Clifford Ridge
I’m ready for my usual workout. Fiction by Carl Ernest
Winters in Atlanta are usually mild. I like that you can enjoy the outdoors year-round. In the fall, I watch the leaves as they turn yellow and brown and red and splashed against the forever green of the pine trees; they make an amazing seasonal palette. I don’t have to travel to see nature’s magic—it’s right there in my woody backyard.
Last week, the winds picked up, and the leaves rained down on my patio. There’s something neurotic about raking leaves. It’s a futile endeavor, but we do it anyway. Kinda like having to make your bed every morning only to unmake it every night. A Half hour after I’d finished, the patio looked just as messy as when I had started. The next day, after the winds had finally died down, I was happy to see that all the leaves had fallen. The trees were bare—every single last one of them. I raked for the last time. No more leaves on the patio. Then something caught my eye: On a branch of the Sugar Maple tree nearest to the house, one solitary leaf hung on and never fell. It stood strong despite the ferocity of the icy wind. I ignored it at first, but three days later, that leaf was still there, hanging on. A smile parted my lips, and for some weird reason, I admired the tenacity of that leaf.
I put on my jogging outfit and running shoes, and I’m ready for my usual workout. The challenge today is Clifford Ridge—my personal Heartbreak Hill. I have never been able to run to the top without stopping for a breather. I’m in pretty good shape, but that ridge takes everything out of me. The narrow, curvy roadway, steep inclines and the loose dirt and rocks make for a difficult run, but they cannot offset the natural beauty of the ridge: the flora and fauna (sometimes I find myself racing with the deer, rabbits and squirrels) and best of all, the spectacular view from the top of the ridge. You can see the entire township and the city skyline in the distance. Up here, among the clouds, you’re the god of the universe, overseeing your domain. I feel that I need to earn that view with a run to the top—without stopping for a breather.
I set the timer on my cell phone, and I’m off on my trek up the ridge. Like every run, I feel positive I can reach the top without having to stop for a breather. The first few yards fly by as the cool morning air clears my nasal passages and purges my lungs of the city’s smog. Breathe in, breathe out. Slow and steady. I remember watching the yearly City Marathon on TV some time ago, and the big story that year was about a famous, sixty-year-old retired Olympian who had signed up for the race. She was not expected to win, but everyone wanted to see if she would finish the race—actually, as bloodthirsty as most people are, they wanted to see her fall flat on her face. But I wanted her to win. I wanted this sixty-year-old to show the world that we still have what it takes. That former Olympian, regardless of her age, has a gold medal to prove her grit. She hung on, and she finished the race and ended up in the top 50 finishers.
Breathing is getting heavier. I’m panting, but not in any trouble. I have no intentions of stopping. Despite the cold, I can feel sweat beads forming on my head. My heart is pumping. I sing my favorite songs in sync with my footfalls. I play games with the vapor from my breath. Another slip. Another stumble. Still running. I’m hanging on…
A mother deer and her fawn scamper away at my noisy approach. The mother deer flickers her short tail, and the fawn immediately responds to the danger warning. They disappear into the thicket, and the only sounds are my heavy breathing and pounding footsteps. I’m all alone in the wilderness. Alone. That’s how it’s been since my ex moved back to California with my young son. She saw the danger signs. My recreational drug habit had gotten way out of control and threatened their safety and security. I’m OK now. A stint in rehab has put me back on track, and jogging keeps me hanging on…
Up ahead is a rest stop. An elderly couple sits on a bench, enjoying the natural wonders of the park. They wave as I speed by. I don’t respond. I’m saving every bit of energy for the run. They probably think I’m crazy—a madman running to nowhere. But they know nothing of the challenges I face. They know nothing about the divorce. They know nothing about the pangs of withdrawal and separation that men go through. My pace quickens. She left without warning. I’m running faster. She said something about finding a man she can depend on. I’m feeling a little tense. Running is erratic. A squirrel scampers across my path and forces me to reset my cadence.
The last time I attempted to run up Clifford Ridge, it was with my run buddy Alan. He is all mouth—talks about anything. How he manages to run and talk is beyond my understanding. He irks me. Maybe I’m just jealous. I put up with my garrulous friend because—well, he runs with me. I think he likes my company, too. I’m a good listener. Alan is unaware of my goal; when I stop for a breather, he stops too. I’m afraid to find out if he can reach the top without stopping. It’s not a competition, but I’ll be damned if I let him beat me. I’m running alone today—thank God!
The trail is getting a little steeper now, but I’m feeling OK. A hawk soaring overhead catches my attention, and I’m reminded about an article I’d read on the web. The article said that a hawk flying over you has spiritual and symbolic significance. And hawks represent strength and leadership. It’s also a sign that you have a vision or purpose that you want to achieve. I can roll with that. I run a little harder, half believing that the hawk really is a good sign, but I’m not much into the “luck” thing. Everything that happens to us, happens for a reason—even the bad things. I just need to learn the lessons that my “bad things” are trying to teach me.
I’m almost at the halfway point. I run past the familiar Oak tree whose branches shade the path in the summertime. That tree is my mile marker. My motivation. My solace. I touch it every time I run by—not for luck but, you know, just because…
Around this stage of my run, I get my second wind and enter that magical, euphoric state that they call a runner’s high. It’s not an actual high; my recreational drugs did a better job of that. I’m sure Alan never gets that euphoric feeling; he talks too much.
Two mountain bikers zoom past me, kicking up loose dirt and gravel. I’m amazed at the way these guys hang on through all the bumps and dips in the trail. They inspire me. I push a little harder. My legs are burning. My lungs stretched to capacity. My brain was numb from the cold. Adding insult to injury, it begins to rain, despite a favorable forecast by the weather man. In my neurotic state, the raindrops falling on my head feel like bricks, and I wonder how that maple leaf can withstand the pummeling of the wind and rain.
I am fast approaching that point—the point where I give in and stop for a breather. This is it. I can stop because it’s raining. I can stop because my legs hurt. I can stop for any reason, but I have to keep on going. The constant jarring on my body from running begins to wear me down. Muscles ache. My legs feel like weights. My body is not used to this amount of torture. I keep going, though. Trees and shrubbery float by. The trail looks like a running stream as the rainwater flows downhill. There doesn’t seem to be an end to this dizzying motion. My body screams for help. Not sure how much more I can take, when suddenly, the sky opens up. There are no more trees—just sky. I feel like I own the universe. I feel as powerful as a god. A hawk floats overhead, and I’m standing on the highest point on Clifford Ridge.
Filled with pride, I’m heading home after my record-breaking run. I call Alan to let him know about my victory, but he doesn’t seem to be impressed—fuck him. I conquered Clifford Ridge, and that’s all that matters. The rain has stopped now, and I’m home looking out at my patio. There, plastered on the wet concrete, is that last solitary leaf. It finally fell. I walk out on the patio and pick up the wet leaf and lay it on the palm of my hand. And I shed a tear.
Carl Ernest currently lives in Atlanta, Georgia, but grew up in Brooklyn, New York. His Computer Science degree has allowed him to earn a living as an avid computer programmer, but writing is the love of his life. So far, Carl’s work has been published in RIGOROUS Magazine and UNDERWOOD Press, and he’s looking at a busy future.
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