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.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Friday, August 26, 2011
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.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
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!
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!
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
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.
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.
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