It was 6:30 pm when I left my apartment: late enough for a lovely summer run yet early enough to follow it up with a night of fun and revelry. I had been feeling good lately, happy, running well, and plenty motivated to get out the door every evening and log a good nine miles without hesitation. I was feeling stronger and fitter than I had in ages and my increasing fitness level was making the runs easier and the nine-mile distance almost routine. It was, in every sense, the mindset every competitive runner strives for.

The weather was sunny, in the mid 60’s when I left my house. From Fremont I headed west toward Ballard, following Leary Way to the Ballard Bridge. The sun was in the distance, beginning its decent down behind the Olympic Mountains yet already causing the sky to glow a pinkish orange. Traffic was rather light, with most people having already headed out of town between 4 and 5:30. My entire body was relaxed and strong, my mind calm, and my breathing free and easy.

I turned the corner onto the Ballard Bridge and watched as the scraggly seamen made their way into port. The canal was calm and the sun glistened off the boats’ wakes as a cool breeze caressed my skin. I picked up the pace on the bridge as I slinked past a couple of bikers heading in the opposite direction. I cornered and headed up the hill on the other side of the canal. My stride shortened, my arms pumped, and I leaned into every step. My knees pumped liked pistons toward my chest as my toes struck the haggard pavement, my chest expanding and contracting slowly, a sure sign that I was nowhere near oxygen debt.

As I approached Seattle Pacific University, my craving for speed intensified. I entered the gates at Seattle Pacific, lowered my swinging arms, and raced two miles around the track. My form was impeccable, my arms low and relaxed, my calves strong, my stride fluid. I raced through the first mile in 5:10 feeling as though I could pick it up at any moment. I maintained pace for the next two and a half laps, gliding around the oval as if on a cloud. As I approached the final lap my adrenaline surged through my body. My knees lifted higher. My arms pumped with full force. I changed gears and concentrated on lifting my heels and running on my toes. My head stayed down while my eyes fixated ahead. I was Mercurial as I took the last turn at full sprint. Were my feet even making contact with the track?

I bolted toward the line, a hair under 10 minutes: an excellent time for a quick two miles smack dab in the middle of a distance run.

I jogged two laps easy, basking in the afterglow, and headed back east toward Fremont. My mind was blank, my body clear, alive, and strong. I crossed the Fremont Bridge and made my way through Fremont Center. The young folks were all ready out, sitting at the bars and cafes, enjoying youth and this beautiful summer evening. Lenin was there, too, as always, stoic as ever, a reminder, to me at least, of how much things had changed the past ten years both in the world and in my life.

Back on Francis and a few feet from my apartment I checked my time. My watch read 41:18: a nice time, certainly, but I wanted more.

I passed my apartment and headed the remaining way up Francis. I turned on 39th Street toward Fremont Ave. concocting a perfect plan of heading up toward Woodland Park and then looping back for a nice downhill cruise on Fremont Ave. It would be one hour and three minutes total, eleven miles even. It would have been perfect, that is, if fate hadn’t intervened.

Turning on Fremont Ave. I looked up and there she was, lying in the street, bright orange, her legs kicking in the air, tail curled, screeching at the top of her lungs, begging for the pain to stop. Immediately I bolted into the right hand lane, extending my hand attempting to stop any more traffic that might try to push through.

By the moment I reached her, the screeching had ended and there was only shaking. I stopped above her and looked into her eyes. They were glassy and filled with pain. There was no blood. There was also no more noise, not from her, not from the city streets, not from anyone or anything anywhere in the world.

I scooped her in my arms, her body relaxed but not yet limp. Her head was bobbing but she did not fight me. The cars continued to pass, but in my mind there was only silence.

I carried her to the grass near the side of the road and laid her down in the soft green. I held my hand to her chest where her tiny heart continued to beat. Her eyes did not move. Her chest moved, but slower now, and it was obvious: there was no fight left in her. I stroked her chest, trying, if there was any power in my hands, to assure her that she was not alone, that she would not die alone.

I checked her neck but there were no tags. Did she have a home? In my mind all I could think was, “don’t let her die alone.” I wouldn’t let her die alone.

I continued to pet her chest as I gently rubbed her shoulder, trying to pass some of the life from me into her. It was no good. She would last but a moment longer, yet I couldn’t stop. My hand continued to caress her body, for seconds, for minutes, for an eternity it seemed. I knew she was gone yet I couldn’t stop staring in her eyes and stroking her chest.

A tear fell from my eye to our bed of grass. And another. And another. My eyes were fixed on those yellow eyes, and on her now lifeless, orange body. The silence turned to a ringing as words trickled in.

“I work for the city. My friend is a veterinary assistant. Will you be here with her? I only live a block from here. Will you be here with her?”

I heard the words but they meant nothing to me. My eyes remained fixed on her orange body. My hand was numb, still attached to her slumped chest.

I broke my stare and looked around. My run was over. It was meaningless now. I was meaningless now. The world was meaningless now.

The woman who had spoken to me returned a moment later carrying a cardboard box lined with small holes. I was still sitting next to the orange beauty, stroking her now cold, stiff body.

“I can take her to the animal hospital. They have an emergency area. It is just down the road.”

But there was no emergency, not anymore. It was not instantaneous, but there was no chance after the collision.

My words were brief. The woman looked at me, as if I was cold and yet warm at the same time. I lifted the orange lifeless body, cradling her head as one might a baby, and gently placed her in the box.

The woman shook my hand, what else was she to do? She introduced herself. I mentioned my name. I opened her car door for her as she placed the box on the passenger seat. I closed the door.

“Thank you for what you did. Thank you.”

But I had done nothing.

In that moment, as I held her in my arms, as the last bit of life expired from her fragile body, I could do nothing. Her life was completely out of my hands, even as she, herself, was in them.

And that was what hurt the most.