Autumn Leaves and a letter

Dear Starfish,

You’re more than half cooked!! Last Saturday you did a half marathon and I guess you were dancing and twirlin the whole time. Good think you seem to like running because I would guess you’re going to be doing a whole lot of it. I volunteered to be ‘race buddy’ for you any time your folks want to do the same run; we’ll see if they take me up on it. I expect so. Your mama has popped! You’re making your presence known and she’s very gracious about letting me say hi and hello to you every time I see you guys. During the 31.75 miles I said hello to you several times; you were my lucky starfish. I hope you don’t mind. I promise I’ll return the favor one day.

I haven’t been able to write much—this race report just hasn’t been coming, except when I think about writing to you. I suppose it’s odd, but your mom and dad don’t mind how unbelievably excited I am about getting to be a part of your life, so I guess its ok. Liz and I drove down the night before and stayed in a little hotel; I adore spending time with her and we operate very similarly before a race: laying out gear, yummy dinner, distracting ourselves with tv, bouncing off the walls with nervous energy. I’m not the best at making girlfriends; I’ve always found it easier to buddy up with the guys, but Liz and I have found a strong bond. We’ve pushed ourselves father than we ever thought we could, and we’ve done it together. We got to Champoeg Park at 6:15, the fog sinking in deep among my bones and the parking lot filled with ghostly lights of the headlamps perched on each runner’s head. We trek up a little hill to find your mama and dad with their gear for the aid station they’re running. I get hugs from both of them, then we stand around and chat. They walked us through where they would be set up and then headed over to the start with us. Standing by the fire pit, your dad wraps his arms around me from behind. You’re going to be great, he says softly. I am so proud of you and everything you’re doing, you have everything it takes to kill this thing. He squeezes extra hard, smacks a kiss on top of my head, and says I love you, Ames. And I remember him walking me home my first week of middle after I was bullied; he pushed my bike fore me and told me it would be ok. I believe him; he hasn’t lied to me once. I remember strolling up to a store with him the first time I went to visit him at college. We got pepper jack cheese and crackers and Coke, and headed back down through the trees. Sitting in his massive dorm room, we watched Evolution and then the snow started to fall—you’ll find it’s a rarity around here, and like children we stood at the window watching the flakes come down. I turned on his music and Hallelujah came on; first time I’d ever heard that song. I remember him picking me up in Los Angeles, flying down, packing up my car, driving back with me, making me laugh for the first time in weeks. Why am I telling you this, little Starfish? Well, first off I want you to know that your dad is a good man. And I hope that when you have a little brother or sister, you are as close to him or her as I am to your dad. You don’t get to choose your family, my little aquatic neicephew, but yours is a good one. And most of all I want you to know that you are coming in to a world where you can do anything you set your mind to. Never forget that. If you do, it’s ok—we’ll all remind you.

The race starts and almost immediately I picked up a buddy. She is new to town and we pace each other for the first lap; now she is a member of the Chicks. Do you know how easy it can be to make buddies? Smile, say hi, keep stride, share war stories. As we come back through the aid station and hit mile 5 I realize quickly that this will be my hardest mile, and my favorite. We are past the out and back where I can smile at my fellow ultra marathoners, here it is the woods and the river and me. But I love the woods; I go to the woods because there I am known without cause or agenda, I go to the river because that is the best way to find my way home.

After lap 2 I pull into our family’s aid station and your mom waves me on. I grab an Ensure and pull a slug, then head up the hill to do my second turn through the start/finish. Coming back down the hill your mama has saddled up to join me for my third lap; I’m more grateful than she knows. Or perhaps she does, I pit crewed for her first ultra and man oh man, was it a bitch. Your mama is made of some kind of steel like I’ve never seen. We hit the aid station first time around and get cheers, pass Lynn and her buddies, pass Liz and Aleta and Chris, pass my newfound race buddies too—we cheer and joke and wave each other on. It’s incredible to find a community in place that was just a path; it’s phenomenal to find a family where 3 hours earlier there were just people. Your mama and I chatted about the world and back again. Living with them I got perfectly timed pep talks from your mom; I knew I would miss her but I didn’t realize just how much. We talked about a work problem I’d been having and about you, about the next day and the next race and the negotiations happening at their work. Running with her I found a quiet courage and immense joy. I didn’t have a sister, you know. Not before your mom came along. We did the fourth lap together too, walking most of it because we were hurting! Heading through the turnaround at the top of a barely brutal yet all too sadistic hill, we talked to the volunteers at the top, thanked them—when we got back to the aid station she told me to drop her and push to make it back before we hit the two hour mark for the lap. I got back in time to beat it and your dad was waiting for me. Up the hill, Ames, go go go! I’ll be ready when you get back.

He swings into stride behind me and as we head out the gate, your mama comes over the hill at the end. Go on, Ames, I’ll catch up. He jogs over to say hello to you two, and then catches back up with me. The fifth lap is a bit fuzzy to be honest. We talked the whole time—first half I tell him about work stuff, then he starts telling me about all of the projects he wants to do around the house. He’s become a handy guy and I’m not sure when that happened. Your mama says of course she loved him before he became adept with tools, but that it’s a nice addition. He says he used to be ‘epically unhandy’. It’s true, once he built a chicken coop where the legs were four different heights. Apparently, even the chickens mocked him. We come around the turnaround one more time—walk up it—but after we turn to head down, he looks at me. Well? Well, what? Well, are we gonna walk or is this a Sunday stroll? It’s Saturday, Garth. Well it won’t be if you keep on walking!! I bust out laughing and pick up my pace as he shoots me a diabolical little smile. My kids are gonna hate me, he grins. We talk about running and where we are headed in our next years, talk about your grandparents—you’re gonna love em but hoo boy are they nuts!!—sorry, kid, you’re coming into a family full of sweet, smart, dorky, passionate, loving nutballs. Better get used to it now! We roll into the aid station one last time and the guy who was holding onto half my Ensure looks at me and pulls it out like John Wayne taking down an outlaw. BAM! Here ya go missy. A guy sitting behind him winks at me. Don’t thank him! But of course I do. You weren’t supposed to thank him! He’s not actually nice.

Your dad falls into step behind me as we head onto the trail back into the woods; we alternate following each other and for the last mile and change he talks nonstop to me. Talks about calls he’s run, explains how to start IVs and do RSIs and all sorts of things—your mom can do this stuff too, by the way. Every once in a while I’ll damage myself in a truly spectacular and stupid way, and have to use dial-a-medic. I apologize profusely when I do, but then again I’ve walked your dad through child welfare procedure when it’s needed. It’s fun, ya know, backing each other? Anyway, he talks me through the mile. I hear Esther’s voice in my head: put your head down, follow his feet, don’t stop for anything, you can do this. Then he asks, is that the final hill? Yup, I say and he drops back to my side. Ok, here’s how it’s gonna go. And we’re coming up over the rise. You’re coming into the stadium and you look up to see yourself on the jumbo screen. Now heading down it. You’re about to break the world record, the crowd is on it’s feet cheering and screaming but you’re cool and we step off the curb into the parking lot and people ARE clapping. You don’t acknowledge more than a nod of the head, you are going to kill this record here you go!! Passing the aid station and your mama and Liz and Lynn are clapping and cheering. Ok, kiddo, when we hit the gravel you’re going to give it all you’ve got left!! That’s heading up the hill. I say, I can’t, he says, you can and then we’re at the bottom. Let’s go!! He hollers at me and we lengthen our strides. Passing the row of portapotties and we’re heading towards the ambulance stationed there. Ok, he whispers, now as we pass the ambulance they’re going to release the dogs and I go WHAT!? as we’re passing and he shoves me gently go go go GO!! I come in screaming steam, full throttle going like nothing else matters, because nothing else matters. Everyone is cheering as I stumble to a halt, grinning, and get my medal. Your dad comes up as I head back down the hill and I fall into his side. He puts his arm around me and lets me lean on him the whole way down in a mirror image of his first marathon. He ran so hard that he finished in under three hours, he’s a cheetah. And like we all do he pushed in the last few meters so that when he came across the finish he literally fell on top of me. I was ready to hold him up then just like he was ready today. It’s what family does.

While it might not seem like it, this isn’t quite as detailed as some of my reports, Starfish, because honestly it’s a huge blur of joy. There were about 2 miles during that second lap where I hit the wall; otherwise I couldn’t stop smiling. There are so few firsts when you grow up, Starfish, and I plan to enjoy every first that I get. This ultra lit me up from the inside out. Having your mom and dad there, finishing with friends and family, made it absolutely the best thing I’ve ever done in my life—even though it was the hardest. I know I’ll suffer in the next few days but it’s a worthy pain. It’s a pain built on gut wrenching hard work and pride. I find there are moments when you change completely, when you shed the skin you were wearing to find a new one. Just as the caterpillar thinks the world is ending…he turns into a butterfly.

I love you, little Starfish. My aunt skills have gotten a little rusty in the past few years, so I’m practicing the lullabies I used to sing to Tessa when I would snuggle her for naptime as a tiny baby, and I’m doing pushups so I can give you the big bear hugs that Jackson loves so much, and I’m digging out the books Hannah and Stella loved the best so I can read them to you. They taught me what it was to lose your heart to someone entirely. There seems to be nothing wrong with loving the people around you as hard as you can, nothing wrong with wending your way through days and each hard-won footfall with a smile, nothing wrong with finding your heart and the way home over and over and over. So what does this have to do with my running victory? Nothing, and then again, everything. As Rose said, see what happens when you do ultra? Anything else is suddenly within your reach. Anything is doable from here on out.

I’m super excited to meet you, kid. Get cooked but good and then get on out here!! There is a boatload of people waiting to love you. As for me, I’m giving in to the residual exhaustion of my 31 miles and heading to bed with mad Max and dubious Ruby as snuggle buddies. But here's a little secret, darlin: you’re gonna love this life. It’s a good one. Night, little Starfish.

Love you tons,

Auntie Amy

October and a goodbye

I love October. I do. I've been waiting for it, for the rainswept days and those seconds when the wind blows your hair back just long enough for you to know you're really alive. I've been waiting for the challenges and the triumphs that this October in particular will bring, Portland Marathon with one of my best friends by my side and then Autumn Leaves with my sister and all of my dearest Portland friends by my side. So many months I am left waiting for the sunset or the downpour or the mist to rise, so many months I am left wanting for the joy that Oregon fall, true Oregon fall, brings me. And so you can imagine with great certainty that I have been relishing this moment, when I finally get to sit down and write out my October, spell the victories and memorize the hardships. It is a month of forgiveness. It is a month of beginnings and promises and the clean slate of each morning after a hard rainfall. This post was intended to be a celebration of October and a cataloging (doesn't that sound interesting?! :)) of each goal and achievement I have set forth for myself--and there are several. This is the time when I return to who I am. And that is joyful. But to be truthful, Chicks, I am a little heartsick tonight.

Many, if not all of you, know that before I worked with kids I was a professional stage manager. Now as you can imagine that never paid the bills, so alongside that work I did a variety of other things. But for many many years, that passion which I have funneled into my running, my writing, and my day to day work, was housed in theaters. Like so many people I found myself hitting dead ends in high school, especially during my junior and senior years, and so I began to volunteer at the one professional theater company in Eugene--the Willamette Repertory Theater--headed by two of the kindest and hardworking men I've ever had the opportunity and honor to work for, and the joy to work with. The Cap'n, artistic director, and the First Mate, the general direction. They are to this day two of my favorite people, and as I grow older I find myself wanting them to be proud of the work I'm doing. Anyway, when I first started working with them, the theater was housed in a converted garage behind a bakery. The floor was Jackson Pollock'ed, the costume shop in one corner and the finance department in another corner, the rehearsal hall and props room and bathroom and kitchen all sharing one big, frigid, concrete floored room. It was, in a word, heaven. They gave me a home, you see, gave me chances and responsibilities and knowledge and hugs and words and brutal lessons of the truths of working backstage. With them I assistant stage managed my first show, then stage managed my first show, and then my last. All in all I worked on about 15 productions for them in a space of about 4-5 years. Some of that was simply putting together programs, some of it was calling the show itself. All of it was hard and amazing.

The thing about working with this company was the speed with which productions came together. Pre-production work certainly started 2-3 months ahead, but rehearsals to tech week to opening night to closing matinee was a standard and solid 6 weeks. 6 weeks! 6 weeks to put together a play, create a family, negotiate working arrangements, find problems, fix problems, laugh and cry and tell a story. Both the Cap'n and First Mate had worked at Oregon Shakes, so in each production we had at least one talented, strong, experienced Equity actor, which made a difference to be sure--but never were they the lynch pin, no, it was always a team effort. Which made it all the sweeter when the shows opened to success and all the sadder when they closed. I have learned in the theater world that really you never say goodbye. In fact, what we say is always see you later. Because the beauty of it is, you will. Someday you will cross paths with these people again, sooner or later, and it will be just as wonderful (or sometimes not, let's be honest) working with them the second, fourth, or nineteenth time around as it was the first. This world requires a great deal of heart.

The first two shows I asm'ed for the Rep were small affairs--3 cast members each. A great start to my career, especially since the guys (yep, both casts were all men, as were the director and stage manager..sometimes I think they kept me around just to add a little balance to the room!) were sweet and professional and oh my goodness unbelievable. The second show was a drama and it will remain the best and most favorite show I ever worked on. Put it this way--we moved into a Union theater (all the stagehands and workers were part of the Stagehands Union, IATSE Local 675), and the stagehand we had running SR, a notoriously kind but cantankerous fellow, was spellbound. Every night, every show, I would catch him sitting across from me, head in his hands, watching the story unfold. The Cap'n said it best: when you can get the Union stagehand, every night, when you can get him to watch and engage and love the show, well then that's how you know that this time, you've done it right.

Anyway (I know, you're thinking good lord, will this end?!), the third show I did with them was huge: You Can't Take It With You. A cast of 15 and we had everything: pyrotechnics, drunk Russians, love scenes, xylophones, crazy servants, multiple arrests, and props galore. It was a blast! But it could easily get out of control, but for three people: the Cap'n, our fearless director, the Helmsman, our experienced stage manager, and Sir, our veteran actor playing the role of Grandpa. And oh, how he shone. I got to see him play Scrooge once too, just as phenomenal in that as he was in this. More than that he was a class act, a gentleman. No wardrobe fitting was too annoying, no prop too painful to work with, no line worth forgetting. I have had the pleasure of working with many actors and actresses who fit that description, by the way, and he was not the first or the last. But Sir stands out. I can't quite put my finger on why. But he had a heart that cracked his chest cavity right open and a mischievous joyful small boy air to him, lighting around the corners of his mouth. His persistent devotion to his craft was equaled by his patience for the people he was working with, and equaled by his joy in people in general. I think maybe one of the reasons I remember him so clearly is that he was one of the first actors I met who just loved unconditionally. He once told me I was beautiful; he once told me I was a good asm. Praise from on high, for Sir knows his way around a theater. I haven't seen him in 3 or 4 years but every once in a while he crosses my mind, as several of them do, my theater ghosts, reminding me of a life I loved so dearly. I do know that the last time I had the chance to see him, he hugged me hello and told me to come visit, squeezing my hand briefly before we had the chance to say see you later as befit our joined world.

Perhaps--or maybe for sure--you've seen where this is going: I got an email today from the Cap'n, who told me that Sir passed away a week or two ago. He was 70, fighting cancer, well lived and well loved. The Cap'n said he'd been down to Ashland for a celebration o f life: it was fun, if a bit sad. In this world we are good at saying so long to each other, that farewell we have down to a science. And we are good at celebrating a person's life instead of mourning their death. In between the musty fly rail ropes and the shabbily marked prop tables, between the vending machine dinners and endless tech rehearsals, between that one cue you really fucked up and the line that the actress just nailed so that you know that the people whose faces you can't even see are lined with tears, in between all that lies a certain whimsical, dare I say Puck-ish, absolute and perfect joy in this life and the people who make up each day.

Fall is here and with it a earth stained and quiet resolve to once again make each day something different than the one before it. With it comes the chance to say hello, send the email, write the letter, make the phone call; with fall comes forgiveness. I can't bring myself to say goodbye. So instead I'll just say this: see you later, old friend. You were one in a million and I am honored to this day to have worked with you, been by your side even for just a few moments, and to have gotten to hug you one more time. Remember, no whistling in a theater and don't say the name of the Scottish play, and for heaven's sake whatever you do, don't wish us good luck. Tell me break a leg and then I'll go safely. Break a leg, Sir. I'll see you after the next opening.

It's An Ultra, Not A 5K

SPOILER: NOT ABOUT RUNNING!!!

Shedding my skin hurts. Sometimes it takes a day or two, sometimes two or three weeks, and I never quite know where I’m going to end up. Say, raise your hand if you’ve ever known someone with a mental illness. Is everyone’s hand up? Whether you know it or not, your friend, coworker, neighbor, running buddy, teacher, cousin, barista, mail carrier—someone you know lives with a mental illness. It’s a has, not an is. He’s not obsessive-compulsive…he has it. She’s not schizophrenic…she has it. It’s not the most important of distinctions, but it makes a difference. When you feel like all you are is one big label, it’s amazing to remember that you are not the thing itself, but just a carrier.
If you are uncomfortable or upset at all by this topic, please please feel free to stop reading. I don’t want to force knowledge on anyone, and mental illness (I haven’t found a better term yet so if you have a suggestion I’m all ears) can be a touchy and painful topic. But I’m coming clean. One of my good friends reminded me once that although it’s scary as hell, telling 5 people means that you usually get at least 1 more on your team. This has been a long, hard 2 and a half weeks. There have been all nighters when I can’t seem to stop my mind from reeling and sometimes it seemed that my grasp on the world around was slipping. That’s a terrifying feeling, to look around and see that everything that was once familiar has become foreign. It scares me down to my bones thinking about the years ahead. And it makes me shudder to think of the people I could inadvertently bring this down on. The mornings are amazingly still, not peaceful but that calm in the eye of a storm, when I am unaware if I will be furious by 9am, in tears by 2. You know, someday I want to have a kid. While that is a ways off, I have to be considerate of that desire. And for a number of reasons, each more important than the last, right now the level of responsibility I feel that I have to keep myself even increases exponentially, daily, weekly, sometimes hourly. So I work to the bones trying to find the best ways to steady myself, relying on the meds as a safety net but not a fix all or a cure. It may be a chemical imbalance at its core but how I react to it is what makes me human. I run and I write, I breathe in and out, I get up everyday and go through the motions. Sometimes you have to fake it till you make it! My family and friends have been affected and that more than anything makes me sad. Makes me angry. It’s the old pattern, you see, where the ones who you love the most are the ones who inevitably end up hurting the most. Sometimes I cannot help but apologize, for nothing at all but for everything, for yesterday, and today, and tomorrow.
I have an amazing family. I have an amazing group of friends and coworkers who have formed a protective circle whenever I need one. There are 12 of them who I can call or email or text when there’s flare-up. That’s what we call it, a flare-up. We call them docs and talk-docs, swings, rough patches, taking care of yourself. We normalize it and joke about it; yup, it’s a we. They never look at me differently and they don’t seem to mind even when I call them at 2 in the morning. They don’t mind when I ask for an extra hug or show up for dinner or stand outside on a break and cry out of the sheer exhaustion of keeping my feet on the ground and my head up. They remind me to run for solace, eat even when I’m not hungry, and know to ask all the right questions. I don’t think I ever realized that I would get to this place, but tonight I look around up at the stars, and the clouds blowing in, and realize that once again I am home through no fault of my own. I realize that my hands were held and I didn’t feel when they let me go. The Warrior this last time reminded me that this is an ultra, not a 5k, and I am in it for the long haul. When the skin has been shed and the finish line crossed, raw and blistered, I get to return again to a better version of myself. And don’t we all do that, from time to time? She looked at me tonight and observed that you seem more like yourself again. The Worker noticed that I was smiling again. There you are. They don’t forget who I really am, even when I can’t remember, and I am flowingly fortunate to have them all.
So why am I writing this? Well, to be honest, I’m not entirely sure. There’s not much to be gained and a lot to lose. I’ve had friends walk away, scared or fed up, and I can’t blame them. Well. Maybe I can but I don’t, at least not anymore. I have all the tools I need and every time I hit a new rough patch I learn another way to even out, how to return to myself faster than the last time. At least that’s the hope and the goal. Like I said, I have the people and the tools and the safety nets. But I am lucky, and everyday I work with people who do not have those things. I watch so many of our clients self-medicate and leave their families in the wake of the spirals, the frustrations, the incontrollable inconsolable days, the nights when they too feel that they have left themselves behind. They live in a world that is next to normal but not quite, and I know that feeling. I can’t help but believe that they are indestructibly good. I can’t explain why, but I’m not ready to give up that faith just yet. So I guess I’m writing it for some of them, in a way. I’m not always good at looking at them with a tempered and compassionate eye, but I’m working on it. Maybe it’s an apology, maybe it’s asking for some patience. Maybe it’s just a quiet reminder to my own heart that some of these parents are not so different from myself. And if I can do it, so can they.
So thanks for reading. Thanks for your kindnesses, your patience, your shoulders and kicks in the rear. I can feel a wind fostering in the north. The rains are coming back and with them one more way to step beyond the bad days. There aren’t enough ways to tell you how I love the rain so much, and why the gray skies wrap a blanket around my shoulders. You know that smell right after a storm has passed, when the world smells sweet and earthy? Or the sound of a pounding deluge on the rood, when the thunder drowns out everything but the echoing thud of your heart? It is a promise of tomorrow. And I can’t help but dance along, hearing music of my own, profane and sacred and joyful. On the rainy days when I’m nowhere to be found, know that I am wrestling with the angels and the demons, and that once more I will emerge sweaty and breathless and stained with light.

Stealing Home

In 1947, Jackie Robinson changed the game of baseball with 80 feet and 7 seconds. He was 28 years old. When my dad told me the story of Jackie Robinson stealing home, his voice turned cobalt blue, rich, tinged sun yellow with excitement. Here was a player worth following! Here was a player who was a man first, and an adventurer second, and a baseball player third—he had heart. Which is really all you need, was the message he wanted us to hear, me and the Cheetah.

Picture us for a second, if you would: my brother was a skinny spit with a floptop of brown hair and unfortunate glasses (not of his own choosing to be sure); I was a round little smudge with a bowl cut to rival his and an aversion to girly clothes. Basically I wanted to be his body double, a tomboy to the max, which meant that by the time I was five I could name most of the Star Wars ships and the Vulcan peace sign was no big thing. There is a picture of the two of us in Starfleet uniforms, I am 6 or 7, he is 9 or 10, our fingers carefully arranged to mimic Spock. It is an accurate portrayal of the best moments of my childhood. We were not the most athletic of kids; sure we played tball and soccer, much later he ran track and I played rugby, but as kids we had other interests. Our parents didn’t care what we were passionate about, as long as we were passionate about something. And my father told us stories of afternoons he spent in Yankee Stadium, watching Mantle, DiMaggio, Maris, and the rest. Mixed in were stories of the towering fleet-footed Shoeless Joe and the Great Bambino and Mr. Robinson the lion-hearted man.

He changed the game because he did something that people said could never be done. The course of history changed, his history and the game and 1947 and the world around, changed because now something new was again possible. And with the achievement of another victory, another stride of greatness, came the promise that one day another player would achieve something even more remarkable. Change eases open the present day door, yes, but I think it does more than that; I think it pushes the boulders away from the entrance of the tunnel so we can see the mountaintops beyond. So that far off the beginning of shrouded years, imbued with silence, peek over the horizon. From where I lie tonight on my living room floor I can see through the screen to the stars overhead, and while I have not felt hopeful about much the past few weeks, I cannot help but sigh as a little grace sneaks into my hearts, much needed and familiar. From where I lie tonight on my floor, Max stretched out on the bench and Ruby stretched out beside, I am bolstered by last weekend.

The Inspiration did a 12 hour run last weekend up in Olympia. She and Doughnut and Boston were all there. I needed to get in a 20 and when she invited me up to join her, I jumped at the chance. I love running and walking with this woman. She is someone I aspire to be like, strong and determined, someone who can get back up after life deals those inevitable hard blows. We can go in silence, companionable, matching stride for stride, each keeping our legs and elbows and shoulders in time to the other. And we can chatter away, about plans and work and stories and men, and how much we are hurting at this very moment, and what we want to eat RIGHT NOW. There are very few people I can run or walk with for that amount of time and not feel an internal pressure to go quicker so that I don’t slow them down, but with the Inspiration I never feel that. And it was a privilege to speed walk 21.5 miles with her, a privilege to join her on this journey. It wasn’t her first of timed races and I can see why she likes them. There’s no expectation of a certain number of miles—if it takes you an hour a time to get around the 1.5 mile loop, then that’s how long it takes you. And if you can do an ultra in 5 hours like Boston (shout out, Speedy Gonzales!) then that’s how long it takes you. The Inspiration mentioned at one point that she was thrilled I came up; yet she did more for me than I did for her, the pleasure was mine. And no one was having their best day, so I didn’t exactly fill the role of peppy pacer terribly well, but the Inspiration didn’t seem to mind.

After 21.5 miles and massive blisters (my last long one in dying shoes), I tapped out and watched keep on going. Her stride was long, determined, powerful, and I began to understand that I was watching someone do a truly magnificent feat. Most people can’t imagine doing a 12 hour race. Most people are in awe when I tell them that I got to be a part of part of one. That because of her, I am planning my first 12 hour race. That because of her, something new is possible in my life. I have changed because of what I saw her do, and now I can see another goal waiting to be achieved. It’s not about speed or slow. It’s not about running or walking or crawling or skipping, it’s simply about heart. And of course there is nothing simple about having the heart to do a 12 hour race. For that matter, there’s nothing simple about having the heart to do a 5k. No matter the length, if it is a step beyond what you ever thought you’d do, then you are for a single avalanching moment stealing home. You are sliding in under the tag to the roar of a crowd who has witnessed the impossible, and is just now realizing it as you pop to your feet and shake the dust off your shoes. I learned in steps last weekend what my father aimed to teach us for years. Speed and strength and distance are not the tools necessary to complete a goal; no, they are the by-products of courage, determination, and a heart like Jackie’s. If you come believing you will start, and you will finish, then you will. Dead fucking last is greater than did not finish, which is of course greater than did not start.

Thank you, Inspiration, for letting me join you for a few laps last weekend. Any time you want a buddy for any amount of miles, you know where to find me. And thanks for introducing me to Jackie Robinson. I never thought I’d get to meet him, but watching you stride away I learned that you don’t have to be the first one in to change the world. You just have to keep going, put one foot in front of the other, and know that the finish line is yours. You just have to know that your sliding toes will touch home plate before the catcher can tag you out. I learned that from you. So once again, thank you. Have fun this weekend!

Celestial Navigation

I am not a runner. Not now, anyways.

I have been, in my days. In my short time here, I have been a stage manager and a nanny, a technician, a marathoner, and a student. I have been a girlfriend and a hand to hold, and a dodgeball sniper, a fighter, a thief and a wanderer, a poet, a social worker and I am still Tessa's "favorite Amy". I am fortunate, for I am and will remain a daughter, a sister, a friend, a granddaughter, and an aunt-to-be (I'm especially excited about that last one, by the way. Starfish!! Keep on growing!!).

But I am not a runner. I ran my last 1/2 marathon of the year in June. It was the last of four and after that I stopped. No taper, no maybes, it was a cold-turkey completely done and unexpected to boot. The Vancouver half was the third weekend in June and since then I haven't had a weekend where I was in town or not house-sitting. To give myself a little leeway, I'm still working full-time and then some (um, thank goodness for that), and there have been various weddings, trips, and fun to be had. It's been a good summer. Except for that my legs stopped missing the sidewalk and my lungs stopped missing the burn and my face stopped missing the drops of sweat, and my heart turned away from this part of my life that has brought me to who I am now. As Muddy would say, "my mojo just won't work on you". The spell of long distance had been broken. I spent a lot of time beating myself up. I sought out wonderful runner chicks who walked and ran with me, and in the Rockstar's case, put up a whole WALL of awesome motivation on her blog. It helped. It did. I made plans to do a 15 with the Fanatic, then an 18 with the Inspiration 1, finally a 20 with Snortbuddy. I am indebted to their support and hope to return the favor soon!

Still. I kept wondering when I would come home. As the Warrior has reminded me time and again, it is your heart that keeps you going when the feet want to give up, and my heart just wasn't in it. But then I remembered going up the St. John's Bridge with the Warrior during my first marathon, to be joined by the Cheetah, the Comeback, and the Newbie on the other side, and decided that it was worth it to try. Just one more time. I have fought harder battles than this and won with smiles. There were people I could go to, if I wanted--endless hordes of supporters and friends--but it was time to make it happen on my own. So for the first time ever, this week I bought a new pair of running shoes on my own (this might not seem like a big deal, but let's face it, every month gets ridiculously tight, so having saved up this money was a HUGE, GINORMOUS deal. Until now I have relied on the love of my family to keep me in shoes and they haven't failed me once. They are the best a girl could ever hope for. Amazing.). The pair I have been running in are 8 months old and have taken me about 350 miles. It was time. So I got myself to FitRight, got the new shoes--oh, they are beautiful--and came home on Saturday to a giant wall. The Inspiration was running in CLR over on the coast. Shit. I was super happy that she was doing it, don't get me wrong!! She's a force of nature and I know that any relay team is pure gold when she's with them. So this one had to be on my own.

I got up Sunday morning and fumbled around for a bit, running little errands, and doing everything I could to get out of it. But time came and I mapped out my loops. Put on the kicks, got the Camelbak, and just went for it. I forced myself into a rhythm--run 2 blocks, walk 1, repeat--and decided that instead of just running to my halfway mark, what I really wanted to see was the water. Needed to see the water. So I went 5 and change to halfway out on the St Johns Bridge. This bridge is something else, it's absolutely my favorite place to run, and as soon as I reached it I felt a shift. It's not something to be described, but you all know it. It's that moment when the tumbler clicks and the safe pops open, when the puzzle of the White Album cover (damn you, John Lennon!) is finally done, when you first tied your shoes by yourself all those years ago--it is the completion of a task that has awakened endless possibilities. It was hard. It was hot, I was heckled by three different cars of young men (dear boys, go run 18 and then come back to mock my pace thank you very much) and when I made it back home (11 and change in) to get the pup (I couldn't make her do 18 with me, I just couldn't, so I went for it Autumn Leaves style and challenged myself to pass the finish line and keep going for another lap), it took quite a lot of willpower to go back out. But you know, I did. The Runner had a lot to do with it, she was dancing on two paws and kept herding me towards the door, I couldn't deny her longings. By the end she was cursing me with every fiber of her dog heart (it is SO hard to be little and black and run in 75 degree weather! i am SO put upon you know) but we did it.

Finally. I started without a doubt I would finish. What power! It was hardly of my own accord, my Chicks were the wind at my back and when I put my face up to feel the sun I knew I wasn't doing this alone. 18.5 miles and I fell in love with running again.

What's the point of this post? A little pride, for sure--or a lot to be honest. This was big, maybe even bigger than my first marathon. A rejoicing in the miles won, in the miles regained. A thank you, again and again and again, to the women who bring me home every time to the pavement and the air and the steps, back to where I am supposed to be. And a gentle reminder: we all lose our mojo. It'll happen, from time to time. Not just in running; we all have those days or weeks or months when who we are is so far away from the person we want to be, 50 miles of terrain and a lifetime in the distance. And that's ok. It really is. Tell your friends--tell your parents--tell your kids: to be fallible is to be human. Humanity's inherent grace seems to lie in that ingrained ability we all have to pick ourselves up--dust ourselves off--and start all over again.

My grandfather's favorite saying was one he made up himself, living in a one room apartment in the Bronx at the height of Depression summer heat and pining for a girl he loved teaching at a summer camp in upstate New York: i am not lost. i am right here. So when the day comes that you find yourself a bit off your way, I urge you to stop. Take a beat, take a breath. Orient yourself by the stars and the sun, and you will find your way home again.

I did.

I am once again a runner.

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner

out here it's all cheatgrass
purple pitted sunset sweating
and swearing down the sidestreets
empty little alleyways
graveled arbors

out here it's amber and hellish
auspicious hours passing in reckless joy
wasting down the riverside and
flogged till each memory is gone
till there's nothing but eternities

out here there is a sadness, in these parts
feet torn to shreds and calves burning
shrinking trees flightless birds
the sky's magnitude and her devotions
outshouting all the rest

out here it's nothing but headlines
blisters bursting red
swallowed to drowning in desire for the finish
made with the joy/lost
in the rhythm

back to Wildwood the runner goes
if there are rabbits they are gone back into the underbrush
if there are squirrels they have fled
if there is faith it has ascended, hanging from the branches--
undercutting the air

out here she's unaware beyond the next
step each footfall tracing an outline
shadowed by dusk ripped through
with grace
the rest, is unimportant.

Helvetia!

The night before a race never fails to astound me. I put my bags together, then take it all out and put it back one more time, just to make sure I have everything. Walking down my stairs to pull one last thing out of my car, I feel my shoulders relax and fall back, my legs work their muscles just to be sure they are there. My mind clears and there is just the road in front of me.

I have a hard job. It is one I chose and fought for, and I make NO pretense that it is by any means the hardest job of the group. Beyond that, hard is something we all face. Everyone’s job is hard. Everyone has bad days. This week I cried 5 times. Once was because we are going to the union on my boss, once because the State still wants to cut my salary by 20% and we will be without a contract as of July 1st. Once was because a parent called me a bitch, once because a grandparent—the foster mom to her four month old granddaughter—thanked me for my hard work. And once was for a kid we lost. Sometimes I find myself brought to me knees without realizing I am there. Yet this is not something I want to walk away from. For all the fights and weights, the endless uphill, there is a great—an immense and joyous—amount of success, laughter, and love. Still I am humbled tonight, a little sore at heart, perhaps a little worse for the wear. Why am I telling you this? Not, as you may think, to complain—and I hope it doesn’t come off that way. Not to gain support. But so that you will understand my full weight when I say that tonight, on the eve of a race I have worked so hard to get to, when I say that tonight, the rest is unimportant.

So before I start, to my Chicks—with extra great love for the Loping Fanatic and the Doughnut Fiend, for the Warrior and her Buddy, for the Inspirations One and Two—thank you for tonight. Whether you know it or not, whether we have ever met in person, you are part of the reason that I can sit here tonight and forget my week. With your help I am inching towards tomorrow, towards the start line and the finish line, and while I am not fast, or graceful, I can do this. So thank you, from the bottom of my heart—and what’s more, from the soles of my feet!

It hurt. This one hurt, guys, like hell, more than any half has since my first. We started the morning with doughnuts and hugs, a buoying of spirits, a trundle to the start line. The DM, LF, and I stick together out of the gate and for the hours toe come. Honestly I don’t remember that much. I remember that the chafing started around mile 3 and that the mile markers came much faster then they usually do. We had great fun! We talked about chafing and sports bras and toenail losses and kids and jobs and changes ahead. We talked about Autumn Leaves and how we have no problem being the “runner version of crazy” versus any other kind of crazy. And wow, was it beautiful out there, with overhanging trees and horses, old houses and fields of flowers just waiting to bloom. It was a fantastic course with a crazy impressive amount of aid stations. Man. Did we have fun!!! We walked the uphills and ran the downs, airplaned and windmilled and on one memorable occasion, pranced like horses and loped like llamas. It was absolutely the most fun I’ve had during a half, ever ever ever. And holy sh*t, did it hurt. My blisters picked up steam about mile 6 and throbbed until the shoes came off at the end, on the insides of my heels, the big toes, the pads. I was allergic and wheezy so each breath burned. Uphill, downhill, the calves and quads and abs, they hurt. The Doughnut Maniac and the Loping Fanatic checked in with me periodically, at times pacing ahead, at times flocking each side, making sure I didn’t forget that I could do this. With them I made it to the gravel half mile, which hurt all of us. Damn gravel. I turned to the LF as we neared the road. “Ok, when you pass the DM, tell her to go ahead too.” She peered at me. “Really?” “Um, sure”. She grins, the joy I have come to treasure during our runs and says “nope. We have it all worked out.” We get to mile 11 and she takes off. The DM says “do you have headphones?” “Yup.” “Put em on. Stay by my shoulder, don’t stop, zone out. Follow my lead.” “Yup.” We put our headphones on and I pick up the walk to a slow shuffle, partly to stay at her shoulder and partly to relive the pressure off my blisters. “Want me to slow down?” “No, please don’t, I like this pace.” The sun gets hotter and we reach the overpass. Halfway to 12 and we push up the hill to find the smokin’ hot ODOT guys waiting to cheer us on. Back down the other side to the aid station and she reminds me to get what I need but just keep moving. So I do. On the other side of the aid station we pick up to a shuffle again and suddenly we are mile 12. “Here we go!” The last mile is by far the hardest. Holy crap. My calves cramp and my face flushes, and I have to walk. Yet there is no defeat. About .2 miles out I catch up to the Doughnut Maniac and she matches to the 13, then says “GO!” And I do, take off sprinting like the world is on fire and here it is, my finish. I stumble into the waiting arms of the Loping Fanatic. We take pictures of her, the DM, and me, we suck down water and grab smoothies and head up to find the LF’s mother in law with our bags and my sign and the burgers. Somewhere between collapsing on the lawn with my food and taking off the shoes to find bloody socks, between taking endless pictures with that Half Fanatic sign and my girls, between beginnings and endings, I remember that I finished. That we finished. Then I remember that more importantly, I started. It hurt. It was hilarious, and fun, and silly, and gorgeous. I had a fantastic time with my partners in lunacy. We started, and we finished, and in between we lived a thousand little lifetimes, and you know what? Today, nothing else matters.

Notes from the Pit Crew

Author’s note: this account is neither wholly fact or fiction; rather, it is a combination of the two inspired by an unbelievable day I was lucky enough to witness. I hope that the person whose feats and accounts I have utilized for my writings knows that this is not intended to be portrayed as her thoughts or feelings, but belong to the character based on her. I mean no disrespect by doing so, and if you would like me to remove this post, just say the word!

The last .2 miles, the Runner’s head is tilted to the side, her eyes slightly closed. She looks almost as if she is sleeping. 9 and ½ hours ago she started here with about 75 others, 50 of whom were doing the 20k. But not her, no, with her Buddy by her side and her backpack strapped on, full of vitamin water and snacks, she is a warrior. She has trained and sweated, cried, laughed, skipped her way to the end of two marathons before this one, and she knows she can do this. Her Buddy knows, and her Pit Crew knows, and her Snoots know. The air snaps with energy, crackles with potential: she is in league with giants. As she leaves, her husband yells out advice: “pace yourself! Only 49.9 kilometers to go!!” She laughs, turning her head back sideways to shoot him a glance. He is the only one who can make her laugh right now and she would not change him for the world.

The first 10k: up the path to where the Buddy waits by the old stone house, long said to be home to lingering spirits. The early morning floats with sweet fog and today is a day, it is a day to run. Up the hills and into the woods, past the stream where the herons live, stepping over banana slugs on a journey no less arduous than her own. She is strong, she knows. And she knows her legs beneath her and the ribs housing her lungs, her faith in the world around her, her heart. Her good, good heart. They are all strong.

Up the long and taxing hill to the first aid station and there’s 10k, 11k actually, gone. Her Crew is waiting with signs and gummy bears and smiles, they whip off her water pack and switch out the leaky bladder for one intact, they cheer her and will their energy to her. The Buddy takes a picture of two of them standing on a rock with a sign saying ‘I run so my goals get bigger (and not my belly)’. As she moves the aid station wobbles a bit, shifts and moans. She eats a potato with salt and smiles at the volunteers. Then it is back down the hills in the woods she loves so much, a place she didn’t know 5 years ago, a whole lifetime from the water and boats that ferried her to her joy.

10k further and she is making good time, each step a little more painful then the last but the Buddy is there next to her and she knows together they will not fail. This is a feat of monumental proportions, the next Everest in a long string of mountains she will summit successfully in her years. Passing the gate in Firelane one to stop by the second aid station, she pauses for a picture. If you look closely you can see resolve crinkling around her eyes and perhaps a quiet concern settling in her shoulders. There are weaknesses to face here, it is the way of the race and the heartbeat of true endurance; she cannot truly succeed until she gets out of her own way and she knows this, indeed she has told others this and they know she is right. Pit Crew 1 kisses her. Pit Crew 2 has saddled up to join for the next loop. Pit Crew 3 races to the car to grab an Endurance: her secret weapon.

On to the next 10k and this will prove the most challenging. The three of them face hills and pits, muddy slopes and one slip-n-slide that most of her fellow runners butt-sled down, not risking a pulled IT band or a rolled ankle. Here is where the tears come but the Buddy says ‘you can cry when it’s over’. She has to agree, gulping for air; she knows it is much harder to run and cry then simply to run. Pit Crew 2 keeps the silence at bay with stories and anecdotes, at one point worrying out loud that she is talking to much. But on the longest legs the silence can hurt more than the feet or calves or abdomen, leaving room for small doubts to creep in. She and the Buddy welcome the words. As they come back up the slope heading towards the aid station, she sees Pit Crew 1 & 3 up ahead. ‘Honey!’ She calls to Pit Crew 1. ‘Give Pit Crew 3 the keys and get your pants off. You’re coming with.’ He tosses the keys and leans on the car, stripping down to his running shorts and shirt. Pit Crew 3 is ready with the Endurance and a smile.

Snagging a snack, the three head down the next 10k leg. She is flanked on either side by the Buddy and the Hubby, the two she needs the most here, the two who will see her home. They have been here before but still it looks different. Is in the sting of another 10k behind her, heading towards 40 instead of 20? Is it the blades of grass that have snuck a little higher or the banana slug that has moved another 2 inches across the trail? The world changes minutely and in a thousand different moments there lingers a universe of possibility. It has only gotten colder since the start; in true stereotypical fashion, the weathermen were wrong beyond repair. No matter. Her feet are moving towards numb and she knows the progression. This is not, as they say, her first rodeo.

The path winds itself around her feet and roots rise, but her legions keep her upright. They face a hill up towards the last aid station that seems forever, a Sisyphean challenge in the middle of a race. Who knew? The Buddy has sent a message before: ‘she wants Endurance’ and it is waiting. Now a small boy stands wide eyed at the aid station with his father, eating endless M’n’Ms and gawking at the trio. Pit Crew 2 takes the number off the Hubby, and Pit Crew 3 pins it back on her. The Buddy tosses down a bite: ‘remember, now we turn and burn’. The trio heads out again to cheers and applause.

40k down and the time limit looms. Pit Crew 2 & 3 makes a run to the store: Coke, Sprite, cranberry juice; they then head back to the finish, devoted moths to a flame they do not fear. Back to Wildwood the three come. If there are chipmunks they are gone into the underbrush, if the rabbits lingered they have now fled. If there is faith it has descended, hanging from the trees and undercutting the air. Do they feel it? Perhaps. Perhaps not. No matter, it is there. Faith, as with many truths, does not require knowledge of presence. It is simply, enduringly, there. It is hard to tell what she is thinking near the end. Perhaps a song, perhaps a quote. ‘When you can’t run you crawl, and when you can’t do that no more, well when you can’t do that, you find someone to carry you.’ Today she has 1, 2, 3, 4, an endless string of people who have lined up for her and she knows she is lucky. More than that she is deserving, and perhaps exceeding all else, she is immortal.

2 ½ miles to go and the Buddy has wired ahead. Pit Crew 2 & 3 are on it and while they will not make the cutoff time, the race director loves nothing more than successes and he knows how it feels. So he holds the course and there is one more in a long line of believers. Here she does a wondrous thing: she wills her brain to sleep. No more wonderings or wishing, no more talk of maybes or dreams or finishes. Just her legs and her feet and her good heart carrying her down the path, full tilt ahead, it is now or nothing and she will finish strong.

The Buddy emerges first and runs into the arms of Pit Crew 2 &3. ‘She’s coming, she’s right behind.’ Whipping out her camera she catches the Hubby down making his way down the path. He’s hurting a bit but hasn’t let it show until now. The Runner approaches and for the last .2 miles, her head is tilted to the side. Her eyes are slightly closed. She looks almost as if she is sleeping. The cheers begin, from the Buddy and the Hubby, the Pit Crew and the race director, the Sweeper, a random group of teenagers sitting at a picnic table. She crosses the line and the race director says ‘and that is the official end of the race’. Her Crew tosses him smiles and quiet thanks, she follows suit. Someone thrusts a sign into her hands: ‘I just qualified for Marathon Maniacs’ and her face dissolves into tears a second before they take a picture. Relief, joy, pride, pain…they all war for 1st place now but she does not offer a ranking. One by one they hug her, tell her how proud they are, how amazing she is. They take pictures and offer her juice and Sprite, then she sinks on to a picnic bench. Pit Crew 2 departs with hugs. When the rest go to leave she walks the Buddy to her car. This is a feat no one does alone and they are bound now, for good, forever. In the car she calls the Momma and the Hubby looks at her with a strong pride, but beyond that love. They drop Pit Crew 3 at home and she hugs her hard.

Home. Ice bath, nachos, Hubby, dogs, Ibuprofen, Aleve, sleep.

For now the rest is unimportant. Tomorrow she will venture back towards her life before, close to the person she was a day ago but not quite. In such a journey it becomes apparent that the place you will come to is near the point of departure, but not exact. Finding a strength you weren’t entirely aware of lands you in a new soul, and she is reminded that she can indeed do anything in the world. Here there is power and pride, and a well earned exhaustion. She runs for love. She runs because once upon a time, someone told her she couldn’t, runs because she cannot stop, runs because she would never want to. And for now, the rest is unimportant.

Eugene Race Report

You must first know how unbelievably proud I am. Friday, the Feline and I traipse down I-5 to Eugene, to be joined Saturday by the Cheetah, the Warrior, the Fanatic, and the Rat. The Warrior whips up a carbo load meal and along with the Newbie we eat and laugh, make jokes and tease each other to our heart’s content. When the Comeback gets home he too scarfs some food, and the house settles into the night before, a place blissful and calm. Maybe. Somewhere. I lay out my shorts and shoes, courage, socks, running bra (oh, the support!!), the shirt, race bib and terror, stuff my Camelback full of Gu and butterflies. In each room my family is doing the same and I relish this hour. After Fanatic and I help the Newbie lay out her morning stuff, we say our goodnights and I trundle to bed. The Feline perches on the windowsill, craving just a glimpse of a stray raccoon or the passing deer.
5am. The house begins to whisper and shake; we move in orbit around each other, falling into the prerace routine. Oatmeal and instant waffles, string cheese, bananas, adrenaline pumping through the walls. 5:45 am. Snortbuddy shows up with treats for the Cheetah, the Warrior, the Fanatic, and me. As the sky lightens, Newbie and Comeback become increasingly tense and nervous until the ceilings begin to expand and the Fanatic decides to walk down early with the Comeback. The rest of us set out a few minutes later and in the crisp spring air we move through my old neighborhood: the Cheetah and I remembering where we rode our bikes, egged houses, learned how to fight and how to make peace.
6:30am. The race start is chaos. We attempt to meet up with the Chicks and manage to find some for a picture; Newbie and Comeback check our bags and we lose each other in the crowd. The Fanatic and I stick together and wiggle into our corral where we come across the newly minted Maniac. A kid sings the National Anthem, screechy and straining, and the crowd of 10,000 strong cheers. Here we grip hands and hearts, start our journey together, past Hayward Field and screaming crowds of those miraculous observers (seriously, who gets out of bed to cheer on total strangers at 6am? Damn, we love them). Fanatic and I quickly separate but that is one of my favorite parts of us being running buddies. We stick together, great; we split up, we will find each other at the end. Head up Agate to 24th and swing around the corner, past Harris Park and on to the street where I was born, my parents eschewing the hospital for the chance to let my brother hold me at 5 minutes of age. And on his birthday no less!! For years he told me he wanted a brother or a fire truck, and while I was red and screaming, the resemblance ended there. I am running on a river of memories; they carry me around the corner and onto Hilyard, heading south against the traffic. Walk one block, run two, and I am finding my rhythm.
As we cross 30th and swing onto the east side of Amazon Parkway I see the leaders passing; I strain to see Cheetah and Rat—there they are and I scream for them, knowing they will not hear me but cheering anyway. We get down to the bottom of the Parkway and head up the hill—this is what I call the “f*ck you, Eugene Marathon” part and this is only the little hill! Coming back up the Parkway people are cheering and clapping; I wave at volunteers and thank them, we could not be here if they were not. As I cross the 6.5 mark, oh my god, halfway already?! What the hell?!! The split is what I want to see 1:28 and here I know that not only will I finish but I may just finish strong. Around the corner onto 30th, the banking curve cutting my stride in half and forcing me to speed up. As the stumbles begin I hear the voice of one of our Sages: “running a long way hurts, honey”. We weave around the curves, echoing the path where I ran Indian pain drills with my soccer team every season, where the Cheetah sped in high school legs long and akimbo, finding the beginnings of our grace. I turn onto 19th and pass the monumental garishly purple high school where I first began to write; it is where I directed my first show and found the friends I still love so dearly today. The hill on 19th is a killer and halfway the quads begin to scream in protest; on the way down I realize my feet have finally gone numb. At the bottom, heading back on to Agate, we pass the bastards who have already finished; their saving grace the cheers and smiles they over. We come around the corner and pass a group yelling in joy, playing a song and baby baby baby ohh I hear through the pounding beat of Christian Kane in my headphones, and I flash on the visit I supervise, with the family singing that song to their baby and the memory makes me smile. There is a bright love there, well-intentioned and pure. It bounces under my heels and sliding along past Hayward I grin. So soon, so soon. We head under the railroad bridge and up past the apartments where I dropped a coworker off every night after working at the Relief Nursery; each turn here is a reminder of the places where I began, the only parts of myself that I am proud of. Then down the hill on to the riverbank, over the bridge with the Willamette rushing thick and green below; west is the ocean but first the turns we tubed down and the islands we waded to, daring the river to carry us away. Further on down and I begin to doubt, but soon I hear the voice of another Sage: “you can do a half in under three! I have!!” And I pick up my feet, just a little more than last time is all it will take and I do know I can. We slide past Autzen Stadium, phantom crowds roaring for a team no one saw coming; a volunteer at the aid station is a friend from high school and she yells with joy: “go, Amy, go!” As I head across the Knickerbocker Bridge the voices begin to float in on the wind and here comes the delirium, sunburned face and sweaty legs pushing me onwards. Here is the Newbie: I know I can do it! And the Comeback: I can’t wait! Here is the Fanatic: you have already gone further than you thought you could and the Warrior: oh tears…I am so proud of you and here is the Cheetah so many years ago: there is nothing that will stop you, little sister. Happy Birthday and it is a rebirth of sorts, shedding the skin along to way and finding a new self, whole and trembling, glowing in the sun. Now I am under the railroad again and up on to Agate; they are not cheering for me but the noise buoys me on and the music picks me up.
Turning on to Hayward Field I begin to cry; here is where legends ran and records broke, here is where we have seen Mutola and Slaney, Prefontaine and Slazar speed past and as the track springs under my feet I spot the clock and push my calves and abs just a little harder, sprinting with all I have: run your damn legs out no matter how many tears are pouring down your cheeks and this time it was all heart. The announcer yells my name and I spot the Fanatic over the fence; I cry harder and as the volunteer puts a medal around my neck she meets my eye. There is a nod and I lose it completely, going over for my hug and she says to me you did it. Really? Really. I have 2:59:48 and there it is, my 12 seconds of triumph, 2/3rds of the way to Fanatic-ing, all the way in to a new self.
Fanatic and I watch the rest of my family come across one by one: the Comeback kid first, strong and smiling and the Newbie next, pumping her fist: hey you guys!! This to the friends who said you can’t, you’re too old, you’ll hurt yourself this is her moment hey you guys!! Fuck you!! The Rat and then the Cheetah, slower than expected; he gets to us and I expect frustration only to find injury and pride; with a knee bum and hurting he still did 8:30 miles and if I could be like anyone it would be my big brother. Finally the Maniac, as Fanatic and I scream her on and meet her with hugs; then the Snortbuddy kicking it impressively to swing around and take pictures of Warrior and Mozzarella Sticks as they finish strong, 2/3rds of the way to Maniac-ing.
After lunch and naps, sitting around glazed and stunned, the Feline and I head north. Coming out of my valleyed home I remember how it felt to drive away two years ago, heading to a new world and a life I had only dreamed about. I recall the joy of today, tracing each childhood moment along the roads, offering all I had to repay this city for holding the memories too big or too heavy to carry along when I left. Is this my life? How did I ever get so lucky to have this family, the stubborn Stampers, today we never gave a inch and they are beautiful and messy and phenomenal; I am so proud to be a part of them. How did I ever get so lucky to have these friends, these Chicks, a flock of women so strong and unbelievable that to be a part of their fold assures me that in fact I can get up, whenever I fall. In the end it is not about the times or the PRs, the details or the big picture. It is the struggle itself, in a sport that is not a sport but a test of will; a sport where the greats go just as far as the unknowns. Each finish is as valuable, each heartbreak as devastating, each triumph as pure. Each life is worth being saved and that is why I fight. To give anything less than your very best is to sacrifice the gift (Steve Prefontaine)/Never never never never never never give up (Winston Churchill). Go with the knowledge that you, too, are incredible.

Vernonia Race Report

It is 5am. Sunday morning. I pull up to the Cheetah and the Warrior's house to see the dark of night still shining through and groan. Crap. We’re supposed to leave in 20 minutes. I go in and thud thud thud, 30 seconds later down the stairs comes my Squirmy girl, jumping and licking and squirming all over. I turn on the lamp and sit down with my tea and book. The Cheetah comes down in his race shirt and fleece pants. Hey buddy. Hey. You ready? He smiles at me, just a little. You bet. Squirm alternates between trying to convince me to let her sit on my lap and trying to convince her dad to feed her. Next comes the Bear, whimpering and whining the whole way down the stairs. She scrunches over to me and the Cheetah brings her some doggie painkillers. She's a special kind of drug-seeker, our Bear, but no one can say it's not earned. Finally the Warrior, hair in braids, all geared up and ready. We fumble around getting food. Finally the Cheetah goes to put the seats up in the car and I grab my bag, then the Warrior’s, then his. They make their coffee and we all kiss the dogs, and then head out into the world where the rain has started to gently fall. Today is a day, it is a day to run. Must gas up the car, then head east on 126. We joke and talk, tell work stories and dog stories, try to find good music, do not mention what is about to come. And after a pit stop which my brother is so kind to provide, we arrive at our final destination—Banks Junior and Senior High School, in Banks, OR. 6am.

The cafeteria is lit with volunteers. It is a small operation and so the race director is hauling boxes and helping to set up the tables. As we get our race bibs, more and more of the Running Chicks trickle in, until there are 7 of us and the Cheetah. We take pictures, potty breaks, pump each other up, sit silently and watch the sky lighten. 7am. We--minus the Cheetah, who is not doing the early start like the rest of us--board the school buses heading to Cedar Ridge in Vernonia for the early start. We claim the big bench seat in the back—“the cool kids” seat as my SnortBuddy puts in, and rumble and bounce our way over 40 minutes of hills. Cedar Ridge is a great camp and we use the frigid toilet, sit in the warm hall, and eat our prerace snacks. Then come pictures, our arms around each other, offering bits of our hearts to each other. The start is up the hill, it begins as a road race and for a while we will end up playing chicken with traffic. The starter goes through the rules and reminders, and as we all count down from 10, the Chicks huddle up for a high five, and we are off!!

What happens next, those miles, each burning step and dark moment, is indescribable. If you haven’t done it, you don’t know. I don’t mean that to be pompous or offensive, I sure thought I knew, but oh man, it’s a test of the will and the soul. You question why you chose this, what is going to come of it, decide on your next appointment with a psychologist because clearly something is wrong with you. Towards the end you begin to yell at yourself, vocally percuss your way through each step “ne-ver ne-ver ne-ver ne-ver ne-ver ne-ver give up”, occasionally have serious conversations with the sheep in the fields you are passing. At each aid station you feel a little foolish, clearly you are not cut out for this. But when you tell the volunteers that they are amazing, the answer you hear is unexpected: so are you. And in the slow torturous uphills, the rain trickling down your face, and the surges you take when you are passed by faster runners, those words keep you going. Good friends find you along the way, Fanatic runs with you for part of it or all of it, keeping you sane in seconds of pure glorious insanity, feeding you gummy bears, do you like the red ones? Yep! Good, we can be friends then. Mile 8 is when the lead runners start passing by, the first one says nothing, nor the second, but the third-fourth-fifth in a tight pack offer us praise, you're doing great, keep it up, good going! We cheer back and they swing out of sight. The Cheetah passes Fanatic and I around mile 11, he is all smiles and high fives. The final descent is a rough switchback; at the end you see the traffic cop who is holding up the stop sign giving everyone hive fighs and big smiles. Fanatic drops back. And you hit that flat running, run your goddamn heart out, finish strong no matter how many tears are rolling down your cheeks.

In the personal record you did—8 whole minutes from my last half!! 23 from my first half, oh so many months ago—you find a joy; in catching your brother as he comes across the marathon finish line, his first, and falls over, oh man 3:55 for reals?! you find a pride wild and screaming—in being part of the pack to run your sister into the stadium to finish her first marathon in 10 years, you find a family. It is indescribable. No words. Perhaps the best I will come up with are these, written on the inside cover of my first Non-Runner’s Marathon Trainer book and written in between each rib and on top of my toes: your feet will take you oh-so-far. Your heart will take you further. (the signature reads, all our love, the Cheetah and the Warrior.)

So here in the chilly hours and minutes of uncertainty, a place familiar and jumpy before each race, trying to get my butterflies into the perfect flying V formation, I reach for that knowledge and find it. To me there is no greater feat worth undertaking; if I can do this I can do anything and I can do this. If in no other part of my life am I sure, here I know that I will succeed before I ever begin.

Lessons

Got new kicks today!! Oh man so excited. And they're red and shiny too. I'm finally retiring THESE-->

because after 10 months and about...oh...500 miles, the seams are split and the heels are worn down and the laces are frayed and the insoles are coming apart...they're great shoes though, and I'll be using them for workouts and walks and bouncing around the office. (TOTALLY aware I'm getting all geeked out and sentimental about shoes, but wow have I gone so many miles in that pair. Farther than I ever thought I would.)

Well, today was my long run and last run in said pair of shoes. It was originally supposed to be 8, but seeing as I'd kicked out a solid 7 on Thursday, I decided to stretch a little further and go for 9 or 9 1/2. I'm digging this shorter training runs dealio, it's allowing for some wiggle room in my run distances and that's leading for better workouts. Yesterday was some good hard strength training and I could feel it today in my abs (oh dear sweet lord, people, ab work is going to be the death of me!). I got to the turn around point for 9 and decided to keep on trucking. Not as fast as Thursday, but solid nontheless.

The Runner seemed determined to run across my path as many times as she could, which led to several meetings of my feet and her hind paws, followed by several hurt and pathetic looks. Apparently she's forgotten how this works! We synced it up after a while and when I slowed my pace she took every opportunity to sniff and snuffle and look up at me reproachfully. Oh, how I love the Runner. She's such a little champ!! Of course once we got home, she ate 1 1/2 dinners and crawled up on the couch, where she barked at me to tuck her in under the quilt, where she's been snoozing ever since.

We did 10.3 today! So much fun, I have to admit. It was a real struggle off and on; I handicapped myself out the gate with some less than positive thoughts, but they were familiar and I knew how to fight them off. We hit the edge of the St. John's bridge and I marveled. Today was one of those days that makes me believe in a higher power. Or would, if I wasn't so very much my atheist grandfather's progeny. There was blue mist sitting over the west hills and the spires of St. John's bridge seemed to stretch farther than usual, scraping the sky. Sunny and cold and perfect; I love these days.

My SIL was very right about the strength training. I could feel it today, my sore abs and tired calves, but I'm getting faster and stronger. And 10.3 in 2 1/2 hours makes me very optimistic that by the time May rolls around, I'll be doing my 13.1 in under 3, which is all I want to do. Although I'm going to have to start doing some of the long ones without the Runner...sad day... but she's not allowed on the race course, so I'll have to be used to going along without her.

The lesson of the day was being overprepared. My last mile and a half was brutal. I hadn't eaten enough real food beforehand to do 10 and the GU's and jelly beans helped, but I was wavering by the end. When I stopped at the last crosswalk I just about fell over; I'm positive that 3 of the drivers stopped thought I was rather intoxicated. But hey, I was still upright! Annnnd I'm not gonna lie, if need be I'll crawl across the damn finish line. My favorite runner's shirt says if found down, drag across finish line. Well, that and in my dreams, I'm a Kenyan. We're crazy, but it comes with a side of a wicked sense of humor.

For the three of you who are still reading, I hope you're enjoying my traverses as much as I am. So many people have told me that they find nothing so boring as running; I have to respect that and believe me, I'm not going to talk anyone else into taking on those challenges. It's something you have to come to yourself, much like everything else in life. And there's something for everyone, you know? I can't ever see myself rock climbing or surfing. But I have to have serious respect for those who do.

My goal for this year is 15-20 miles a week. First week out and I did 22. Yes!!!

Daily miles: 10.3
Total mileage for the week: 22.7

what the what?!

so this evening i set out to do 4 miles. well, i set out to do 4 miles w the new Lunatic who is going to join us, but she couldn't make it. so i went home and grabbed the Runner, put on my new 3/4 running pants (thank you big fat man in the red suit--also Mom) and the running vest i picked up today (because you can't run when you've been hit by a car, folks!) and set out to do 6. well...mayyybe 6. more like 5. or 4 1/2. i figured anything more than 4 was good. after all, it's january. the sun was down and it was about 12 (ok, possibly 13) degrees out and let's face it, i haven't done more than 3 in a very long time. it would be slow. and it would be painful. i've been here before, this starting out place. every footfall is heavy, the clothes are uncomfortable, that right song never comes on. i fought through it the last few miles of the marathon. and i prepared to do so tonight.

i was right. the first few miles were ROUGH. everything i did was wrong! the shoes weren't tied right and the new vest kept creeping up; the Runner kept giving me the look (for an example, see below) and i'm pretty sure i cried there out of sheer frustration. but i did one thing right. i didn't stop. and somewhere around mile 2 1/2, it kicked in. what's it, you're asking? well. it's hard to explain. but see when the breath began to be more rhythmic and my brain realized that my legs wouldn't stop and just gave in, when the Runner started to pick it up and actually run along excitedly, instead of loping and sniffing and shooting me whatthehellamidoinghere looks, that's IT. suddenly i was going and there was no stopping this time. my feet plonked like they were playing a tune and each sidewalk crack seemed to bow and smooth underneath me. it felt like magic, you guys, magic born on sweat and tight lungs and struggle and finding that halfway point to turn around and know that i would indeed make it home on my own two feet. it felt faster than usual, and i pushed it just a little. didn't want to run out of steam--my 2 Gu's and my lack of hydration weren't exactly smart choices to being prepped for much more than 4, but i figured it wouldn't be much farther than that. still, i felt pretty good. even the Runner stopped sniffing long enough to trot out ahead of me and have some fun--put her tail up and stuck her head in the air and waggled her behind in that way she does when she's having a good time (yes, i'm aware that she is a dog and that i'm probably spending too much time with canines and not enough time with people but whatever. she doesn't judge!). we pulled it out down the last little hill, singing along and disturbing the neighbors and being total freaks.

you guys, i got home and we'd gone 7.1 miles. doing 12 1/2 minute miles the whole way. i'll be damned if that wasn't the fastest i've EVER gone. maybe it was the little engine that could psychology, or the freezing mist that began, or the Runner ahead who was suddenly VERY hungry and ready to be home-uh now Auntie come ONNNN-UH. whatever it was, i liked it. saturday was going to be 8. now i'm aiming for 10 and i'll be happy with 9.

again, i must say WHAT the WHAT?!

today's mileage: 7.1
total mileage: 12.4

postscript:

YEAH. it's like that -->

(worst part is, it's actually really really stinking cute and so i just want to run faster to make her happy.)

it's all in your head

dodgeball day!! always fun and a great shake up the week activity!

and now it's the night before a big interview and i'll make this brief (for once), but days off always present a challenge. my SIL seems to have a 6th sense as to ,when i'm needing a pep talk, and today was a good time for her reminders. i'm NOT starting from the beginning. and while the next two or three weeks will suck, i've done the 8s and the 10s and hell, the 15s and 20s. i know what to do in prep, how to power through, what i love the most about it. i'm serious about it...but that doesn't mean i take it seriously!! the miles are familiar, they are not comfortable but from tonight i can hear them singing to me.

this week i have been living for the end of the days, when the sky has come down and i can go run. it's been a wobbly start, low mileage and whatnot, but even from here, i know that this weekend i can do 8. next week my mileage goals are 5s and 6s and 7s, and then a solid 10 next weekend. it's a mental game, telling yourself that you can do it and then when you are in the desperate questioning miles, actually believing it. because once you get past the terrible first mile (or two), it's all the same. the work is mental, and that is so much harder than the physical! are the Runner and i ready?

well, tonight, i do believe we are.

(see? short!!)

miles for today: none
miles total: whatever they were yesterday
snort count (for you, BofF!): 19
dodgeball "kills": at least 7

oh my, what a day!

Big news in Lunatic's world: I've been published again! Big news in The Runner's world: I came home with my running shoes already on and then we DIDN'T. GO. ANYWHERE. Also, her mama's new roomba (nicknamed Pepe, thank you Bro) is fraying her little nerves. Poor Runner.

Today marked the start of my challenge-within-my-challenge (think of it as a Lunatic's version of A Midsummer Night's Dream...you know, a play within a play?). This one was brought about by my crafty SIL, who is a new proponent of strength training. She promises I will be a stronger, faster runner who has more fun with it by the end of my month. I am skeptical but as she gives good advice (and because I'm a product of my genetics and canNOT resist a challenge), I've decided to rise to it. Why not? Worst that can happen is that it doesn't help at all. Best that can happen...well, who knows? I may as well put everything I've got into it. Added to that, due to my schedule, one day a week will be run AND strength train day. So that was today! Happy Tuesday! My legs are sore, my abs are jello, and I'm officially exhausted. Cross train SUCCESS.

Thursday the Runner and I will add another buddy to our jog, a buddy of mine from work who wants to get into it. I'm not sure if s/he gets that when I say slow I mean oh my god there are dying sloths who move faster than that slow, and that when I say that this is a slippery slope to hooked I mean didja see the methheads outside work today? Yeah, like that. I think s/he will do just fine though, and I'm excited to have a pace partner!! The Runner will take a few times adjusting, but hey, after she learned that if she runs across my path I will inevitably go down and take her with me (concrete hurts, y'all), we got right into a good rhythm; I have no doubt that she'll find a way to rise to the challenge of having two Lunatics to herd instead of just one. I mean, it'll be tough. But she'll get it done.

On the horizon for tomorrow: DODGEBALL!

The trash needs taking out and oh man do I need to go find my sweats, but there's just one more thing I want to note about today, and believe me I'm noting it purely for my own reminder. In the midst of my (short but hard) run, I did .32 of a mile at an 8 minute mile pace. I'm guessing that .32 isn't very far for most of you. But for me, tonight, it's farther than I ran at an 8 minute yesterday, and it's far enough for now.

Mileage for the day: 1.67
Total mileage: 5.03

the beginning of the trouble

Lunatic

AND

The Runner

I'm the lunatic. She's the runner. Which is never so obvious as on these ohmygodit'ssofrackingearlyandreallyjesuschristicannotfeelmylegsanymorebecauseit'ssocold mornings. Have you ever tried running with a somewhat bored and definitely unimpressed border collie? I get the look at each stoplight: c'mon, Aunt Jo*, pick up the damn pace. She's not quite scornful, if for no other reason than I will be the one feeding her when we get home, fulfilling my role of "food lady #2".

But let's back up a bit, shall we? Above is me after my first ever marathon, almost exactly three months ago. If you had told me two years ago that I would ever try to do a marathon, much less finish it without, say, dying, I would have told you to stop drinking so much. And to maybe stop with the hard drugs, mmmkay? I'm what's affectionately known as a "fat girl runner". Not a derogatory term, mind you, just a descriptive one. So how did this all happen? Well, my SIL, and the Bro, and of course the Runner, started me out when I first moved in and now here I am, 600 miles and sweaty breathless amazement and 2 pairs of shoes and countless tubs of BodyGlide in, hooked. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. I'm a stage manager, a babysitter, a social worker, a dodgeball player--many things to many people--but what the hell? A runner? Uhhhh...

The Runner is a sinewy shiny black thing, a white tipped tail and all border collie herding--lab loving--crazy bad troublemaker of a dog. She was an import from Puerto Rico (seriously, her history so outstrips my own), adopted with about 9 other pups off the streets of Puerto Rico by a nun who shipped them all back here. Her first owner, a lovely man we call her "bio dad", adored her. His lady friend did not, and the Runner is lots of things but not a StarterDog. And once she caught wind of lady friend's...dislike...she did all sorts of terribly naughty things. I won't bore you. But it's our good luck, because she's now my SIL's sweet black shadow and my Bro's little girl and my Runner. From time to time her rotten beast stripes come out and she follows her sister, Big Bear, into household scrapes and garbage forays--but truth be told, they are two of the greatest dogs ever to exist on the planet.

My best friends think I'm nuts. Why would anyone run so much they lose toenails? Or break themselves (true story, says the SIL)? Or collapse from exhaustion? What could POSSIBLY be worth it? And once upon a time I would have agreed with them. Runners are crazy. We are CRAZY. You would have to be, to go 3.1 or 6.2 or 13.1 or 26.2 or dear god, even further (can anyone say ultra marathoner?) than that, and do it willingly, and joyfully. My first run was in the great looming hills outside our city and I cried the whole way. My first race was a 5k, 3.1 little ones, and yet by the end I'd never been more sure of my own two feet. It's a drug, this running business, and I'm hooked. There's no greater high than the endorphins, starting you out, getting you through the first mile/worst mile, the last 3 excruciating ones, and finally across the damned finish line (who the hell decided to put it so far away from the start, anyway?!). At the end comes a great surge of emotion, heady and intoxicating, and three days later when you finally come down, you realize that you did something big. That if you can make it every step of THAT CHALLENGE, hell, you can do anything. I'll be the first to say I'm not fast. Hah! The opposite of, in fact!! I'll never be fast and I'll never finish first. I'll never run a 6 minute mile and no one is ever going to look at me and say, "oh yeah. She's a runner. For sure." That's ok with me. And that's possibly my favorite part about running. It doesn't matter if you're Deena Castor or the slowest kid west of the Rockies. In the end, the distance you cover is the same.

So if you're at all intriguied, or you love running, or you've ever watched a marathon and thought, "what the f**k is wrong with these people?", or if you're really bored, follow along. The Runner and I are embarking on the next great challenge, a sub 3 1/2 marathon in the spring. I've finally recovered from my minor but sidelining marathon injury (subluxed cuboid bones suck, kids) and now we're starting again. It's gonna be fun! I have four months to lose some weight, pick up some speed and strength, and shed at least 15 minutes but hopefully more off my time. But if you follow along, be warned: you may just fall in love with this crazy sport. After all, I did.

Today's mileage: 3.36