The Road

When I was in a Beijing boarding school, we used to run everyday. Since an 800 meter run was included in the high school entrance exam, school authorities saw fit to arrange the entire ninth grade(last year of middle school in China) student population to run 2000 meters daily. The designated spot for our run was a rural road a short trek from our school.

To reach the road, we went through the iron side-gate of the school, and then onto a narrow dirt path. We called it a path, but in reality it was nothing more than a bumpy trail where many feet have trodden over the years. This is where we began our runs, setting off lazily each time at a signal from our teacher. My friends and I always ran together, side by side. Sleeping rocks were scattered on the path, half-hidden by blankets of earth that anchored them to the ground. Near the end of the path, there was a treacherous ditch where thick roots of trees protruded like angry serpents. For the unwary, this was a dangerous place that could throw poor ankles into agony. Jumping over the ditch, we would reach the place where the rough brown trail intersects our beloved road.

When I think of the road, I remember the wind through my tangled hair, the scrape of my legs against the confining uniform, the excited breath of my friends beside me, and the smooth ground slipping behind me like water. It was wide and flat, our road, and gray like water on a misty day. I’m sure there were cracks and bumps, but in our hasty motion we never saw the insignificant blemishes. The road was always moving, moving with us like a free river. The entire horde of at least a hundred students flowed along it, and I wondered how cars would pass. Strangely, there were no painted lines on the road, and it seemed impossible for vehicles to use it without crashing into each other. There were rarely any cars on this road to disturb the peace anyway. The serenity was almost surreal for those of us so accustomed to the boisterous clamor of the school. Though there were few cars, bicycles traveled regularly down the road, little bells ringing to warn us of their coming. The bikers always seemed to be heading somewhere, whizzing past us with an air of certainty, as if they had traveled the road their whole lives. A few would stare at us, startled by the stampede of students running, jostling, and laughing between each breath.

The road always felt clean and open, but in reality there was always dust. The breeze toyed relentlessly with it, whipping up the tiny brown grains into choking gusts. We would cover our faces for an irritating moment, but the dust usually settled back quickly to their motionless state. On our right was an impressive forest. Not just any forest, but a manmade one. The tall yet slender trees stood stolidly in orderly lines, withstanding storms of dust and praying for rain. Their broad leaves rattled sinisterly, as if warning us away. The wild plants and underbrush tangled about the tree trunks, vying for any water their roots could steal. An occasional plastic bag would float listlessly along with the merciless wind, enmeshing itself on the tree branches. Along the left were majestic willows, their dark green tears cascading down like waterfalls. If the breeze was gentle, the streams of leaves swayed and whispered of secrets and mysteries. But if the wind was strong, the thin branches danced wildly, rattling with wrath and doom.

Through the tears of the willows, we could see a river. It would have been a beautiful river, but an accursed dam somewhere upriver held up the water. What are left by our road are a sunken hole and two imposing cement banks. Puddles and slush of mud water dotted the river bed. Where larger bodies of water remained green algae expanded like some giant, poisonous creature. Islands formed amidst the mud, where grass sprouted and wild plants flourished with unimaginable vigor. Water-birds dipped their beaks into murky puddles, deceived by how the sunlight made the stale water sparkle. My friends and I would watch in fascination at how life bloomed in the ugly decay of mud.

In the spring and early summer, it was hot to run and often we were resentful. It seemed that the sun followed us everyday. Sometimes it was cloaked in a film of unhealthy gray, but the glow came through. The sun would shine through the tall, protective trees. Light and shadow flitted on the road, and I would seek the cooler shade with my friends. Sweat streaked down our foreheads and faces, and the wind failed to dry it. But somehow it was a good feeling, to sweat alongside my friends. Those were beautiful days, with the trees and the shade and the wide smooth road. In the beginning of our runs, we always chattered between gulps of air, but after a while our labored breathing made it impossible. Instead, we watched the world around us. Every now and then, a herd of sheep passed by along the side of the road. At least I think the animals were sheep, under the layer of black muck and scraggly wool that barely stuck to their skins. They bleated dully, drooping their heads low and snatching mouthfuls of grass. Huddling tight and pressing themselves furiously against each other, they trotted along in a feverish attempt to keep their suffocating mass together. A couple of innocent lambs on their ungainly, long legs could always be spotted. After all, they were the only members of the herd white enough to fit the common impression of sheep. But by the end of summer the young ones would be the same color as the rest. Always behind the herd was a skinny, weather-beaten herder, darkened by the sun. All who I’ve seem wear broad straw hats. Some herders were grim and silent, others enjoyed whistling and singing incomprehensible tunes. Sometimes, a herder would flick his whip absent-mindedly onto the dirt-coated hindquarters of the closest sheep. The sheep would take a few faster steps, out of annoyance rather than fear of the whip, which was nothing more than a thin strip of pitiful cloth tied onto a stick.

I never loved running, but I loved the road and how it moved beneath me with each strained, repetitive motion of my legs. We all enjoyed being out in the open, with the unique sights and smells of a Beijing countryside. If we had to sweat and run, at least it wasn’t on the dusty track field of our school, where one felt like a blind donkey harnessed to a grinding mill, trotting in pointless circles. However, the future can never be foreseen. News broke that some students from another school had been run over by trucks while running on a road. We were forbidden to run on our road ever again. Instead, we were ordered to run around the school.

It is now three years since I have tread upon that smooth gray road and felt the dapples of sunlight and shadow. My friends and I have long been gone from the school, each parting our separate ways. Last summer I had the chance to go back to the road, but I did not. Perhaps I did not want to run, and to go on the road I would have to. Perhaps without my friends, I knew it wouldn’t be the same. Perhaps I wanted to leave the past in the past, and just move on. Perhaps I simply had better things to do. All I know is that I wanted to go, but somehow I never did.