BELL LAP #44

RUNNING, TO COPE (September 14, 2001)

I've never started a morning with more terrible news, more horrific images, than on Tuesday, September 11.

While I was sleeping, the first hijacked airliner exploded into the North Tower of the World Trade Center, 3000 miles from my home. A few minutes after my alarm rang, the second jet crashed into the South Tower. A few minutes after that, the third jet slammed into the Pentagon. I heard about these attacks later, after getting up for what would otherwise have been a normal day. Then, with the rest of the world, I watched the unfolding catastrophe.

One tower collapsed, then the other. Pandemonium. A report was circulating that at least one additional hijacked airliner was still in the air--presumably searching for a target. And then…I left for my morning run.

Yes, a run.

We all know the blessed relief running can bring. We are worried, stressed, distraught, overwhelmed with life. But we stick to our plan, put one foot in front of the other for 5, 6, 7 miles, let the blood pump, the sweat flow, the thoughts wander. Powerless in so many ways, we self-start our energy systems, overriding doubt and fear. We finish refreshed. Now, we can cope.

Over the years, running has helped me deal with piles of confusion and personal sorrow. It has lifted my spirits when nothing else would. And it sometimes seems like footsteps are the only thing connecting me to the world as it should be.

September 11 was sunny and cool here in Spokane, perfect weather for a run. A nip of fall was in the air as I headed up the hill. Cars were heading to work, kids loaded down with backpacks were walking and biking to school, workmen hammered away at new houses, and the percussive tick-tick-tick of sprinklers played in the background. It should have been an idyllic morning, but it couldn't be. Life seemed subdued. Voices were hushed, joy muffled.

My thoughts flitted briefly on the mundane. Work to be completed that day. Preparations for my daughter's departure for college. My sore knees.

Always, though, my thoughts snapped back to the east coast, and the unimaginable personal tragedies that would haunt the day. Inanely, I suppose, I wondered whether either New York or Washington would recover in time for their respective fall marathons, events that have always represented the best human nature has to offer. And I wondered whether somewhere that morning, someone had taken a run like this one, finished invigorated, then headed to work, soon to be numbered among the dead. How had it happened? Why?

I heard sirens that morning in the distance, as if events on the other side of the continent were registering their distress in my hometown. Passing the fire station near the end of my run, a crew of firemen were lowering the flag to half-mast.

Were there fewer runners out that morning? I suspect so. Those I passed, though, while numb with the surreal events of the morning, were seeking comfort in the routine. Three or four "Good morning" greetings--the automatic hello I have heard from my fellow runners on this route so many times before--passed my way. For once, though, I couldn't summon a good-morning in return. I waved, then ran on with a heavy heart and sick stomach.

On September 11, 2001, not even running could soothe the spirit. Good-mornings shared on the run were joyless. In Spokane. Everywhere.