MY FRIEND O
Runner's cry
©Louis Galvez
BLITZ 16
The other day I learned about the death of my friend O over the phone. In a trance, I laced up and ran toward the water at Brooklyn Bridge Park. The traffic smeared behind my tears, my crying disrupting my breath. I was angry at every missed opportunity to meet, every conversation not had, and the few last times when I spoke. Regret choked me about the times I hung up on him, exasperated by the progression of his illness.
Memories flashed like Polaroids: a rickshaw ride in Sri Lanka, the hyena under the Porsche in the Hollywood Hills, poppers in a Hamburg gay club, pranking an American tourist in Laos, the confession in a stairwell on the Reeperbahn. He called me Angel.
At a traffic light, I sobbed so hard I hyperventilated. A driver lowered the window and asked if I was ok. Gasping for air, I held up a shaky thumb. I remembered O’s and my crying duels, in which O confidently defeated me. We were both able to cry on command. The thought of O's shiny eyes, chin furrowed, and lower lip trembling made me laugh out loud. The sight of our pathetic grimaces used to derail both of us in competition. The next few miles, I surrendered to the interplay between happy and sad.
Many long-distance runners sort through emotional baggage when going the distance, mainly solo. The cathartic runner's cry is a close relative of the runner's high but is little talked about. In the state of meditative flow, between exertion and total harmony of mind, breathing, and movement, the body releases a whole avalanche of hormones. Endorphins (happiness) and oxytocin (connection) flood the system, and the relaxed mind opens the vault to the subconscious. Feelings and memories roam freely. So many of us appreciate the psychological effects of running even more than the physical ones.
This heightened emotionality can even bring out high states of empathy. I remember balling during a half marathon where I saw a woman runner in crutches, legs bound together, straining up a punishing incline, or watching blind athletes outrunning their guides. At the beginning of the pandemic, I bowled over at the thought that I might never see my then 99-year-old grandmother again alive.
In the summer of 2019, I experienced a different kind of emotional liberation. My friend M was in town from Texas. At dinner, I discussed the Jeffrey Epstein case with her. M poked fun at the woman who suddenly remembered being abused after all these years. “Really? You had this man pay for your education, and now they’re all screaming at me too?” I disagreed and advocated believing victims of sexual abuse precisely because the burden of evidence is so murky. “They knew what they were doing. You and I just never had to use sex to advance our careers.” That was not the friend I knew and loved speaking to. She insisted that the women saw an opportunity to cash in. We parted on an uncharacteristically bitter note. I’d personally experienced the concept of a divisive society for the first time.
Plagued by the disagreement, I went for a run the next morning. It was a mediocre day, the overcast sky rendered Prospect Park shadowless, a bland consensus light. My mind was repeating the conversation; I finally reached a state of flow, and my feet moved automatically, freeing my mind to roam free.
Everything came back to me. London. That rainy evening ages ago. The music producer’s husband. What was his name? Jimmy? Johnny? Jack? He promised to introduce me to people in the industry. I wanted to shoot videos. The wife’s Soho record label’s office was stuffed with awards and memorabilia. She wasn’t there. A portrait of Sade; perhaps it was Grace Jones; it was too long ago. Decades. The promised industry people never materialized. The place was deserted. Many compliments. A shot of whiskey. Then another one. More compliments, a hand brushing over my braless breasts. Praise turned into a threat, the grip on my neck, his other hand inside my tights. A few nos, then more, all inconsequential. A swift move slammed me face down on the floor. My chin scraped bloody by the wall-to-wall carpet smelling like industrial strength cleaner. Disheveled, I staggered home.
Young, disillusioned, and ashamed of my professional ambitions, I repressed and buried all deep south in my subconsciousness. I remember not crying then. Now I did. That day in the park, I stopped running. O was still alive. I dialed his number without thinking. I’d tell him first. Naturally. I didn't reach him. He was already in and out of hospitals, psychiatric institutions, and rehabs. I discussed London with my analyst but never mentioned it to him.
Now I was in New York. Lady Liberty stood in the distance. I would give anything to hear O’s voice calling me Angel! There were few people I'd laughed harder with than him, few I loved more. I dedicate my New York Marathon to him. He will whisper courage into my ears. He gave me wings long ago.
August 2022
