On our run today, my kid noticed an ache in her shoulder. Turns out it is from Wii sports. Specifically, bike racing. You have to pedal with your arms, around what appears to be a volcanic island. This was a Christmas gift for the kids. When I got it from the middle aged clerk at the video game store at the mall, I asked what sports were featured on this game called Wii Sports Resort? Massage? Hot tubs? He looked at me with a half grin, half grimace. I think he half hates his job, but I might just be projecting my worst fears about my son's future prospects on this guy who is just making an honest living. Anyway, I am a total spazz at Wii basketball, not too bad at archery, but I totally enjoy the bicycle race. They even have the rider experience bonking. When it happened to me during the game, my daughter said, "Hey, it is just like you in the Tour of the Unknown Coast." Kids are so cute.
Wait just a second while I recover from the *literally* just discovered information that the Tour of the Unknown Coast now has a 200 mile ride. Which makes me wonder, when is enough enough?
I am old and I know it. But I really still want to break 3 hours in the marathon just once before I die. My goal is to do it before age 45. At one point in life I really just wanted to finish a marathon. Now, truth be told, a sub 3 hour marathon is no big deal. Probably 20 women in my own small town could do that, and maybe 5 children as well. I do live in an exceptionally fit town, but still: Ouch. Anyway, running is a sport you mainly do against yourself, and I want to beat myself to a pulp before I start my inevitable decline. Or, I should say, before I finish my inevitable decline, as that cat is already out of the bag.
Mixed metaphors aside, I realized 12 things this Christmas:
1. One can only feel so much guilt for replacing a 30 year old television.
2. California is meteorologically challenged. Where is the snow??? And why are things in bloom in December???
3. My children really do not believe in Santa anymore.
4. I sort of wish they still did.
5. I may never, ever run a sub 5 minute mile.
6. Wii puts the "we" into family life.
7. I still miss my parents, may they rest in peace.
8. The Jogg'n Shoppe has had 2 windows broken by vandals this past month. Everyone should shop there and support our local running specialist! Get off the couch!!
9. My poodle, Miles, actually can run.
10. I am so psyched about #9.
11. Life is good.
12. My best gift to me is my health.
Run, and you shall thrive. You can never run enough.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Dark
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,
et lux perpetua luceat eis. (Grant them eternal rest, Lord,
and let perpetual light shine on them.)
-Mozart requiem, Introit
Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.
-Chinese proverb
Winter running, no matter the clime, makes sunshine a rare prize for the working stiff. I mean sunshine in the literal sense, no matter if it is raining. I mean sunshine as opposed to darkness. Night shift offers a chance to emerge from dark into light, but night shift involves the deep pain of a shifting circadian rhythm.
I am trying to figure out how to run in the dark. The woods beckon, and I have a candle of sorts, but just a few days ago a mountain lion was spotted on my trails. I actually was running at dusk that day, and kept having that slightly panicky feeling that something wasn't right, that same feeling that can come over you while sitting on a surfboard with your legs dangling into the shark-ridden waters. I try to tell myself that the mountain lions are always there, whether or not they are spotted. Why does being seen make them so much scarier? The thing about a mountain lion is they will not make any noise before they eat you up. They are experts at stealth. I miss my great big fierce border collie, who used to run for hours with me but now his joints can only handle an elderly trot for about 20 minutes. He made me feel safe in the dark.
Dogs and lions aside, I need to run in the dark, or I will most certainly turn into a big, fat, grouchy puddle of insanity. I leave my work in the evening: it is dark. I arise before work in the morning: it is dark. Darkness is sad and scary and it tempts a girl to carry pepper spray or to learn kick boxing.
Once I was running in the woods on a dark morning, dogless. Suddenly, about 20 minutes into my run, my headlamp failed. I stopped. I stood there with towering redwoods all around but completely invisible, because I am not a nocturnal animal. Humans are pathetic--we can practically kill ourselves walking to the bathroom at night in our familiar but dark bedrooms. But back to that one morning: I stood there, alone, in the dark. After a minute or two, outlines of trees and ferns and the path became visible. I looked up at the moon and the stars twinkling between the tree tops. The air was so crisp and the quiet so absolute. I felt very calm, and suddenly very alive.
Then I fixed my lamp, and ran on.
Today I ran into the sunset with my eldest child. We are avoiding the woods during prime hunting hours, so we chose the marsh. Due west the sun was a massive orange fireball. The ducks didn't seem to notice. Toward the end of our run, which we had agreed was to be low key, we found ourselves flying at a fairly crisp pace. Daughter turned to me and said, in a somewhat sassy tone, "I just would like to point out that you are the one running like a bat out of hell, not me."
I somehow never pictured one of my children including me in such a simile.
Kurt Vonnegut once said he dreaded the thought that the requiem proclamation of resting in eternal light might be true. Wouldn't it be better to rest in darkness? Who doesn't enjoy that moment of sleep, curled in bed, enveloped in darkness and silence, with the stars and moon a steady night light. Like the night on our honeymoon, camping in Maine in October, when we found our way to the rocky beach at midnight, and laid head to head all bundled in down coats and mittens, staring at the most spectacular night sky I have ever seen.
I think the headlamp is calling me. But it'll be at least a week before I can muster the courage to enter mountain lion central in the dark.
et lux perpetua luceat eis. (Grant them eternal rest, Lord,
and let perpetual light shine on them.)
-Mozart requiem, Introit
Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.
-Chinese proverb
Winter running, no matter the clime, makes sunshine a rare prize for the working stiff. I mean sunshine in the literal sense, no matter if it is raining. I mean sunshine as opposed to darkness. Night shift offers a chance to emerge from dark into light, but night shift involves the deep pain of a shifting circadian rhythm.
I am trying to figure out how to run in the dark. The woods beckon, and I have a candle of sorts, but just a few days ago a mountain lion was spotted on my trails. I actually was running at dusk that day, and kept having that slightly panicky feeling that something wasn't right, that same feeling that can come over you while sitting on a surfboard with your legs dangling into the shark-ridden waters. I try to tell myself that the mountain lions are always there, whether or not they are spotted. Why does being seen make them so much scarier? The thing about a mountain lion is they will not make any noise before they eat you up. They are experts at stealth. I miss my great big fierce border collie, who used to run for hours with me but now his joints can only handle an elderly trot for about 20 minutes. He made me feel safe in the dark.
Dogs and lions aside, I need to run in the dark, or I will most certainly turn into a big, fat, grouchy puddle of insanity. I leave my work in the evening: it is dark. I arise before work in the morning: it is dark. Darkness is sad and scary and it tempts a girl to carry pepper spray or to learn kick boxing.
Once I was running in the woods on a dark morning, dogless. Suddenly, about 20 minutes into my run, my headlamp failed. I stopped. I stood there with towering redwoods all around but completely invisible, because I am not a nocturnal animal. Humans are pathetic--we can practically kill ourselves walking to the bathroom at night in our familiar but dark bedrooms. But back to that one morning: I stood there, alone, in the dark. After a minute or two, outlines of trees and ferns and the path became visible. I looked up at the moon and the stars twinkling between the tree tops. The air was so crisp and the quiet so absolute. I felt very calm, and suddenly very alive.
Then I fixed my lamp, and ran on.
Today I ran into the sunset with my eldest child. We are avoiding the woods during prime hunting hours, so we chose the marsh. Due west the sun was a massive orange fireball. The ducks didn't seem to notice. Toward the end of our run, which we had agreed was to be low key, we found ourselves flying at a fairly crisp pace. Daughter turned to me and said, in a somewhat sassy tone, "I just would like to point out that you are the one running like a bat out of hell, not me."
I somehow never pictured one of my children including me in such a simile.
Kurt Vonnegut once said he dreaded the thought that the requiem proclamation of resting in eternal light might be true. Wouldn't it be better to rest in darkness? Who doesn't enjoy that moment of sleep, curled in bed, enveloped in darkness and silence, with the stars and moon a steady night light. Like the night on our honeymoon, camping in Maine in October, when we found our way to the rocky beach at midnight, and laid head to head all bundled in down coats and mittens, staring at the most spectacular night sky I have ever seen.
I think the headlamp is calling me. But it'll be at least a week before I can muster the courage to enter mountain lion central in the dark.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
In Common
If I run long enough, my brain can cease its banter, and this is the main reason I believe I prefer running what some may consider ridiculously long distances. Though these days, marathon training is common. To be running long you must be doing ultras. Preferably in a desert, on a mountain populated with dangerous wild animals, naked, or perhaps all three.
This past weekend I took some time off. Not just in the sense of "I am not scheduled to work but I plan to cram in road trips, constant emailing, and/or messed up fits of sleep in a desperate state of hurry up because work starts again soon." Nope, this was a slow weekend, like summer in Wisconsin when the locusts buzz and it is so hot out the candles melt. Not that it ever gets anything like hot here, but it was like that. Easy going. This felt essential after the image and odor of maggots and bed bugs, the despair of drug and alcohol-ruined bodies, the pressing in of grief, and disease too far gone. I am referring to work, not a bad hotel at which I recently stayed nor an overly dramatic TV show.
A run, like today, in the woods, can quiet my mind. My daughter helped as my partner. I listened to her voice, her stories of German class (cooking Kartoffeln) and culinary class (making pastry for apple pizza). Come to think of it, there is a lot of cooking going on at school. We ran without speaking much of the time. As with a good friend, we can talk. Or not.
Beethoven can also quiet my mind. It doesn't have to be Beethoven but he does come to mind as I have been playing him in recent days. It could be Bach, Poulenc, Chopin or that ancient book of Christmas Carols with lovely settings of traditional and lesser known European music of the season that I inherited from my parents. Even listening to Handel's Messiah, which I am allowed to do from Dec 1-31 only (an unwritten law in my house) quiets my mind.
Making soup ceases the brain banter as well. I got so empty in my thoughts the other day that I nearly chopped off my thumb. It took 24 hours before it stopped oozing. Thankfully I noticed, and for a moment I just stared with mindful interest at the chunk of that useful digit so silently and painlessly missing. I may be exaggerating a little, but it will definitely leave a little scar to remind me. For the record, I did not contaminate the soup, and the soup got rave reviews. And I was so calm about the whole thing that my kid sitting across from me studying when it happened never even noticed. Though the fact is you could be standing there on fire and it could go unnoticed by your children. Love them.
A quiet mind. This is what long runs, Beethoven and making soup have in common.
This past weekend I took some time off. Not just in the sense of "I am not scheduled to work but I plan to cram in road trips, constant emailing, and/or messed up fits of sleep in a desperate state of hurry up because work starts again soon." Nope, this was a slow weekend, like summer in Wisconsin when the locusts buzz and it is so hot out the candles melt. Not that it ever gets anything like hot here, but it was like that. Easy going. This felt essential after the image and odor of maggots and bed bugs, the despair of drug and alcohol-ruined bodies, the pressing in of grief, and disease too far gone. I am referring to work, not a bad hotel at which I recently stayed nor an overly dramatic TV show.
A run, like today, in the woods, can quiet my mind. My daughter helped as my partner. I listened to her voice, her stories of German class (cooking Kartoffeln) and culinary class (making pastry for apple pizza). Come to think of it, there is a lot of cooking going on at school. We ran without speaking much of the time. As with a good friend, we can talk. Or not.
Beethoven can also quiet my mind. It doesn't have to be Beethoven but he does come to mind as I have been playing him in recent days. It could be Bach, Poulenc, Chopin or that ancient book of Christmas Carols with lovely settings of traditional and lesser known European music of the season that I inherited from my parents. Even listening to Handel's Messiah, which I am allowed to do from Dec 1-31 only (an unwritten law in my house) quiets my mind.
Making soup ceases the brain banter as well. I got so empty in my thoughts the other day that I nearly chopped off my thumb. It took 24 hours before it stopped oozing. Thankfully I noticed, and for a moment I just stared with mindful interest at the chunk of that useful digit so silently and painlessly missing. I may be exaggerating a little, but it will definitely leave a little scar to remind me. For the record, I did not contaminate the soup, and the soup got rave reviews. And I was so calm about the whole thing that my kid sitting across from me studying when it happened never even noticed. Though the fact is you could be standing there on fire and it could go unnoticed by your children. Love them.
A quiet mind. This is what long runs, Beethoven and making soup have in common.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Moving On, Or Not
"You have to forget your last marathon before you try another. Your mind can't know what's coming."
-Frank Shorter
I can't seem to let this go. The moment I finished New York I told myself "never again." Which is really sensible. Out of the 4 marathons I have now run, 2 were excruciatingly heart breaking. It is like someone who has a knack for finding bad love or tainted sushi. You would think it would only take once to cure you. This particular disease has a poor prognosis, though, evidenced by the fact that I signed up for another blessed marathon.
Home is nice, and I do feel content with our decision to stay. But the realities of day to day existence do seem to be eager to declare themselves since we decided not to move on. Currently, night shift has a few things to say, like "I really couldn't care less about your headache and nausea. Here are 5 admissions." Actually, the ER doctor said the last part and I just felt sorry for myself and thus injected the cold indifference, which is how I picture Night Shift to be if animate. Cold and indifferent.
On nights, even when working with your own ailments, your self-pity dissolves fairly quickly as you witness the much-worse suffering of those you are treating. This happens in marathons too, actually. Someone is always suffering more or battling a greater problem (lack of limbs, blindness, extreme age) (I mean I think I even saw some 43 year olds out there on the course). So with night shifts and marathons, whining is usually abruptly replaced with chagrin.
Today I ran in the rain in the redwood forest. Home. It is padded with redwood droppings right now, which is like running on pillows. The post-marathon period allows for practicing mindful running. Just allow the body to heal and while doing so, notice the smell of redwoods in the rain, dodge the mud and banana slugs, and plot your next race. Hmmm, I do not suppose plotting the future is very mindful. I am an imperfect meditator at best, and an obsessive future-planner at worst.
As I move on, I find myself simultaneously settling more deeply into the patterns that sustain me. As I move on, I am finding clarity of purpose. Love, imperfection, doctoring, piano, and awareness of what is here, now. And what is coming on May 6, 2012.
-Frank Shorter
I can't seem to let this go. The moment I finished New York I told myself "never again." Which is really sensible. Out of the 4 marathons I have now run, 2 were excruciatingly heart breaking. It is like someone who has a knack for finding bad love or tainted sushi. You would think it would only take once to cure you. This particular disease has a poor prognosis, though, evidenced by the fact that I signed up for another blessed marathon.
Home is nice, and I do feel content with our decision to stay. But the realities of day to day existence do seem to be eager to declare themselves since we decided not to move on. Currently, night shift has a few things to say, like "I really couldn't care less about your headache and nausea. Here are 5 admissions." Actually, the ER doctor said the last part and I just felt sorry for myself and thus injected the cold indifference, which is how I picture Night Shift to be if animate. Cold and indifferent.
On nights, even when working with your own ailments, your self-pity dissolves fairly quickly as you witness the much-worse suffering of those you are treating. This happens in marathons too, actually. Someone is always suffering more or battling a greater problem (lack of limbs, blindness, extreme age) (I mean I think I even saw some 43 year olds out there on the course). So with night shifts and marathons, whining is usually abruptly replaced with chagrin.
Today I ran in the rain in the redwood forest. Home. It is padded with redwood droppings right now, which is like running on pillows. The post-marathon period allows for practicing mindful running. Just allow the body to heal and while doing so, notice the smell of redwoods in the rain, dodge the mud and banana slugs, and plot your next race. Hmmm, I do not suppose plotting the future is very mindful. I am an imperfect meditator at best, and an obsessive future-planner at worst.
As I move on, I find myself simultaneously settling more deeply into the patterns that sustain me. As I move on, I am finding clarity of purpose. Love, imperfection, doctoring, piano, and awareness of what is here, now. And what is coming on May 6, 2012.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Smallness
I have felt particularly diminished in recent weeks. If I were a chord, I'd be a diminished 7th, with a certain ache and sadness. Maybe kind of Gershwinesque, which is appropriate as I sit here in New York City. Obviously, one can't help but feel small in NY. Though quaint compared to some of the cities we visited in China, this city is still big by my standards. Big in every way.
It is especially big when you are running all over it, from borough to borough then back to the borough you were in before, then to a different borough and finally landing in Central Park which is so endless at that point in a marathon that you feel like those kids who got shrunk accidentally by their Dad in that one movie, where a foot becomes a mile and a mile becomes something akin to what Don Giovanni experienced at the end of the opera we attended tonight. Which, to be exact, is the mouth of hell. That guy was unapologetic to the end, and I don't believe he ever felt small.
I feel small, not really just because NY is so big and the crush of humanity so absolute. I actually enjoy the crowds and the constant chatter and the odd shops and the staggeringly normal diversity that defines this city perhaps more than any other.
I had a heartbreaking, disappointing, physically impossible marathon. Cruised well for 20 miles, then my legs cramped without mercy and there was nothing that could've let me run faster than a tortoise on Ativan for the rest of the race. Just like that, over. Meticulous training, best shape of my life, all for the worst marathon. The marathon is big. I am small. Best laid plans, blah blah blah.
I turned away from a glamorous job offer this week as well. My practical Mom side won the battle. Glamorous job offers are big. I am small.
In the midst of my pity party (now would be the time to put that violin back in your pocket), I keep finding some kernels of beauty and goodness. That opera, for instance. The gaggle of lovely teenagers on the 2 Train to Brooklyn at midnight. The golden friends with whom I've shared food and drink in the last several days. The Statue of Liberty at 5:45 am, torch lit, viewed from the ferry. The gorgeous Austrian men I drafted for the first 12 miles of the marathon, who (upon noticing the young woman in front of us with a prosthetic leg running in a particularly congested area) without a word to each other joined hands and formed a shield around the young Vet of one of our recent and ongoing wars until we came to a less hectic part of the marathon route. Precious time alone with my husband.
I believe true enlightenment requires a complete letting go of the self. Smallness is just the starting point on the path to nothingness. And the nothingness we dare not seek may hold everything precious in the Universe.
Still, glamour is nice. And I deserved a 3:20 marathon. Take that, stupid Universe.
It is especially big when you are running all over it, from borough to borough then back to the borough you were in before, then to a different borough and finally landing in Central Park which is so endless at that point in a marathon that you feel like those kids who got shrunk accidentally by their Dad in that one movie, where a foot becomes a mile and a mile becomes something akin to what Don Giovanni experienced at the end of the opera we attended tonight. Which, to be exact, is the mouth of hell. That guy was unapologetic to the end, and I don't believe he ever felt small.
I feel small, not really just because NY is so big and the crush of humanity so absolute. I actually enjoy the crowds and the constant chatter and the odd shops and the staggeringly normal diversity that defines this city perhaps more than any other.
I had a heartbreaking, disappointing, physically impossible marathon. Cruised well for 20 miles, then my legs cramped without mercy and there was nothing that could've let me run faster than a tortoise on Ativan for the rest of the race. Just like that, over. Meticulous training, best shape of my life, all for the worst marathon. The marathon is big. I am small. Best laid plans, blah blah blah.
I turned away from a glamorous job offer this week as well. My practical Mom side won the battle. Glamorous job offers are big. I am small.
In the midst of my pity party (now would be the time to put that violin back in your pocket), I keep finding some kernels of beauty and goodness. That opera, for instance. The gaggle of lovely teenagers on the 2 Train to Brooklyn at midnight. The golden friends with whom I've shared food and drink in the last several days. The Statue of Liberty at 5:45 am, torch lit, viewed from the ferry. The gorgeous Austrian men I drafted for the first 12 miles of the marathon, who (upon noticing the young woman in front of us with a prosthetic leg running in a particularly congested area) without a word to each other joined hands and formed a shield around the young Vet of one of our recent and ongoing wars until we came to a less hectic part of the marathon route. Precious time alone with my husband.
I believe true enlightenment requires a complete letting go of the self. Smallness is just the starting point on the path to nothingness. And the nothingness we dare not seek may hold everything precious in the Universe.
Still, glamour is nice. And I deserved a 3:20 marathon. Take that, stupid Universe.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Leap of Faith
Running into the Fog, October 23, 2011
I stepped out of my house this morning for a long run, as has become the Sunday morning custom. However, now I am in the taper, so long is not so long. 12 miles today. I put on my sunglasses, and hit the road. I live on a hill, and as I descended, I found myself in a fog. Literal fog, that is. It was really socked in. A foggy day seemed a good reason to head for the Marsh, where the only traffic is bird watchers and the watched birds. It is eerie to run with limited visibility, not unlike the times I have skied in a snowstorm where the snow whites out everything more than 3 feet in front of your face. Once at Tahoe I followed a ski patrol down the hill, unable to tell whether there were boulders or 300 foot drop-offs ahead of me. It was a leap of faith.
The taper is a leap of faith. You train and build your mileage and do your speed workouts and get jazzed about topping 50 miles per week (which is less than half of what those elite marathoners do, but for mere mortals, not bad). Then one day you look at your plan, and the mileage is puny! There are days off! How can this be? The mind starts playing games: am I ready? Should I do just one more big long run? What if all of my hard work is lost in the next 3 weeks?
I should know better. In music, if you are still developing your chops in the 3 weeks prior to performance, you are probably in deep trouble. To perform well, you need time for things to percolate. You need to be refreshed. You need to feel that strong desire to push yourself again. The taper is the calm before the proverbial storm, the pause before the cadenza, the polish on the turn of a phrase. When I had time to do actual recitals, I would take long walks in the woods and play the whole thing over in my head as I walked. I probably looked pretty strange, with a vague and foggy look on my face. Though probably no stranger than when I start dancing and singing to "Love Shack" while running 20 miles on Old Arcata Road.
The other day, I did hill repeats. It was an abbreviated version of my prior hill repeats, because I am in the taper. I ran hill repeats, distracted somewhat by the worries of my life, and considering other leaps of faith that may come my way soon which make the taper seem like child's play. Make no mistake though, the taper is scary. So many miles to run in New York, and today's 12 mile run is the longest I will do between now and the big day. Usually when I run hill repeats, I need some furious rock and roll. But this time my mind was so loud, I found myself turning to something altogether different, something I have not yet selected on my iPod in all these months of training. Something to quiet a distracted mind running up hills amongst the Redwoods while in the taper.
The taper is a letting go. The Redwoods are a chapel. That's all.
The taper is a leap of faith. You train and build your mileage and do your speed workouts and get jazzed about topping 50 miles per week (which is less than half of what those elite marathoners do, but for mere mortals, not bad). Then one day you look at your plan, and the mileage is puny! There are days off! How can this be? The mind starts playing games: am I ready? Should I do just one more big long run? What if all of my hard work is lost in the next 3 weeks?
I should know better. In music, if you are still developing your chops in the 3 weeks prior to performance, you are probably in deep trouble. To perform well, you need time for things to percolate. You need to be refreshed. You need to feel that strong desire to push yourself again. The taper is the calm before the proverbial storm, the pause before the cadenza, the polish on the turn of a phrase. When I had time to do actual recitals, I would take long walks in the woods and play the whole thing over in my head as I walked. I probably looked pretty strange, with a vague and foggy look on my face. Though probably no stranger than when I start dancing and singing to "Love Shack" while running 20 miles on Old Arcata Road.
The other day, I did hill repeats. It was an abbreviated version of my prior hill repeats, because I am in the taper. I ran hill repeats, distracted somewhat by the worries of my life, and considering other leaps of faith that may come my way soon which make the taper seem like child's play. Make no mistake though, the taper is scary. So many miles to run in New York, and today's 12 mile run is the longest I will do between now and the big day. Usually when I run hill repeats, I need some furious rock and roll. But this time my mind was so loud, I found myself turning to something altogether different, something I have not yet selected on my iPod in all these months of training. Something to quiet a distracted mind running up hills amongst the Redwoods while in the taper.
The taper is a letting go. The Redwoods are a chapel. That's all.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Community
This is my last big week of training before the taper. It has me thinking about what it takes to prepare for a marathon, which is really quite a solitary event. Even alongside the other 44,000 runners in the streets of New York, your pain and inner dialogue is your own. Sort of.
I noticed last time I ran NY that the spectators carry you along. In fact, if you find yourself running faster than planned, you can blame the spectators for sure. I noticed last time I ran NY several runners who were being guided or held up, in a literal sense, by others. One was an elderly Japanese woman who was blind, and guided by someone at each arm. One was a young vet with a leg missing, who fell and immediately was swept back onto his foot by surrounding runners. Then there were the bands, the Firemen, the gospel choir, the high-fiving children. All of this makes the struggle less, the joy more.
There are moments of eerie quiet. Six moments, to be exact: the 5 bridges and the Hasidic neighborhood. Though there is a certain community in these moments as well. On the bridges, you suddenly can hear the breathing and footsteps of your fellow runners. You recall that you are doing something hard, and the people on the bridge with you totally get it. And in the quiet neighborhood in Brooklyn, children travel in stealthy packs, usually an older girl pushing a carriage and with several younger kids in tow. They don't offer high fives, but they are clearly enjoying the spectacle of the marathon.
This past Sunday I had a party for Livestrong at my home. My oldest daughter and I cooked and baked a ton of food. We hung decorations and displayed the work of four amazing artists who donated for a silent auction:
Amy
Iris
Joan
Lorraine
It was a successful fund raiser. But even more than that, it was for me a chance to be enveloped by a warm and inspiring community. There was a "courage altar" for those who live with cancer and those whom we have lost. And there was a chocolate fondue fountain in which strawberries and other delights were dipped. Chocolate fountains are sublime. In a gaudy and decadent sort of way.
I run around my sleepy town, often with only the cows and pelicans and seals and banana slugs to commune with. But actually, hardly a run goes by without someone I know honking and waving. On one long run I got a big honking from a car I didn't recognize. I was almost disappointed to hear from a good friend later that it was them, as I had it in my head that someone was actually complimenting my derriere. I do believe the days of being honked at for such things are over. Sigh.
And high school, that dreadfully plastic community we all must endure, keeps sneaking back in my life. Like the run last weekend with my daughters team, which was an adventure of trails, beach, rock climbing (including climbing a waterfall) and at one point running up about 150 steps to a light house. The teenagers either didn't notice me or treated me with decent enough respect. It was a bit humbling when my kid asked me if I wanted a hand down from one of the rocks.
And high school, from which I actually never graduated, by the way, but that is a different story, comes back to me with my inspirations for this race: M and E. That does not mean "me" but rather my 2 friends from high school (and even earlier), who will also be running this race in NY. It will be our 2nd marathon together, and I think we are starting a tradition. A community of three, and a great resource for these past several months of training. Though we live quite far from each other, I have depended upon their advice and commiseration, and a few talks off the ledge as well.
This is rather a long winded way to say the cliche is true: It takes a community to run a marathon.
I noticed last time I ran NY that the spectators carry you along. In fact, if you find yourself running faster than planned, you can blame the spectators for sure. I noticed last time I ran NY several runners who were being guided or held up, in a literal sense, by others. One was an elderly Japanese woman who was blind, and guided by someone at each arm. One was a young vet with a leg missing, who fell and immediately was swept back onto his foot by surrounding runners. Then there were the bands, the Firemen, the gospel choir, the high-fiving children. All of this makes the struggle less, the joy more.
There are moments of eerie quiet. Six moments, to be exact: the 5 bridges and the Hasidic neighborhood. Though there is a certain community in these moments as well. On the bridges, you suddenly can hear the breathing and footsteps of your fellow runners. You recall that you are doing something hard, and the people on the bridge with you totally get it. And in the quiet neighborhood in Brooklyn, children travel in stealthy packs, usually an older girl pushing a carriage and with several younger kids in tow. They don't offer high fives, but they are clearly enjoying the spectacle of the marathon.
This past Sunday I had a party for Livestrong at my home. My oldest daughter and I cooked and baked a ton of food. We hung decorations and displayed the work of four amazing artists who donated for a silent auction:
Amy
Iris
Joan
Lorraine
It was a successful fund raiser. But even more than that, it was for me a chance to be enveloped by a warm and inspiring community. There was a "courage altar" for those who live with cancer and those whom we have lost. And there was a chocolate fondue fountain in which strawberries and other delights were dipped. Chocolate fountains are sublime. In a gaudy and decadent sort of way.
I run around my sleepy town, often with only the cows and pelicans and seals and banana slugs to commune with. But actually, hardly a run goes by without someone I know honking and waving. On one long run I got a big honking from a car I didn't recognize. I was almost disappointed to hear from a good friend later that it was them, as I had it in my head that someone was actually complimenting my derriere. I do believe the days of being honked at for such things are over. Sigh.
And high school, that dreadfully plastic community we all must endure, keeps sneaking back in my life. Like the run last weekend with my daughters team, which was an adventure of trails, beach, rock climbing (including climbing a waterfall) and at one point running up about 150 steps to a light house. The teenagers either didn't notice me or treated me with decent enough respect. It was a bit humbling when my kid asked me if I wanted a hand down from one of the rocks.
And high school, from which I actually never graduated, by the way, but that is a different story, comes back to me with my inspirations for this race: M and E. That does not mean "me" but rather my 2 friends from high school (and even earlier), who will also be running this race in NY. It will be our 2nd marathon together, and I think we are starting a tradition. A community of three, and a great resource for these past several months of training. Though we live quite far from each other, I have depended upon their advice and commiseration, and a few talks off the ledge as well.
This is rather a long winded way to say the cliche is true: It takes a community to run a marathon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)