Seeking Validation from the Geese
by Hannah Reynoso
Illustrations by Julia Reichart
My little legs cannot go very fast, even as there is a flock of geese dawdling right beside me. Their legs were tinier than mine, yet they seemed to move faster, even when I’d try to sprint. I think they could sense I was not a runner and therefore not a threat, so they ran alongside and eventually past me, gradually diminishing my confidence in my ability to successfully run a half marathon. After each run, my fellow trainees often commiserated about those geese and how they would perch themselves near the side of the lake, hissing and honking at them as they ran past. By the time I would reach the lake—sometimes hours after my training-mates—the geese had become tired from defending their land and were rather intrigued by my presence and by my slowness. Maybe they just thought I was a fellow goose.
Julia Reichart for Fools Magazine
My severe slowness seemed to be a recurring hindrance in my half marathon training. I had entirely anticipated this before the start of the course, though. I think it’s just that my stubby legs don’t have the muscle or endurance to keep up with the strides of normal people.I’ve had this self-awareness since my middle school track-running days when I consistently received third place in the 100 meter dash. I would purposely “forget” to mention to my distant relatives that there were, in fact, only three people competing in the very last and slowest heat. Apparently, I hadn’t improved much because once I reached high school and was eligible to compete in the half-marathon, I could not manage to make myself go any faster. In order to complete my daily runs at a reasonable time, I would begin at 4 a.m., two brutal hours before the start of training.
Since living in the middle of nowhere meant running in the middle of nowhere, and serving as the slowest runner in the program meant running alone in the midst of a dark forest-like, corn-hidden trail, I often jumped at the rustling of the squirrels or a musical gust of wind. I was comforted by the geese, though, because I figured that since they didn’t fear me, they would at least protect me. Mostly, I prayed that the snaps and wooshes were only squirrels and wind because unfortunately for me, my geese bodyguards were often asleep during the earliest of my runs.
During my training, I discovered that running was just a mind game because I could run faster and further by focusing on the trees in between each milestone. If I wanted to run a quarter mile without taking a break to walk, I fell into a rhythm of counting each small tree in between the next big tree. Soon enough I forgot that I was running and my thoughts were consumed by numbers and trees. When it was still night and the trees weren’t visible, I counted the crunches made by the bottom of my tennis shoes smacking the gravel with each stride.
70 more crunches and you can walk, I’d tell myself. The monotony of each little game (and some good running music) distracted me enough to complete my races each morning instead of passing out among the geese.
One particular morning, I was feeling extra confident because it had taken the other runners a bit longer than usual to pass me—I finally felt like I was making some real progress. The sun had emerged for long enough to run without a jacket and the Jonas Brothers were serenading me with one of their classics. I stopped counting trees and crunches and simply let myself run among the breeze and the mist from the tiny stream of melted snow beside me. I felt fast for the first time. I was Forrest Gump. My elation accelerated my heartbeat and I realized how much I loved this trail, though it sometimes smelled of sewage and bird poop. I thought about the various stenches surrounding me and the geese and the sun and all the sleep I was lacking and the Jonas Brothers and I realized that I was experiencing my first runner’s high. My heartbeat rose to my ears and throat as I ran faster and faster until I was traveling at the jogging pace of an average person, which was my version of sprinting. I think I had run nearly a mile without stopping, entirely failing to notice the man a few feet back running towards me with a huge grin on his face.
His presence startled me, but I tried to ignore him— he was disrupting the serenity of my run. He slowed down a bit when I noticed him and then began to stagger off the trail a little as he jogged. In his right hand was a flip phone and in his left a pointy object of some sort, maybe a needle? My eyes widened and nervous droplets of sweat began to form at my hairline. I longed for the geese to emerge from their slumbers and honk at the man, but they were nowhere to be found and I was entirely alone.
His bloodshot eyes fluttered open and shut as he made his way about the trail, moving closer towards me with every trip and stumble. I jumped backwards and placed my car keys in between my fingers.
“Come here for a second!” he shouted. I sucked in my breath.
He can’t hurt me. He can’t even walk. If there is anybody in this world I could outrun, it’s him.
“Eye of the Tiger” began to play in my headphones. I chuckled at the absurdity. I was alone in the woods with a discombobulated man and the dundundundundundundundundundundundunDUNDUNDUNDUN seemed to be the perfect parallel to my predicament.
I began to jog on as my aloneness gradually settled over me like the fog covering the trail ahead. Occasionally peeking behind my shoulder at him, I had sufficiently managed to create some distance between us, and he seemed to be losing coherence.
I don’t need the geese, I thought. This guy will definitely collapse before he even reaches me.
His hair hung in loose clumps around his face as he tucked it behind his ears, revealing slits for eyes that had suddenly locked with mine. “Eye of the Tiger” faded into a song I didn’t know.
“Come over here,” he shouted among the breeze. He broke into a sprint, and I whipped around and sprinted too, but this time at the sprinting pace of an average person.
I don’t know how long I ran from him. Maybe two miles? Five? He followed closely behind me, occasionally almost close enough to touch. I had caught up with the other runners just before I crossed our makeshift finish line, an accomplishment I never thought I would achieve during the entire course of my training. Just before I turned the corner onto the final 100 feet of the run, the man vanished. He leaped into the bushes on the side of the trail without a word, leaving my training-mates to wonder why tears and snot were dripping down my face and why I was going on about some crazy man with a needle chasing me down the trail. I don’t think they believed me, and understandably so; I don’t even know if I believe me. Was this man just a vivid figment of an adrenaline-surged hallucination? Possibly, or maybe I really was chased down the trail by a madman. Perhaps my coach went so far as to disguise himself as a rugged bush-dweller, forcing me to run faster so he could finally go home. Whatever the case, I bought myself a fresh can of pepper spray and stepped up my game for the following runs and even for the race itself. I think the geese were impressed with me.