I decided that today was a beautiful day for a run. As I stepped out of my building, I looked up at the overcast sky, clouds gathering. Perfect, I thought. The Schuylkill will be deserted. I put in my headphones and began jogging to the beat of a random, high-energy song. My feet pounded on the concrete sidewalk, adjusting awkwardly to a surface besides the carpet and wood floors of my apartment. I sped past the familiar apartment buildings of my West Philadelphia neighborhood, sardined uncomfortably close together. They were an eclectic collection—fragile-looking homes that housed the memories and generations of a single family abutting the brick towers designed to replace them. Each building was a familiar friend—the only friends I had seen in person for some days. Cars lined the street, unmovable rocks intending to collect moss.
The wind picked up and howled around me as I turned the corner, filling the vast, eerie silence of my usually bustling neighborhood. I smiled, enjoying the calm of the day, the crisp cool air and the rush of being outdoors. Wow, I really needed this. But what exactly did I need? Yes, I needed the exercise, giving my stiff right knee a chance to stretch and move. Even more, I needed the escape—from the loneliness of my moderate-sized corner room, which now seemed stifling; from the inundating emails and news alerts that greeted me each morning, from the realities of necessary restrictions with an uncertain end. I ran faster, fully embracing my escape.
Eventually, the Philadelphia Art Museum came into focus, a beautiful giant that now stood dejected. The entrance to the Schuylkill river trail was across the street from the museum. I charged forward in anticipation, hopeful that my prediction of a deserted trail would be accurate. Faster. Pick up the pace. You’re almost there. My breathing was heavy, but even. As I closed the distance between myself and the trail entrance, my anxious thoughts gave way to shouts of praise. Oh, thank God! There were only a handful of people, all running, embarking on their individual escape journeys. Surely we’d be moving too quickly to exchange respiratory droplets, too quickly to be within a six foot radius for long. I joined the trail, enjoying the certainty of calm brought by the likelihood of rain. On my right, the river was black and still, mirroring the continually darkening sky above. I fell into a rhythm, music blaring, feet now accustomed to the concrete, my heart fixed at a comfortably fast rate.
Within a few short minutes, the serenity of my run was broken as I saw a group of three runners approaching. Oh no no no. In an instant, multiple thoughts ran through the processor of my mind—confusion at their numbers and proximity to one another, concern for their health, my health, the health of anonymous, medically fragile individuals. I could feel my heart rate increasing beyond its initial set point. Though it felt completely irrational, I found myself inching towards the edge of the trail, towards the grass. My legs accelerated beneath me, trying to escape the possibility of contagion and the uncertainty that now surrounded any human contact. When I returned to the silence of my solitary run, I felt a sadness surfacing from the edges of my mind. I’ll always be running from something. I had traded my escape from the seclusion of four, suffocating walls for another escape. This time, I was running from what I needed most— human closeness and connection. Was this to be my new reality, a tension of simultaneously running from and toward solitude? I prayed not, not only for my sake, but for the sake of all those who, like me, were running from ‘Rona’.
Bianca Nfonoyim is an MS3 at the Perelman School of Medicine. Bianca can be reached by email at [email protected].
