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
No comments:
Post a Comment