Twenty minutes before the start of the half-marathon trail race, Zac and I sat in our car listening to National Public Radio’s Weekend Edition. It had been raining for five days straight, the parking lot muddy, orange leaves blown down from wet trees. We sat in the car, heater and heated seats blaring, trying to soak up all the warmth we could before we started running.
On the news: Mitt Romney’s campaign had just released his previous year’s tax returns. Romney’s income topped $13.7 million. “That’s almost how far we’re going to run,” I said: one mile for every million dollars.
We started at the early start, the “slow man’s start” as another runner called it. Through wet woods, Zac and I pulled ahead of the crowd as we turned onto a trail alongside the lake. The wind picked up, huge waves cashing against the shore. It was beautiful: Lake Superior waves, white-capped, sandy trail, red pine trees. And then we passed the one-mile marker.
“One million dollars!” Zac said, then laughed like Count von Count from Sesame Street. And so a race day refrain was born. Every time we passed a mile marker, one of us would call out the corresponding millions of dollars in our best Count von Count accent—two million dollars! Seven million dollars! Mile by mile, we ran Mitt Romney’s annual income. Through rain and mud puddles, through several minutes of hail. Through two ascents to rocky peaks.
When we reached the top of the first ascent around mile four, we stopped, looked over the lake. Sunshine broke through the higher clouds, but wide bands of rain moved just below them. And then the second rocky peak around mile 10—10 million dollars! A man stood at the top blasting an air horn for encouragement. “You can do it,” he shouted as Zac and I slowed to a brisk walk, the rock face slippery from rain. “Thank you,” I said when we finally reached him. And we stopped again to look over the hills, bursts of bright orange and yellow trees, bands of darkened clouds. And then we started running again, the air horn fading behind us as the man yelled encouragement to other runners.
Mile 11—11 million dollars!—we returned to the trail by the lake, waves breaking so loudly I could no longer hear Zac’s footsteps. And I thought about Mitt Romney’s income, how in one year he makes more money than I will ever make. How unaware he’s been of his own privilege. How dismissive of those who make less than him—nearly all of us—how dismissive of those who are poor. Mile by mile, 13.1 miles, we ran a little less than his yearly income, called it out for the other to hear. Two and a half hours of hilly terrain, two rock ascents. Rain and hail and muddy, wet feet and cold-stiffened hands.
And this is partly what scares me about a Romney presidency: how little he understands of the run, the fight, of working hard long after you want to stop. How little he understands that you can work harder than you thought possible and still struggle financially. Still never reach the middle class, let alone millionaire-hood. And also, this: how little he understands of beauty: an autumn morning’s rain, sun rising over a lake, pine trees and gnarled roots and sandy earth.
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Planet of the Blind 