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.