Runner

CHRIS GUMINA

Runner

My grandma accumulated many tidbits of wisdom over the years, tidbits she was eager to share among our family. She told me to listen more than I talk, never take my life for granted, and turn the other cheek. But the piece of advice that I remember best from my childhood visits to grandma’s house was this: never marry anyone until you see them run. “People can fake the way they walk,” she always used to say, “But when they start to run, now that’s when the real personality comes out.” As with all advice from my grandma, I took it to heart. In first grade I was briefly engaged to a girl named Melissa Leary. She was everything I wanted in a potential partner: funny, kind, and able to rotate herself through a perfect cartwheel. We were happily together for two days, when I unfortunately had to break it off after I caught a glimpse of her poor running form. As I grew older I realized that my grandma was more than a little senile towards the end. I wanted to take her advice with a grain of salt. How could you possibly judge someone’s true personality based off nothing but the swinging of their arms and pounding of their feet? And yet something about my grandma’s advice rang true, and I was never able to shake myself free from it. Now, whenever I start getting close with a girl I always find some excuse to make her run where I can see her. My sister is one person who could never run very well. She was all elbows and knees, and would sprawl into the dirt after a few steps at top speed. I felt bad for her my whole childhood. Who would want to marry a girl that ran that poorly? I used to take her outside on sunny days and give pointers, but they never seemed to work. When I brought it up to my grandma one day she just smiled sadly and said, “Ah, but running isn’t something that can be taught. It’s about your personality, and that’s not an easy thing to change.” I 136

only hope that one day my sister will be able to buck the trend and prove that those who can’t run well aren’t the horrible people my grandma makes them out to be.

It happened four Saturdays after the start of my freshman year. Most of the leaves had lost their tenuous hold on the branches, resigned to their impending doom. Those leaves with more fortitude held onto the trees, but shifted from green to a reddish-orange seemingly overnight. Fall was somewhat of a new experience for me. Where I grew up we had summer and colder summer, and almost no time in between the two. The leaves would stay green all year, and if the weather had dipped below 60 degrees the governor would have called a state of emergency. In my youthful ignorance I arrived at college utterly unprepared for the northeastern weather, and shivered through my first three weeks at school until I saved up enough money to buy a proper coat. Even that did nothing to protect my pale features from the unforgiving elements, and my cheeks quickly took on a red hue that rarely faded. I’m told that the weather gets even worse come Christmas. If that is true, I might have to drop out and head on home. No education could be worth this torture. Each time the wind gusted through the quad I watched it swirl leaves into tornadoes and felt it creep into my bones. No doubt I attracted curious glances from my classmates, who wondered why I looked so decidedly uncomfortable in the fall weather. Maybe I should have gone to school in California. USC looked nice enough when I visited. Unfortunately I was rejected to free up spots for a few unusually talented freshmen who were recruited by the rowing team. I was so caught up in my musings about warmer weather that I did not notice the girl walking in front of me until we collided. The papers she held were propelled directly upward, and quickly dispersed throughout the quad. They moved as if they had a mind of their own, propelled by puffs of air. I only caught a glimpse of these runaway papers, however, before my face was shoved un137

ceremoniously in the dirt. I tried to clamber to my feet but the girl had landed square on my back, making this endeavor impossible. I had just about resigned myself to remaining trapped on the ground until the end of the semester when the weight on my back was lifted and I was unceremoniously hauled to my feet. The girl spun me around so we were facing and fixed me with a look of disgust. “What do you think you’re doing?” She asked angrily, “Are you blind or something? Do you have a pair of eyes in your stupid head?” I looked around, somewhat ashamed. I’m not a big fan of confrontation, and I was getting some very aggressive vibes. To be fair, I had tackled her and spilled all the papers she was carrying, papers which were still being gusted around the quad. However, I still wished to extricate myself from this awkward situation with all possible haste. “I’m sorry,” I said, in what I hope was an appropriately apologetic tone, “I’m really not used to the cold. Also, I’m very top heavy right now and it is an ongoing struggle to stay on my feet.” “I don’t have time for this,” she said, looking down at her watch, “I have class in 5 minutes.” She took off at a run, not even bothering to pick up the pieces of paper which had now settled around the quad like new snow. I watched her recede into the distance with something approaching awe. Our interaction had been nothing special, but now I saw her in an entirely new light. She was the best runner I had ever seen.

Her name was Emilia Weber, something that I discovered after scouring the track and field roster on the athletics website. She ran the 400 and 800 hundred meters, as well as participating in the relays. I knew it was fairly early in our relationship but I already knew that I wanted to get married. This may seem odd, and I will admit that I certainly got well ahead of myself in those first few weeks. But finding someone with the perfect run had always been something of an obsession of mine. Now that I knew who she was, it was hard not to spend time think138

ing about it. I began daydreaming in class about arms pumping at precise angles and feet striking the ground with the perfect amount of force. Steinbeck’s critique of society in The Grapes of Wrath held even less import in my mind then it previously had. Differential calculus went from being my most difficult subject to my easist. This, of course, was because I stopped paying attention. I would sit in class trying to figure out how to draw hearts with my graphing calculator, then spend hours cramming the night before each test. I found countless excuses to walk by the athletic building. On Mondays I would “forget” my water bottle in the student gym at least four times. Tuesdays I would take the long way to the engineering center and back, passing by the track each time. I considered trying out for the football team, but decided against it when I saw how big they all were. My roommate was somewhat confused about my change in behavior. I explained the situation to him, and exactly what actions I was taking to ensure that Emilia and I crossed paths again. “Yeah, but why are you so crazy about this girl?” He asked, “The only time you saw her she was mad at you for knocking her over.” “But her running form was perfect when she ran away,” I replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “That’s what really matters.” “Ah, ok,” he said, “Now it makes sense.” I was pleasantly surprised at how quickly he had come around to my point of view. It was not often that other people could understand the whole running idea. Little did I know it was at that moment that he decided to text our RA to inquire about switching rooms.

Despite my best efforts, several weeks passed before I saw Emilia again. Even when I did, it was through pure chance, and not through some nefarious scheme. I swear. I was in the library, completing my math homework. If you think that this sounds out of character for me then you would be right. After seeing Emilia in the quad I did work only under du139

ress, like when my parents threatened to stop paying for college if I failed just one more test in any subject. It was while I was doing this work that I happened to look up. Some might call it a sixth sense, others might call it finely tuned intuition, but my eyes were immediately drawn to one of the small rooms where groups could study together. I got up and walked over to it slowly, trying not to look overeager. Sure enough, there she was, typing away on her computer, earbuds wedged firmly in her ears. I opened the door, and sat down. She looked up surprised, and removed her earbuds. I immediately regretted my rash decision making. “Do I know you?” She asked, confused. “Actually I... well I kind of ran into...” I started, then thought the better of it, “No, actually. No you don’t know me.” “Was there something you wanted to say to me, then?” She asked, still confused. “Kind of,” I replied, cursing my lack of forethought, “You know, I really hadn’t thought that far ahead.” She nodded, understandingly, clearly thinking I was insane. “OK,” she finally said, carefully, “Well I have a class soon so...” I stood up, desperate to make my point. “Look,” I said, “I’ve seen you walking around campus a few times. You seem like a really interesting person. I was wondering if we could maybe, like, get food sometime?” I decided not to mention her running form at the last second. Best not to creep her out. “Well, you are kind of cute in a weird way,” she answered, thoughtfully, “And I’m not doing anything tonight. We could get dinner.” I left the room elated. It felt like a pity date more than anything, but I would gladly take any kind of date she would give me. Based on the way she talked to me I gave it around a 30% chance she didn’t stand me up, but anything was better than zero. I went back to the dorm that I now had to myself, and spent the next three 140

hours getting ready for dinner. We met at Chipotle that night. She showed up, surprisingly. I chose the venue. In my experience nothing brings people closer together than sharing some delicious pseudo-Mexican food in a warm and welcoming environment. I decided to order a carne asada burrito. In fact, Chipotles across the country now serve carne asada in addition to their other meats. I thought it was delicious, as do thousands of other satisfied customers. “This burrito sounds too good to be true,” you might be saying to yourself, “It must be incredibly expensive.” Never fear, as this delectable treat can be had for just $9.99. But move fast, as carne asada will only be offered for a limited time (Chipotle please sponsor me). After dinner I took the bold step of offering to walk her back to her dorm. That was about as far as I was willing to go. After all, I am a gentleman at heart. The snow continued to fall in flurries, obscuring my vision. The quad was quiet. No one else was stupid enough to be outside in weather like this. The ground was slippery, and I stumbled every other step. Emilia was not so awkward. She strutted confidently through the precipitation, her walking nearly as nice as her running. I noticed a light coming from one of the windows adjacent to the quad. Upon closer inspection I realized that it was a menorah, with a light that contrasted sharply with the dark night around it. “Oh, I forgot that Hanukkah started a few days ago,” I said, mostly to myself, “I’ve always like Hanukkah.” “I’m not really a big fan,” she said. Not a big fan of Hanukkah? I thought. “It’s a holiday,” I replied, “How could you not like it?” “Well, I do think that Hitler made some good points,” she said back nonchalantly, as if she were rattling off the weather or ordering her food at McDonalds. I stopped walking. It took Emilia several steps to realize, and she was forced to awkwardly turn around. She looked back at me, confused. 141

Henry Stern

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“I’m sorry,” I said, “I know you didn’t just say what I think you said, so I must have misheard you. Can you repeat yourself please?” “What? I’m not a Nazi or anything,” she answered, sounding defensive, “I just think that Hitler made some good points. It’s not a big deal or anything.” I paused. This couldn’t be happening. She ran perfectly. “How do you feel about World War II,” I asked, trying to sound disinterested, “I’m sure you agree it was tragic.” “Oh, of course,” she replied, earnestly, “8 million Germans dead. 3 million Japanese, 500 thousand Italians.” “Huh,” I replied, “You know, I might be wrong, but I think you’re missing just a few more million in there.” “I don’t think so,” she answered, “No one important at least.” “Oookay,” I said, stunned, “You know what, I think I left something in my dorm, I’m going to have to head back. Don’t bother waiting.” “Aww,” she said, “That’s too bad. Well, I’ll see you again soon I hope.” “I wouldn’t count on it,” I shouted back through the blizzard.

Looking back on this episode has always been tough for me. The girl of my dreams was a Nazi, I lost my roomate, and came very close to failing my classes (Cs get degrees though so we good). What I can tell you, though, is that none of it hurt as much as my grandmother being proven wrong about the whole running thing. What if Melissa Leary was actually my soulmate and I dumped her for something that was not remotely indicative of her personality. Maybe I shouldn’t have trusted my grandmother. The silver lining, however, is that now I can be confident that my sister is, in fact, a good person. Ever since I first saw her run I had been waiting for her true colors to show themselves, but I guess now I can rest easy.

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