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.
