Navigating A Run
By Kevin Sparrock
I run, and I own one pair of running shorts. They are soft cotton lightweight gray-lined, with wicking qualities. Unfortunately, I rarely wear them when I run. I prefer to run in baggy-fitting, thigh-covered, double-lined nylon basketball shorts. Two miles into a run, my sweat adds 3lbs of additional weight. My workouts have always incorporated a run. I have been running since I joined the United States Marines. I don’t love running, but it’s the one workout that puts me in the best shape for an upcoming basketball season. Ahmaud Arbery’s died running. He was hunted down and murdered by three white men on February 23, 2020. Ahmaud’s family painted a vivid picture of a young man who loved the sport of running more than I could ever muster the strength to achieve. There was a presumption stemming from social media chains that Ahmaud wasn’t running because he wore khaki shorts and a white t-shirt. Who wears Khaki shorts when they run? He must have been doing something wrong? Then I am guilty. I wore what I had when I was young. I still do. If it was cold outside, I wore pants. Sometimes khakis. Some days basketball shorts. Vanity was not my issue. As I got older, comparing myself to an image of a fictitious runner brought me to purchase running shorts that I rarely use. Black people have always had to navigate differently. When I was 23 years old, my usual walking route to the train station back into Brooklyn, NY, from my Marine Corp military reserve base was through a predominantly affluent white neighborhood in Garden City, Long Island. It was dusk on a warm day on this particular day, and I wore cargo pants and a t-shirt. I traveled with my army green military duffel bag slung over my shoulder containing my Marine uniform. A plain-clothed police officer in an unmarked vehicle jumped the curb and approached me with a barrage of questions. He exited the car with his gun in hand by his side. He asked me where I was going as we stood approximately 100 yards from the Garden City Long Island train station. My youthful arrogance and sarcasm kicked in when he asked, “Where I was coming from?” I pointed to my oversized olive green military duffel bag. “The Marine base,” I further questioned his intelligence. “Green army bag, less than a mile from a Marine base. It can’t be that hard to put two in two together. Why are you stopping me?”
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