Running at Night

I roam at night. Usually it doesn't matter how tired I am or how many times I have worked out during the day.  Eleven PM or midnight hits and something, some thought or feeling or memory drives me from my house. I exit into the cold, almost hyperventilating in fear. Whatever it is; sadness or despair, guilt over a piece of bread or an extra handful of trail mix, an attempt to deflect the desire to once again inflict some sort of self harm, something pushes me out the door. Some nights I walk encumbered by extra weights, most nights I run, music pounding in my ears. The first few blocks are generally covered quickly, as if being pursued. I barely notice my surroundings. However fast I travel, it is always late and dark and unbelievably still.
 
The stillness of the night air evokes childhood memories.  I grew up in a time and place where children were given the freedom and responsibility to ride their bikes to school, to their friends' houses and to their after school commitments.  I often traveled home well after dark, pedaling down the dark suburban streets in the still cold air. I grew up near the San Francisco Bay and I hated riding my bike during the day. The afternoons were always blustery and it was hard work getting anywhere fighting a headwind while toting a heavy backpack. However after the sun went down, the wind also disappeared.  I would ride home in the silence, savoring my time alone. The streets seemed somehow fake and the world was suddenly something else; a movie set, something almost magical.  Late at night as I run alone, it still seems that way.

During my nighttime excursions, once I have momentarily escaped the demons and have settled into a rhythm, I start to look around.  I live in a particularly beautiful neighborhood with tree lined streets, lovely homes and well tended gardens. I usually head up into the hills.  The air in spring smells like jasmine and honeysuckle and rose. The walkways are illuminated and lights are always on in the windows. You can see into peoples' houses at night, differently than during the day. The light shines through, making an opaque world transparent.  I look into those windows as I run by and see bits and pieces of other (idealized) lives.  There is a baby's onesie hanging off the back of a chair, a half finished painting on an easel, the blue light of a television. Sometimes there is a cat sitting on the back of a chair or in a window sill, surveying the outside world.

I have been running at night for years now. I've run towards the ocean in the foggy Sunset district of San Francisco, along the quiet streets of Mill Valley and then back in San Francisco, up and down  the mansion lined hills of Pacific Heights.  It feels familiar, running the hills near Fryman Canyon.  Big unique houses that have the gorgeous patina of money and success.  I live in a monied neighborhood, hiding out in a small cottage behind a big mansion.  I sometimes imagine, while looking into the windows of houses that I will never be able to afford, what a life inside could be.  I know that will never happen.  The life I lead is not one of money and big houses, of a solid foundation built upon stability, a partner, commitment. I find my sadness often intensifies as I look through these windows, as I recognize my outsider status.  I wonder sometimes, could I just slip in unnoticed? Wipe down the kitchen counter, fold some stranger's laundry and slip into one of the over-sized beds?  Some sort of Goldilocks fantasy where I leave my own life and take on that of someone else.

There is something strangely intimate about looking into other peoples' houses uninvited and unseen. There are entire stories that spring up based upon just a tiny glimpse into a life.  The Harvey Edwards poster visible in a second story room transports me to my teenage room and my earlier ballet dreams. The shiny marble counter tops visible in a corner kitchen make me wonder if anyone ever cooks there.  The gorgeous roses everywhere remind me of my mom and her green thumb. Are these roses also tended to by a widow or are the ever present gardeners responsible for the stunning blooms? It gets more personal; will I ever have my own garden or a ballet obsessed teenager?  The answer is likely not. Yet, as I run the dark silent streets my mind can go there.  I can feel a hand on my back as I chop vegetables while standing at the shiny counter top.  I can feel the sun bake down on my head as I prune roses.  I can sigh at the teenager and remind her that an engineering or computer science career is easier on the toes and probably on the psyche.  I can peak into these softly illuminated rooms and imagine alternate lives, lives in which I am not alone or sad or barely scraping by. I have a husband and a child and a bright shiny house with a bright shiny car in the driveway and I don't need to run away from voices that taunt me at midnight, chasing me into the dark.

5th Position by Harvey Edwards