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.