Woman Running by Brittney P. Mihalich

Photo by Brittney P. Mihalich

I wrench fire engine red spandex up each leg — easier to spot a shock of color buried under decaying leaves. They’re a half size too small and cling tighter than Saran wrap — couldn’t slide them down over these hips without a struggle. Unless he has a knife. 

Wyatt makes his way sluggishly when called, lowers his head through the harness, and leads us out the screen door. He is tethered to my waist. Or I am his. He’s a better sport about it than I am. 

Low visibility today, cloudy with a mist that descends in wisps between the pines. 52 degrees. Warm enough to break a sweat, cooled by the lingering dew. Ideal running weather.

Low visibility today, cloudy with a mist that descends in wisps between the pines. The path is empty. No one would see it happen.

Wyatt slows within a quarter mile out the door, finds an agreeable fence post, and lifts a leg. There goes 5 seconds off my splits. I pull him forward and tell myself that resistance bands are excellent cross-training. 

My resistance band is a 75 lb reluctant furball — a terrible guard dog, unless nudges and licks are lethal. Yet he’ll snap into action when a black bear crosses the property line. But black bears aren’t the animals of concern here. I’d rather meet a black bear than a man in the wild. 

A lone, wild man.

He appears out of the mist. 5’6”, stocky build, black jumpsuit, hands hidden in pockets. I nod and make eye contact as he nears. Are they less likely to attack when acknowledged? He smiles in return. Passes. I could pick him out in a lineup. Square jaw, light complexion. 

Wyatt tugs me toward the woods. I glance over my shoulder — black jumpsuit is further down the path, his back to me. He doesn’t turn. Wyatt circles behind a tree, sniffs, squats. There goes another 5 seconds. He bucks his hind legs one after another to hide the evidence, and I lug him back to the path.

On a clear day, the Farmington Heritage Canal Trail is a conveyor belt efficiently shuttling runners and cyclists from mile marker to mile marker. On a clear day, there’s power in numbers. 

Had it been a clear day, would Eliza Fletcher have run home in Memphis to rouse her two children for school? Would Melissa Millan have run home, just a few miles behind me, to kiss her two children goodnight? 

Will I make it home to mine? 

I reach back to catch Wyatt’s lead and pull, picking up the pace. Fully capable of a sprint on better terms, the harness slows us both.

Three silhouettes appear 100 yards out. They lurch forward like figures in The Walking Dead, stalking prey, the one on the left slouching outward with a limp. They’re hunting. Conspiring.

The three figures become women as the distance between us closes. Maybe an elderly mother with her middle-aged daughters. Maybe a trio of bruja fraying my fate on a silver string. They pay me no attention as I pass, a lone woman running. 

I tap the post that marks the boundary to the next town and about-face. Wyatt perks up for the home stretch, retraces his steps, and I retrace mine: three women, Melissa, black jumpsuit, Eliza— 

a mountain bike cuts from the forest, intercepts my stride. Wyatt jumps, I leap, catch my breath, dodge left, he veers south, narrow miss, run, run, north —

Home stretch. Stretch home. Sprint.

Breathe.

I touch “Finish” and label the workout “Dog jog” to justify the splits. I’m tempted to record the frustration, the resentment, the anger, but I don’t. Instead, I thank Wyatt for his company. He wrestles out of his harness and steps inside.

Murakami’s fiction is among my top five, but this is what I talk about when I talk about running.

Brittney P. Mihalich is a Connecticut-based writer, editor, and educator. She is an MFA candidate at Fairfield University and has published poetry in the Glacial Hills Review and The Northeast Coast.