New Jersey, for all its charms, is the most densely
populated state in America.
So a favorite running route takes me far away from the
crowds… to the Great Swamp National Wildlife Refuge, which is just up a lonely
country road near the campus where I work in Morris County.
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| The owl in the tree |
Early yesterday, I found myself utterly alone there, staring
up at a young, downy-feathered barn owl in the branches of a tree.
Investigating further, I saw a nest on a higher branch, so I
guessed that the owl fell from there and didn’t yet know how to fly.
“I can’t fly either,” I explained lamely, making a mental
note to report the sighting at the park’s education center in case something
could or should be done to help.
Resuming my run, I thought of how much the scenery reminded
me of the summers I spent in Morris County as a boy, at my grandparents’ house
in what was then a similarly remote area.
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| My grandfather and me |
The outside air still smells the same here, and I expect to
turn and find my grandfather nearby. We spent many days walking together along
back country roads just like this. He would talk to me about gardening or
raising chickens, teach me the names of trees and flowers, or tell me corny
jokes or improbable stories that I later learned were folk and fairy tales.
Still, he’d think it silly that a grown man would go running
for exercise, when there was always real work to be done outdoors.
“Run, run, run as fast as you can!” I can imagine him
taunting me now.
My grandfather died long ago, and he would have no idea what
my life is like today when I return to the office. All the traffic on Route 287
just to get here. All the technology. All the people.
When I can’t get outside to exercise, I use the company gym,
which is equipped with internet-connected exercise bikes with full-color
monitors that offer a virtual-reality display of my ride… as if I were on a
real bike on a pleasant Sunday ride among rolling hills. The resistance of the
pedals matches the terrain, and even the leaves on the virtual trees are
programmed to be green in summer months, colorful in fall and bare in winter.
Working out on an exercise bike, I connect my Bluetooth
headphones and listen to a book or music, and get lost in the computerized
scenery and pretend I am alone.
Unfortunately, the bike’s computer always offers up images
of other virtual riders along the way. I don’t even have to swerve around them,
though. I can ride right through them to pass. The computer also offers up many
other riding scenarios that are far from realistic: a snow-covered trail where
the Abominable Snowman makes an appearance; a game that lets me chase dragons;
and one scenario where I am miniaturized into the elaborate world of a model
railroad in the basement of a giant human and his backyard ruled by a giant cat.
It’s all in fun, and I’m sure my grandfather would have appreciated
the whimsy.
But there’s one feature hard-wired into these virtual
reality exercise bikes that literally haunts me: The program always presents
the image of a ghost rider… an exact replication of a previous ride I’ve made
on the same course… representing my “personal best.”
In the virtual world, I can try just a little bit harder and
ride right through my own ghost, putting my past behind me.
It occurs to me that in real life, when I run, my brain is
hard-wired to always chase a ghost of my former self too.
But in real life, no matter how hard I try, with each passing
day, my grandfather – and my past -- recedes even further into the distance on
the road ahead of me.
Run, run, run as fast as I can, I can’t catch him. He’s the
Gingerbread Man.
This was originally posted on The Good Men Project site.
