Running in Time
by Ellis Shuman
“Are you going running tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? Maybe.”
I didn’t run every day, but there were days when I needed to. It wasn’t only about getting back in shape; it was also about getting back in time.
As my wife turned off the bedroom light and kissed me goodnight, I closed my eyes and smiled to myself, remembering how wonderful a day it had been.
I had gone on my morning run—3 miles in the park, which was pretty good for a 60-year-old man, especially after what had happened—and came back to find breakfast laid out on the table for me. I hopped into the shower and then joined her at the table, a cup of steaming hot coffee already placed at the side of my plate.
“The kids are coming today,” she informed me.
“That’s great! They haven’t been here in a few weeks,” I replied, picking up my coffee. Two sons, their spouses, and four granddaughters. What more could I ask for?
“Let’s do a barbecue,” she suggested. “I’ll bake the pecan pie the kids love.”
“Sure.”
That morning, sitting on the patio with my offspring while the young ones frolicked on the back lawn, my older son asked how I was feeling. Everyone had been very concerned when I was in the hospital recovering from the car accident concussion and now, during my convalescence at home. They worried that I had changed, that I was not right in the head. That my mind was affected, injured. Before I had a chance to answer, my wife spoke up.
“Your father goes running nearly every day.”
“It’s not too much for you?” my son asked.
“I’m fine,” I assured them.
“You look like you’re getting younger, healthier,” my daughter-in-law noted. "As if you’re turning back time."
I fired up the barbecue and grilled steaks for the adults and hot dogs for the children. Baked potatoes and fresh green beans; coleslaw and a tossed green salad—a full, tasty meal accompanied by ice-cold boutique beer. We lingered at the patio table, enjoying the summer breeze and steering our conversation away from politics, and finished with coffee and the scrumptious pecan pie.
“Too much food!” my younger son said, patting his bloated belly.
“We’ll all get fat,” his brother said with a laugh.
“Not him,” my wife said, resting her hand on my shoulder. “He’ll run it off.”
Later, after the children had left, we sat down for a romantic film on Netflix and then, because we were alone in the house, we retired to the bedroom for some romance of our own.
“A wonderful day,” my wife said that evening at dinner. “If only every day was like this.”
I nodded my head in agreement. Weekends were never long enough, but there were ways to make weekends last.
All of this was going through my mind as we lay in bed that night, hearing my wife’s light snoring. “If only every day was like this,” she had said.
It is still dark when I lace up my running shoes and adjust my headphones. What should I listen to today? I open Spotify, set my running app, go outside, and take a breath of the brisk morning air.
I prefer running before the sun comes up, when the neighborhood is still sleep. I’m not a fast runner, and I’m self-conscious. I wouldn’t want the neighbors to see me—my amateur running form and my slow pace—as I make my way to the park. But once I’m there, circling the open expanses of green grass, I couldn’t care less what anyone might think. I work up a sweat, my muscles ache, and I lose myself to the music.
I return home to find that my wife has laid out breakfast on the table for me. I hop into the shower and then join her at the table, a cup of steaming hot coffee already placed at the side of my plate.
“The kids are coming today,” she informs me.
“That’s great!” I reply, picking up my coffee. “They haven’t been here in a few weeks.”
“Let’s do a barbecue,” she suggests. “I’ll bake the pecan pie that the kids love.”
“Sure.”
When everyone arrives, our granddaughters run down to the lawn, and we sit on the patio. My older son asks how I am feeling.
“Your father goes running nearly every day.”
“You look like you’re getting younger, healthier,” my daughter-in-law notes. "As if you’re turning back time."
I fire up the barbecue—steaks for the adults and hot dogs for the children. Baked potatoes, fresh green beans, salads. Ice-cold beer and pecan pie for dessert. We enjoy the summer breeze and there is no discussion of politics.
Later, after the children leave, we sit down for a romantic film on Netflix and then enjoy some intimate time in the bedroom.
“A wonderful day,” my wife says that evening at dinner. “If only every day was like this,” she adds, and I nod my head in agreement.
That night, when we are both in bed, and before she turns off the light, my wife asks me, “Are you going running tomorrow?”
It has been a wonderful day, indeed. I turn to her and reply.
“Tomorrow? Maybe.”
Ellis Shuman is an American-born Israeli author, travel writer, and book reviewer. His writing has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, The Times of Israel, The Oslo Times, and The Huffington Post. He is the author of The Virtual Kibbutz, Valley of Thracians, and The Burgas Affair. His short fiction has appeared in Isele Magazine, Vagabond, Literary Yard, The Write Launch, Adelaide Literary, and other literary publications.