theghostrunner

Flashing shapes and flickering shadows.
My quiet Saturday morning run in the woods unexpectedly became not so quiet. “What the heck is happening? What’s that? An ALIEN!?” A strange thing was flying around so fast I could barely see it. I was figuring out how to escape from that uncomfortable situation while it stopped just in front of me.
I realized he was shaped more or less like a human being but he had fading edges and he looked like made by thick fog. “W-Who are y-you?” I blurted out desperately trying to hide a frightened quivering in my voice. At least I was relieved he didn’t meet me the day before, stuck in a traffic jam, and boxed in a metal can. In the forest he should probably think at me as an, almost, intelligent living creature.
Anyway, this was his answer, the voice like a whisper:
“I’m a Ghost, a Ghost Runner. Yeah, I know you imagined me wearing a white clean sheet as my boring colleagues who just long to get a nine pm to five am job in a dusty ancient castle, looking forward to scare kids and sensitive grown up. I’m not like those sissies; I want to taste the freedom of forests, to ride over hills and mountains, to dip into wonderful sunsets alongside the towpath of a river.
I want to... ehm... live on a trail.
I love those romantic fairy tales told by woods, infinite spaces around them, and tapered tracks curly climbing steep slopes.
Besides atmosphere and sightseeing, which I can still taste, I achingly envy you, trail runner, because I’m missing a great part of your experience. I miss the corporal part of it.
I miss sweat. I miss mud. I miss blood.
I miss the needing of total concentration asked from a narrow trail on the edge of a gorge.
I’m so sick of this weightless issue. I crave for gravity. I was so involved with the feeling of my feet blending into the ground. The way they adapted to dirt, rocks, leaves, grass. The different pressure on my feet was like a massage, like a natural Braille book telling stories about the earth.
I’m eager to enjoy one more time my ankles and my knees dancing on a downhill, jumping down from (small) cliffs, smartly avoiding tricky hurdles, or warily gliding over slippery rocks crossing a torrent.
And what about calves, quadriceps and gluteus pushing hard to lead your body to the top of the hill?
I even liked my arms getting heavier and tired, and lungs burning, desperate to collect oxygen..
I miss heart’s loud pounding, pushing blood all over the body. I was so excited feeling arteries pulsing, knowing all the miracles that were happening inside them.
I miss the sound of breath, it’s the music of your body, sometimes beautiful, and sometimes just noise, but it’s your song, your soundtrack. I’m always in a soundless movie.
I miss the sound of feet hitting crackling frozen grass, or caressing a gentle, soft pine’s needles carpet. I miss paths full of fallen leaves.
I was proud of my face grimacing due to the ultimate effort of going on the extra mile, on the extra force recalling, on the extra this-is-my-last-step.
I cannot sweat, I cannot feel the beads flowing all over my body, and I cannot feel them evaporate to maintain my core temperature low.
Oh, yeah, I know what you are thinking: ‘but you’re fast, aren’t you?’
You bet I’m fast; I can easily pace ten…seconds per mile, but what for? There are no other ghosts to race against and, above all, I would trade my quickness with the possibility to smell the perfume of resin. I would trade it with the opportunity to grab a tree branch to overcome an obstacle, or with the safety feeling of hugging a tree-trunk in a sharp bend. I would trade it with the rebirthing experience of a slow run into an awakening forest in spring.
I know you can keep going minutes or hours, while tired or exhausted, getting power from that, building character, feeling proud of yourself.
There’s a magical world you can be part of, thanks to all your physical experiences. Your mind can fly thanks to your body. Mine is anchored to the earth looking forward to feel…anything.
You’re so lucky being a trail runner.”
As fast as he had come, he flew away, with no sounds, no greetings.
I would say I saw a tear dropping from his cheek while he was fading away, but that is impossible. I learned ghosts don’t weep and I learned they can’t feel many other things.
Yeah, you’re right. I’m lucky.

by Luciano