time everyone did see, and I was pretty mortified because I definitely had more of a Rare In-person Day Post Work Drinkies Aura rather than a Heroic Sporting Injury Aura. To make matters worse, I was immobilised like a mummy in the window seat for the best part of two hours while my right knee gurgled and popped quietly next to the thigh of a gentleman clearly very comfortable with taking up space, as well as eating an egg and mayo sandwich.
Not a highlight of my remote working life, or running life.
When I finally got back to running, I noticed that I was much more anxious about trips and falls and often looking at my feet, rather than the path ahead. Even with effort, I just couldn’t sustain a steady eyeline.
Until a week or so ago, nearly two years to the date of that fall. I think it’s been the result of a lot of things shifting towards the better and the lighter, a minor thing perhaps but I truly feel like I’ve reclaimed something important. For one thing, it’s very hard to have headspace for imagination when all you can see are your toes.
Eyeline
The horizon returned to me one dank November night
which suffocated the stars in urban fog
pavement slabs askance, a carpet of decay
the horse chestnut’s bony earth fingers
webbed like snares under foot, but I said no
pulled my shoulders back and steadied my gaze
so when I turned down a back alley, a modest freeway
past old coach houses and fairy-lit garden gates
the world grew bigger, my trainers airborne
I glimpsed through a heaving chest and not my eyes alone
the high street infused in parkas and festive hops
the harbour’s industrial throng, metal on metal and water
the football stadium exhaling belief, a creature of hope
the living rooms and kitchens everywhere, this city my home
and looking along the slope, I saw her before she saw me:
an orange gal in a velvet coat – a West End tail fit for cabaret
carrying a chicken leg, the scavenger’s gift
turning mid-trot by the row of bins to judge if I was a threat
waiting, watching, letting me close the gap
for a spell we ran the night’s gauntlet in parallel
playful, unfearing, as if we belonged