I had been asleep for 15 hours when my dad shook me awake and thrusted an obnoxiously colored helmet into my face. "Come on pretty," he said sweetly. "Let's go." The intensity of the orange electrified the backs of my eyes and, now--- very awake--- I rose.
This was five years ago.
I remember riding that equally as disturbingly orange bike from the Raymour and Flanigan (where we parked) and back. All that greenery blurring together while my starved muscles struggled to propel me down that level path, the huge splotch of sweat growing on my dad's back like some oily, yellow creature that had latched on after falling from one of the inordinately tall trees looming above us from the swamp. After our ride, mom made burgers (my favorite) and I took a couple bites before going upstairs to sleep.
Cut to this past july---I've woken up at 5:00 am. After my breakfast of oatmeal, fruit and sunny-side-up eggs, I jump onto the trail---the sun /blazing/ in my eyes. Connecting my feet with the pavement in a rhythmic series of taps just audible under my only-for-when-I-run-I-swear-death-metal, my focus glides to the dots of yellow that bejeweled the greenery of midsummer; male canaries bouncing from tree to tree, bunches of daisies lining the path up until the sprawling field of them which stretched on either side of the playground a few miles ahead, and the beams of light passing through vines with the shapely intensity of a flashlight. A couple days a week I ran there like this, but other days I just went for other reasons.
A time in mid-august, for instance, when I got in an ugly fight with my mom. I bought myself a diet soda, put on some retro wave and just walked. I walked till I reached that playground and sat at one of the many wooden picnic tables. I just listened to the buzz of parents talking and children yipping. When a deep pink colored the clouds at sunset, I heard those laughs quickly replaced by the chirps of crickets. At my return home, I was calm, as well as my mother, and we made-up.
There were others, too, and I captured the best of them here:
Shannon Solley
Shannon Solley
This September, though, has been one of estrangement. At first, I had been in denial. Although it was still dark when I usually left for the trail, I ran by the light of my phone. A couple conversations with park rangers later, I started waiting till 6 a.m. to run. As I ran, my feet crunched on leaves and my eyes cringed at the spiderwebs in between the branches where butterflies had once darted. My field of daisies had been mowed, a couple brave survivors missing many if not all their pedals. Worst of all, I heard the same voice quiver the in the back of my head that warned me similarly right before an ugly break-up a couple years back---it's ending. Regardless of these warning signs, I still took pictures, like these, and still loved my trail.
Shannon Solley
Shannon Solley
Then, it all came to a head. Homework started piling up, work hours started, and friends wanted to hang-out more often. I found it easier to run after class---to give my mind space and stretch my body and found it hard to make logical sense of using my trail. Then the rain. And the fog. It feels like West Chester has been set inside a cloud, making it way too slippery to even think about running outside.
Because it means so much to me, I've written this piece to help let go. Although I know it'll be there in the spring, it still feels like losing a friend.
A plus tard mon amie, tu étais mon meilleur amore. Jusque printemps!
