Running in Place

My feet thudded on the pavement.

I’d never been a great runner and my breath was already short and shallow. The city was quiet as I ticked off the blocks and got closer to the National Mall. My nose was running, and my hands were red, semi-frozen in fists. I always ran the same route. Routines are comforting in times of disorder.

There were other runners as I neared the Washington Monument, although I don’t know what compelled them to freeze out there with me. My run was one of atonement, a search for calmness. I paused at the monument, laying a hand on the giant structure – something that grounded me, that made me feel my own insignificance among the history and beauty and struggle of D.C.

I eventually made it to the Lincoln Memorial, where Abe sat stoic, stonily, overlooking the eerie scene at the end of the now-empty Reflecting Pool. I paused on the steps to catch my breath. The cherry blossoms had come early, and the rain was holding off. There weren’t many people out, unlike the crowds that usually swarmed the monuments and mall.

***

The fan spun lazily overhead as I toweled off my wet hair. Only one overhead bulb worked. I stood and eyed the patchwork sidewalk below and the closed restaurant across the street. A few people were walking down the street stretching east from my window; most were carrying groceries or trying to get their steps in – finding a new normal among the chaos.

Empty.

I had run hard. It was part of what was keeping me sane; I hadn’t expected to be in ‘quarantine’ again. Despite not being as heavily enforced as the quarantine in China, this was close enough. Mentally, there didn’t seem to be a real distinction. The weight of isolation hung on my shoulders – and the city – in a way that made me appreciate the burning in my lungs from running. The harder I ran, the closer I got to shaking off that weight.

It had been nearly two months since I’d arrived in Washington, D.C. Slowly, as had been predicted, the coronavirus situation worsened. By the week of St. Patrick’s Day, I was working from home and most non-essential businesses had been shut down, not unlike most places across the world. I didn’t have too much to complain about, considering how privileged I was to be working and able to make rent.

Still, the city slowly ground to a halt and my burgeoning social life with it. I was grateful to have my roommates around, even though one finally headed out to the suburbs after the first week of quarantine. We expected D.C. to follow in the footsteps of California, New York, and Illinois. Things were going to worsen before they improved, and lockdowns seemed an inevitable part of that process. Knowing the guys, my housemates, were around that kept me from feeling how I felt in China. Hearing the TV being watched, smelling dinners cooking, sharing a beer on the steps. Not much, but enough.

I got dressed as my hair dried. I needed to get groceries. I watered my plants and put Tiger Balm on the back of my legs. They ached. The store wasn’t far, so I ambled along, listening to music and strolling by the empty restaurants and bars that were usually full of zest on a sunny Sunday. The Ethiopian restaurant I frequented was empty, the dog groomer, too. Usually, I would pause to look in at a dog standing on the table getting a haircut. Only the liquor store on the corner seemed to be busy.

Overall, people weren’t taking the social distancing seriously, and I worried about what this meant for the future. When I arrived at ORD in Chicago back in January, I’d been ready and willing to submit myself to the CDC or to a full battery of testing. I had texted my aunt to let her know I wasn’t sure how long I would be restrained in the airport; I was prepared to be swarmed by hazmat suits. Instead, I’d sauntered right off the plane and out onto the street. There has been rampant criticism and racism targeting China lately, but after her 55 days of self-isolation, a friend in China had just shared videos of her city, Jinan, coming back to life. People were out and about. Starbucks was open again. No new cases of the virus.

I had run from the chaos, the lockdowns, the uncertainty in China. I felt safe when I returned to the U.S. It wasn’t a perfect place by any stretch of the imagination, but it had ORD, my grandparents, and bagels. Two months after arriving home, however, any faith I had in the government was long gone as I passed a group of friends loitering around a table outside their townhouse and as American political warfare raged on irrespective of the climbing number of cases and deaths. We were careening towards the Jinan of 55 days ago.

***

Sunset over the Potomac.

Whatever happened, though, I knew one thing: I was tired of running. All my life, or so it felt, I’d been running. The Lincoln Memorial was as far as I would go now. D.C. was my home, and there wasn’t anywhere else I wanted to be. The two broken bulbs, the smell of Tiger Balm in my room, the guys at the house: they were going to sustain me through another quarantine. I love to travel, but right now I want to settle, to invest in my people and my community. As I wandered the aisles of the grocery store, not really sure what I was looking for, I realized I was shopping like someone who wasn’t going anywhere.

I put my groceries away and slowly climbed the narrow stairs that led to my room. The house was old but had character. I kicked my shoes off and flopped into the chair at my desk. An unfinished Washington Post from a lunch date last week was open on a page that read: “Hospitals expect to run out of beds within days in ‘Italian Wuhan.’” I know we are next.

I passed over the paper, moving both my empty coffee cups, and grabbed a novel instead. There wasn’t much else to do.