“I thought we could try different types out to see what works best for us. The band”—he pulls it from the bag— “keeps us snug together, but the rope will give you the ability to fluctuate how much slack or closeness you want. We can experiment.”
“This is sweet.” I grin, running my fingers along the braided rope.
“It’s not a big deal. Anker mentioned it. He said you just did human guide for the 5K, but this might be a better idea for a marathon.”
It’s standard for most blind/guide pairs to use some sort of tether to maintain contact during races. Human guide is great for walking but proves challenging for running. The height differential aside, exercise means a lot of sweat. That can make it difficult to hold onto someone, especially for 26.2 miles. A tether allows a runner to remain connected to their guide but have the freedom to move.
“Let’s test this one out.” Selecting the thinner rope, I hold it up.
“Okay.” He nods. “Do you want to leave your cane in the car, or do you want me to hold it? I thought we could just power walk tonight. It might be a good idea for our first few sessions to just focus on getting comfortable with each other.”
I curl my hand tighter around my cane’s handle. This is part of it. I know this. Running with my cane isn’t possible. The cane poses a safety risk if holding it, and slows you down if strapped to you. It’s best to have someone else hold it until you cross the finish line.
The idea of leaving it behind tightens the knot in my stomach just a little tighter. With the cane, I am safe. It not only helps me navigate spaces and find any obstacles that could trip me up, but also ensures I have the key to my own rescue in my hand. The cane is like a fail-safe guarantee that I’ll never be left behind…Not again.
“Hey…” He places his palms on my shoulders, their heaviness soothing the worry sloshing inside me. “I can hold your cane.”
“But it will slow us down.” A furrow dips my brow.
“We’re just starting, so no need to worry about timing. This is about getting comfortable with this. With each other. I’ll hold onto your cane, so you know it’s right there. That way you can practice without it, and if you need a mental break all you need to do is say ‘turnip,’ we’ll stop, and I’ll give you your cane.”
My mouth pulls up with his use of our safe word. It’s supposed to be for our emotional boundaries, which I guess this is one. It’s probably the biggest one that I have. As Anker says, I have trust issues. I don’t trust that people won’t hurt me. That they won’t leave me behind. It’s so cliché, but it’s my truth.
Friends take care of each other.Garrett’s words from my office echo inside me. He’s right. Real friends have each other’s backs. Just like they pour pineapple champagne down the drain, so their allergic friend doesn’t drink it. They say nothing about it, so that same friend just smiles and thinks the man she likes brought her a delicious bottle of bubbly to celebrate her birthday.
I fold my cane and hand it to him. “Okay.”
The sun hangs low over the quiet soccer field. We’re the only people on the track. Despite that, I offer no slack. For the first lap around the track, I remain snug to Garrett. With each step, my muscles coil tight, seeming to brace for any possible misstep. The rope tethers us to one another, wrapped around each of our hands. Heart racing, we move around the track at a brisk pace.
“Bend,” Garrett says, as we round the track.
I smile. Throughout our lap, he’s called out changes in the path, including straightaways, bends, and ruts. I take a mental note to say something to the athletic department about the need to fill in some of these ruts that could lead to injuries.
Despite Garrett’s communication, I remain locked to him. His large form is a step in front of me. I know I should loosen my grip, but anxiety pulses through me.
“How are you doing?”
“Awesome,” Teeth gritted, I tug at the rope.
“Sure about that? Any closer and I’d be giving you a piggyback ride,” he teases, as we start the second lap.
“Is that an option?”
“No,” he laughs.
“Worst guide ever!” I pout.
“You hate this.”
“So much!” I whine with the conviction of a toddler being told they have to eat their vegetables, which I kind of am.
“But you’re still doing it.” The upward drag of his mouth is audible in his encouraging tone. “You’ve not turniped me once.”
“That’s not a word.” I bite my lower lip, tamping down the wide grin threatening to belt across my face.
“It should be. It’s a fantastic word,” he says, laughter punctuates his tone. “Seems like a real missed opportunity for one of your deep-voiced audiobook narrators to growlturniped”—his voice somehow gets impossibly lower— “or whatever nonsense they get up to in your dirty audios.”
“Erotic audios.” My correction is breathy, which we can pretend it’s from our power walk’s pace and not from the way his deep bass pulses through me. I also won’t pretend that Garrett’s voice isn’t in my auditory spank bank.
