It was 8:00 on Saturday and my heart was a flutter. I had a date with a lake. It would be just me and her and nothing to interrupt our glorious morning together. I braided my hair and dawned a fresh pair of running shorts and went to the shoe shop on the corner to buy a new pair of trainers for the occasion. My beloved Saucony Fastwitches just turned 350 (in miles) and I’d spent the previous two days and nights tossing and turning, wondering if the holes in the sides would hold together for the next three weeks of my time abroad. Thankfully I fell asleep at my computer before, in a 3:00 A.M. frenzy, I almost clicked “Buy” on an identical pair of Sauconys that would have cost $50 for international shipping alone. But by the time Saturday morning came, the bottom of the right heel had worn through my old shoes and I had two options:
1. Buy an over-priced pair of inferior shoes.
2. Not run.
The little store on the corner only had one pair of trainers available in my size so I bought them with the rationale that, if I found a better/cheaper pair at the department store down the street, I could return them.
I looked up the German word for “return policy” on my phone and attempted to repeat it to the owner.
“Rook-gab-ebel-rung?”
He replied in a gush of jolly German and I gathered from his nodding smile and pointing at the register’s printer that he was saying something along the lines of, “Yes, yes of course! As long as you have the receipt, no problem!” I later learned (after purchasing another pair of shoes at the department store that were €15 cheaper, for I am nothing if not my mother’s daughter), that what he was actually saying was: “No, we do not do returns.” I walked out of the store holding a €70 gift card that I would never use, breathing deeply and chanting the mantra Sunk costs. Sunk costs. Fortunately, there is no better antidote for the stress of wasted money than spending time with Mother Nature who couldn’t give a damn. One mile into the sweet humus trails of Grunewald, and all tears over spilled Euros were long forgotten.
The lake and I flirted for a while, we got personal, we got philosophical, and we shared some intimate moments…
In the thralls of romance, I lost track of time. Then I lost track of space (namely, my location relative to the trailhead). Then I regained my sense of time and my entire body was poignantly aware of the fact that it was 2:20pm which was exactly six hours and 20 minutes since I had woken up and over twelve hours since I had last eaten. I had somehow skipped past the hunger phase and went straight to the tingly nirvana phase. The blood in my veins sparkled like the surface of the lake and the little stars that reflected on the water also glimmered in the sky and on the trail and on everything I looked at.
At a trail crossing in the woods, I paused at the intersection to consider which direction to go. Out of the forest, a band of people emerged. They were a band, as in a small group, but they were also a band, as in they were all carrying brass instruments — french horns, trumpets and trombones. Just when I was deliriously wondering how to ask them if they had any food in universal human sign language, they began to play their horns. It was a regal tune, like an announcement. On cue, a heard of beagles came running from the trees — at least twenty of them — ears flopping, tails wagging, tongues hanging. Not far behind them, a low thunder rumbled. Horses! Dozens of horses! Trotting along with uniformed men perched officially atop their saddles. The spontaneous parade surrounded me on all sides and I was suddenly engulfed with music and fanfare and guffawing horsemen who called down to me in German. What are they saying? What the hell is going on? I must be very hungry. What a bizarre mirage...
I rubbed my fingers together and felt nothing. I was still seeing stars when I blinked but I couldn’t blink the strange parade away. I pulled out my phone to take a picture and when I looked back later, I realized I wasn’t hallucinating after all.
That night, admitting to myself that I should not be trusted to go out running on my own, I googled “Running club Berlin.” There was one group meeting on Sunday afternoon and, even though they had not posted the exact address of their meeting spot, I had no trouble finding them. Across all cultural/ethnic/socio-economic differences, runners are a species of their own. Common traits can be traced among them, no matter where in the world they are found. In the pre-workout huddle, they mill around a pile of backpacks, some standing like flamingos with one bent knee rolling a foot in circles at the ankle, some with their hands on their hips that jut out to one side as they lean into a cross-legged IT band stretch. I spotted them from 100 meters away: my people.
I entered into the circle (in which I heard at least a few English speakers) and joined the conversation like I was catching up with old friends. Not an eyelash was batted until I asked what I thought was a perfectly normal runners’ circle question: “So, where does the route go today?” Heads tilted, eyebrows furrowed.
“Is this your first hash?” said one woman in a German accent.
I thought I had misunderstood her English. “My first what?”
Slowly, sinister grins lit up faces like candles in a row of jackolanterns and knowing eyes met one another from across the circle, while my own eyes darted from face to face trying to read the meaning behind their expressions.
“Ah, it appears we have here a virgin!”
I later learned that this was a meeting of Hash House Harriers, an infamous international organization with the slogan: “A Drinking Club with a Running Problem.”
But at the time, I sensed it unwise to ask too many questions. So when they started running—each person in opposite directions—I just followed the bearded Dutchman who went straight into the woods where there was no path. When they shouted unintelligible things and suddenly changed directions, I shouted too and found someone new to follow (just far enough away so they wouldn’t notice I was following). One random thing led to another and within the hour, we were all back in the circle drunkenly bellowing a song about foreskin to the tune of “My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean.” By the end of "practice", I was on my knees in front of a pot-bellied Scottish man who--ignoring the protests from the formerly unsympathetic crowd--was pouring beer into my mouth from my brand new shoes (because new shoes are apparently against the Hash ethos).
On Tuesday I decided to go run on a track--my flat, round, red and white, surprise-proof haven. I found four using Google satellites (tracks are conveniently easy to spot from space). The first three were closed but the fourth was open. There were two burka-covered Turkish ladies waddling in the outer lanes and a class of preteen coeds with their gym teacher gathered on the home stretch. Normally I would have been disappointed to share my sanctuary, but on that day I was glad to have the audience. It’s easier to run 600 meter repeats when you have some pressure to impress the spectators, even if they are little Turkish grandmothers who could probably care less.
On my first lap, I flew by the gym teacher, who stood tall and stern, stopwatch in hand, unashamed to follow me with his stare all the way around the back curve. On the next few sets, I had to swing out to lane six to avoid bowling over the cluster of students as they lined up at the start line. On my fifth set, I came up behind them as they were running a lap of their own. They were spread out enough that I could weave between them and, even over the music from my headphones, I could hear their giggling German commentary. With about 130 meters to the finish line, I felt a surging gait at my heels. I glanced down to see a spaghetti noodle kid sprinting up next to me. He couldn’t have been more than 4’10, 90 pounds. Witnessing the challenge, the gaggle of girls sitting on the infield started to squeal and cheer. I changed gears and went in for the kick. Noodle boy surged harder, panting his little lungs into hyperventilation. But he didn't drop. I kicked harder. He stuck. I pushed harder than I’ve pushed in a long time (half marathons don't involve sprinting) and I leaned at the line.
I like to think we tied.
At home a mere twenty minutes later, when I explained to my housemate why I was holding a bag of ice on my foot, I said that I won.
