The chasing of dragons

(Originally posted 1/19/2009)
Kayla O’Mara was 16 on Jan. 24 2006. That was the night she died.

Kayla had been on her way to a coffee shop with her twin sister and a friend. There was a car accident, and then, there was no more Kayla.

I had graduated from Oakland University with a degree in journalism the previous month, and had been working my first real job as a reporter for all of three weeks when we got word of the incident. Kayla and the other teens were students at Goodrich High School—my beat—so I had the sad task of reporting the tragedy. I don’t know if that story was exceptional because it was the first dead kid I had to write about, or if it was because it reminded me so much of the accident that killed my friend Mike back in the ol’ days of high school, but for some reason, Kayla stuck with me.

I don’t know much about Kayla, but I learned three things about her in the course of covering the community in mourning:
She loved hot pink; she was loved deeply by her friends and family-- and she loved to run.

And the girl was damn good at it.

A memorial at the high school featured a slide show of Kayla in happier times. She was smiling in most all the pictures, but to me she looked happiest in the pictures of her racing.

It seemed odd to me. I was never a runner. How could something so painful, so taxing, be fun?

But as time sprinted forward, Kayla stayed with me. Kayla, and her smile as she ran.

My editor, David, seemed to understand. David was a runner. One of those people. He ran in rain, cold, heat, dark…whatever. David just loved to run. I thought he was crazy, but damned if it didn’t seem to make him happy.

One day, whether it was David or Kayla or just the need to lose a few pounds, I decided to give it a shot. And sure enough, I hated running. If you could even call it running. It was more like short bursts of painful trotting. David implored me to stick with it, give it a chance, and not to give up until I could do a ten minute mile.

And still, smiling in my memory, was the girl who would have loved to have run a few more miles. So I ran.

I ran when I didn’t want to—because in the beginning, you never want to. I ran when I had reasons not to. I ran when it hurt. And eventually, it was actually running.

To further my investment in my new identity as a runner I bought some actual running shoes. White with hot pink striping. I thought Kayla might have appreciated it.

The first time I ran a mile straight through without stopping I felt a high like no other on this earth. It was the feeling of doing something which previously seemed impossible. It was euphoria. It was the catching of a dragon.

Breathing hard and fighting back the urge to vomit, I called David. Only a runner could understand. Everyone else gave me a pained “oh, that’s cute” smile.

It’s 2009 and I’m still running. I’m not as hard core as David. I don’t run in the rain. I don’t run in the snow. But I do still run—even if it’s just back and forth through my hallway for 30 minutes of sprints. And while I feel pretty good—and even smile like Kayla—I never feel as great as I did that first time I ran the mile. And I’m always –literally—chasing the proverbial dragon.

Maybe it’s because it’s not such a surprise that I can do it anymore. Maybe it’s because the endorphins found in that first mile have long since learned to stay beyond my finish lines. Maybe it’s because we each only get a handful of moments like that in a lifetime, and we’re not allowed to find them through something as simple as repetition. I don’t know.

I just know that it’s been three years now. Kayla is still dead. And I’m still running.

I guess, in that way, so is she.