The Nail That Sticks Out...

I'm running again.  Along the river, nearly frozen, I'm running and watching my feet make the paces.  I'm running for speed, not for distance, working to get faster in advance of training for my next marathon, and I'm breathing hard.  Sometimes long distance running is meditative, leaving me in a trance of some kind as I move ahead mile after mile.  But when I am running for speed and not distance, I am at work.  I am breathing hard, thinking about running,  and reading my watch.

I'm looking down at the concrete sidewalk, thinking about the surface and is it too hard for my feet--should I be on the asphalt--and telling myself to keep moving, don't slow down.  As I watch my running shoes moving ahead, my eyes catch something stamped onto one of the concrete rectangles of the sidewalk, street graffiti of sorts, in neat, small block letters:

The nail that sticks out gets hammered down.

I almost trip on my feet.  My feet slip, as my pace is interupted and the message beneath me breaks my concentration.  I keep running, but I can't continue my stream of thought.  It is impossible, having seen this message, to return to analysis of my pace, time divided by distance.  I have just been given a message from the street, from the sidewalk, and it's impossible to ignore.

The nail that sticks out gets hammered down.

I look around me as I continue to run.  I see the boathouse by the water, shut tight for the season, shutters drawn in front of the windows.  I see the graffiti on the stuccoed wall.  I can't really make out the letters, as they are heavily stylized and almost floral, fading in the weather.  I must see graffiti such as this all the time as I run;  I must spot in on the sides of bridges, on the backs of buildings, or along the subway tracks.  I must see it, but I know I never try to read it.  I don't think about who wrote it, or how someone reached the spot it is written, or who it was written for.  I take it in as I run, I suppose, but I accept it as I accept the benches on the riverbanks and the geese that cross my path sometimes. 

But this, this message stamped upon the sidewalk is different.  Startled to see it beneath my feet, I have read it.  It is not a message I've spotted in the distance, but a note to me, directly beneath my feet.  It is impossible to ignore.

I run on.  I remember a day when I ran along a sidewalk some years ago.  It was summer and the sun was blistering.  The humidity was beyond oppressive.  It was the middle of the day and I was out running.  I was not analyzing my pace nor imagining my time that day.  I was not thinking about running.  I was terrified.  I knew I had come to a crossroad in my life, and I knew I was going to need to change my life if I were to live.  I knew it was time to speak to my family.  It was time to come out.  As I ran that day, I knew that the alternative to telling was very bleak indeed.  And as I considered that alternative, I stopped running, sweating, and walked.  In despair.

The nail that sticks out gets hammered down.

But today I do not stop running.  I am a little unnerved by this message, surprised it is there, and wondering a little if this is a warning I am meant to heed.  It's not a simple thing to change one's life, to shift patterns, to take a stand, or alter course.  But it can be done.  And today I do not stop running.  I keep to the route, increasing my speed back to the goal, lifting my eyes, looking out toward the river.  It is a cold day, and the river is frozen, but the sun is strong and still high.