I hate cigarettes

Sometimes when I run, I run in elaborate imaginary scenarios; Hollywood set kinds of things. I’m sure I’m not the only one. 

Haruki Murakami, author of What I talk about when I talk about running, says he shuts off his brain when he runs. He doesn’t think about anything. I’m not buying it, because that’s not how I work, and I’m pretty normal. At least that’s what most people say. 

I  love this book.

I’d like to justify the constant movie reel by saying it’s probably because I’m a product of the MTV generation – video killed the radio and infected my brain. But the truth is, I’ve had movies running through my head for as long as I can remember. As I little girl, I’d wake myself up with laughter in the middle of the night, goofball dreaming I don’t remember today. What I do remember is this: my dad, three in the morning, waking me to sanity, yelling from across the hall: “Jesus Christ will you go to sleep.”  

In times of stress, of course the dreams would be less than pleasant. After my grandmother died, I had to sleep with the light on for weeks, because I swear to God even today that she was watching me from my open closet door, and once stood over me. She was wearing a dress of small blue squares, some navy, some near gray, black piping at the neck. Her white hair was pulled back in a soft cottony bun and loosened strands brushed my face. That’s what woke me up, the falling hair. Her blue eyes were no longer cloudy. Her smile was my mother’s. Creepy, but comforting in a way too.  I’m guessing Stephen King would understand.  

I love this book too.

When I was going through a tough and scary time many years ago, I woke up once to find myself dragging a chair across the floor to block the front door. Okay. More than once. A good writer needs to be honest with herself. And it was an end table, not a chair. And I wrote about it in my book though I changed the character’s name and hair color.   

I think my elaborate running scenarios are a way of coping. Sometimes, I deliberately put myself in scenes. Like when I am training for a long race. I picked up that technique years ago, when I read how some top athletes visualize success while they are training. Picturing themselves running on the course psyches them up for race day and makes them stronger.  

One of my favorite movie scenes. Always motivates me.

Lately, my scenarios involve the Philip Morris Company. The movies come whether I want them to or not. 

Many marathoners put messages on their singlets. Sometimes it’s a shout-out to loved ones: “This one’s for you mom!”  Sometimes it’s to entertain others: “Save a horse, ride a runner!” Lately, in my elaborate running scenarios, my singlet says variations of this: “If you support the Philip Morris Company, you are a murderer.”

For 26.2 miles, I am the end all and be all; the Alpha and Omega. Some people on the sidelines cheer me on. “Yeah. You go! Cigarettes killed my aunt/uncle/dad/cousin/neighbor!” Or, “You tell ‘em kid. You’re my hero!” 

Then there are the ones who try to stop me. They are the smokers. They are the tobacco lobbyists. They are the politicians and big businesses. They are mothers and fathers and grandparents and teens. Their nicotine fills my lungs. I cough. I slow. 

I consider that the smart thing to do would be to move to the white line running down the center of the road, far from the crowds on either side, the safe middle ground. But fury arrives in the form of seraphim, bodiless innocents with flaming wings and rosy cheeks. They tickle my knees and push my shoulder blades and I’m charging like horses, one side to another, grabbing cigarettes from lips and fingers and the crowd is cheering and the sun is shining and the air is cold and healing.