Happy in the Chase

Is There a Santa Claus?

2011-12-16T17:39:00.001-05:00

*Written for Robious Corridor, December 2011
Note: The Original Editorial, written in appearing in the September 21, 1897 edition of The (New York) Sun appears in Normal font. The updated additions are in italics.

DearRobious Corridor:

I am 8 years old.
Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
Papa says, 'If you see it in Robious Corridor it's so.'
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

VIRGINIA O’Handmeacookie

115 West Salisbury Road.

VIRGINIA,

First, its not polite to refer to your friends as “little”;they are ‘vertically challenged’. And yes, your ‘little friends’ arewrong. Totally, utterly wrong. Like WICKED wrong. They have been affected by the skepticismof a skeptical age. Or by the fact thatthey’ve never had to do laundry - theirs or anyone else’s. They do not believe except what they see. Which is Nintendo, Wii Dance Party, LadyGaga and texts on their mobile phone. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by theirlittle minds or posted on Facebook.All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little, scratch that, ‘vertically challenged’.You know why I know this? One Sentence: DANCING WITH THE STARS. In this great universe of ours man is a mereinsect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world abouthim, and yet there is a show that displaysthis intellect and insect-like movement against the canopy of music and>boom< it’s entertainment and tops the Neilson ratings…As measured bythe intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge, we can only reply “SUPERSIZE IT”.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love andgenerosity and devotion exist, andfrankly I know it because I have to pick up Santa’s socks and dirty Santa suitafter his 24 hour UPS run around the Earth. Why he insists on travelling through chimneys and getting soot groundinto his suit at the sub-atomic level is beyond me. The “North Pole Dry Cleaners” is pretty fedup too: how many “we tried as hard as we could to get the stain out but alas”notes do they have to include before Jolly Old Saint Nick realizes that redvelvet and soot DO NOT MIX? Anyway backto generosity and devotion… you know that they abound and give to your lifeits highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world ifthere were no Santa Claus. There wouldalso be no ‘Atkins Diet’. Why? The man CHOWS DOWN on cookies, milk, and hotchocolate for 24 hours – ACROSS THE GLOBE! – It’s a veritable high fructosecorn syrup orgy. When he gets back tothe North Pole, his glycemic index is THROUGH. THE. GINGERBREAD. ROOF. All of a sudden he’s yelling “MamaClaus? I want SALAD. Broccoli. Tofu. THINK GREEN.” Green? WE LIVE IN THE NORTH POLE. Theterm “Winter White” wasn’t invented for nothing. The daylight lasts like 35 seconds. Is it dreary here? It would be as dreary as if there were noVIRGINIAS. And for the record, VirginiaROCKS. Especially Richmond. Particularly south of the river James. But no Santa? There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance tomake tolerable this existence. Butfrankly if we wouldn’t have to live through Middle School, that would beOK. I think EVERY KID would be happy totrade a bit of poetry for skipping middle school. But NO SANTA? We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternallight with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished. Yup,that eternal light thing. I heard youlost it for several days after Hurricane Irene. We had reports parents – without TV or internet in their powerlessneighborhood – had to resort to the most base and savage of methods to stayalive: they had to GO TO THE LIBRARY. They got confused by the books (no, they are not kindling) but it was agreat place to charge the iPod and surf the net…but I digress…

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! Actually, there aren’t any fairies in theNorth Pole. There are, however,elves. And they are particularlydemanding. They have to make all thetoys and they gripe about the hours, poor working condition, and even convincedone to become a Union Dentist. No lie.Have you seen Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer? Hermie is the real deal. He doescosmetic dentistry and is working toward certification in orthodontia. Raffledoff a custom whitening tray to raise money for the Island of Misfit Toys. Did his thesis on the overbite of Bumble, theAbominable Snowman. But back to youVirginia, and your question about Santa. You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys onChristmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Clauscoming down, what would that prove? Honestly,it would prove nothing because – and I have this on Santa’s good opinion- mostof these ‘watchman’ dive into the cookies and milk for Santa and are in a happyfood coma by the time Santa is making his rounds. Nobody sees Santa Claus, because eating excessive loads of sweetcarbs brings on blissful sleep, but that is no sign that there is no SantaClaus. As we all know, trying to prove anegative is most troublesome. Themost real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Typically, that involves the santa coatdraped on the back of a chair instead of hung up in the closet. And unmade beds. And trash that needs to be taken out withoutbeing asked. Did you ever see fairiesdancing on the lawn? Of course not, becauseFairies don’t live at the northpole and if they did and they were dancing onthe lawn, they’d perish of frostbite. Butthat's no proof that they are not there. Andneither are pigs in flight. Nobodycan conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in theworld. Well, Steve Jobs tried, whichexplains the plethora of iPads in Santa’s sack.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but if you do that, your mom is gonna bereally really really mad. She can handlethe socks on the floor the garbage that needs to go out, but don’t – DO NOT-mess with the cranky infant’s toys… but there is a veil covering the unseenworld which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all thestrongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. And that’s because those big strong men would have to hoist themselvesfrom the couch, fling the remote away and say “NO NFL TODAY!” Yeah right, like that is gonna happen. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance,can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glorybeyond ESPN Primetime. Is it allreal? Oh for heaven’s sake yes it’s allreal. Ah, VIRGINIA, in all thisworld there is nothing else real and abiding. But… before you get your presents, please go to a dictionary and writeout a good definition of the word “abiding”, and use it in a sentence thatcould be used on terra firma south of the north pole. I’m just looking out for your SAT scores, girl,NOW GO GET ‘EM!

No Santa Claus! Thank God! He lives, and he lives forever. A thousand yearsfrom now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he willcontinue to make glad the heart of childhood. However, he will make this glad heart of wifehood elated if he avoidsthe sooty chimney’s, uses the front door, picks up his dirty socks, and tradesthe cookies for the Reindeer’s carrots.

MerryChristmas Virginia and God bless us, every one.

Fondly,

Mrs. Claus

Occupy Pepper

2011-12-11T08:36:00.001-05:00

I am the 99%. I’mjust like you and citizens everywhere who pay their tab yet have limited accessto an abundant resource horded by the 1%. I’m talking about Pepper. We’veall been to a restaurant. The Salt isfreely available, but of course we’ve been briefed for years on the ills of toomuch salt. Pepper, however, is adifferent matter. When you get yoursalad or your entrée, the server will appear with a pepper grinder the size ofa Louisville Slugger and ask “Would you like some freshly ground pepper?” Then the pepper grinding ceremonybegins. You sit expectantly as theground pepper appears on your dish. Theserver looks at you at first expectantly waiting for you to say ‘enough’. However the expression changes to one ofabject suspicion as the grinding continues. Any more than 3 twists of the grinder and their internal alarms gooff. After all: you’re not doing thework for the pepper; you’re just expecting something for nothing. Personally, I feel the whole thing is achildish exercise. I am perfectlycapable of seasoning my own food. Idon’t need to sit there while someone does it for me any more than I need himor her to cut my meat into bite-sized pieces.

Why is that pepper grinder so big? Whole peppercorns are tiny, but pepper grindersare enormous. Why is that? It’s not like we’re splitting an atom here,we’re smashing up a little dried dot of nothing. We recently had dinner at arestaurant in Staunton, and the pepper grinders were – of course – unavailablefor us at the tables. They were alsoenormous, about the size of an average arm. They could have easily been used at batting practice, or converted intoa floor lamp. The evil pepper-hordingmanagement stored the grinders on a large rack attached to the wall, averitable arsenal of spice-grinding majesty in full view of the pepper-deprivedpopulation.

And why are these giant pepper grinders only found inhigh-falutin’ bourgeois restaurants? Restaurants that cater to those with smaller wallets have salt andpepper on the table. Of course, thepepper is pre-ground and tastes like dirt. The little guy always gets the shaft.

Why can’t we use them ourselves? Is there some kind of liability attached withgrinding pepper? Is it a dangerousactivity? Has the government issued somekind of mandate rationing our access to freshly ground pepper? Is this more big government creep? Or is itjust management being stingy? Or is itboth? I sense crony capitalism at workfor sure.

Maybe it’s an industrial conspiracy to addict the consumerto salt. It’s freely available. The more you use it, the thirstier you get,the more drinks you order. Salt is thecash cow. Pepper doesn’t make youthirsty. At best, it’ll make yousneeze. You’ll be using more napkins andcosting the restaurant money.

We need to fight this injustice. Why? Because it can only get worse: the next thing to go will be the freshparsley garnish. OCCUPY PEPPER GRINDERS! Demand that there be a redistribution ofpepper grinders to diners across America. When you go to a restaurant, grab that grinder out of the server’s handand use it yourself. Demand every tablebe given a grinder. Protest corporate greed at establishments with limitedpepper access. Rise up I say, Riseup! POWER TO THEPEPPER!...er…Paprika!...er PEOPLE! Now: pass the salt, and order me another drink.

Requiem

2011-09-11T15:43:00.012-04:00

9/11/11 9/11/01

I don’t remember the weather in Orchard Park, NY that day. People in New York City remember their morning as ideal. “Crystal clear blue” - how many times did we hear that description? It was like that this morning in Richmond: quiet and peaceful. Just like that day. 10 years. I’ve just gotten up and made coffee. I turn on the memorial at ground zero in New York.

* * *

I’m working in my home office. I go to the kitchen for a cup of tea, and return several minutes later. The red light on my phone is blinking. It’s a message from Michel, it’s simple and direct: “Turn on the TV.” I turn on the small set on a shelf above my desk that is normally off except for news. I can’t figure out what I’m seeing: black smoke billowing out of the World Trade Centers. I call Michel. His admin answers and I must sound frantic. “Don’t worry, Michel is OK, he’s not in New York today.” I say “Yes, I know that.” Of course I know that, I’m his wife. It is then that it occurs to me that he frequently goes to the World Trade Centers to meet with State Tax Attorneys. She puts me through to him. “What is this? What am I seeing? What happened?” He answers my question. I don’t understand. He says the same sentence. “Planes hit the World Trade Center”. I can’t understand this, I can’t process it, his grammar doesn’t sound right. It’s the word ‘Planes’ that keep tripping me up, the plural nature of it.

* * *

It’s a beautiful day there today. 8:46 am. A single bell tolls. The families are there and I’m struck by these people and how they are dressed: some are in their Sunday best, others in more humble attire, t-shirts emblazoned with a memorial image or slogan. Many carry photos of their smiling family. The people in these photos died in terror; there is no hint of it in the images, they didn’t know. They are frozen moments, hundredths of seconds in time. The families slice across ethnic and social strata; they all occupy a common class, bound in grief in thousands of different memories. Obama speaks, Psalm 46. Bush speaks, Lincoln’s letter to a grieving mother. Giuliani, more echoes. And then they start the heartbreaking roll call. This never fails to break my heart. The names, so many names. They are read one at a time; it will take hours I think. I wonder if it would be more poignant to have each name read at the same time as the others by thousands of those left to mourn them. A cacophony of despair, a towering vocal babel of their loss and mourning. These names are so varied, some are so common, dare I say American? No, that doesn’t fit. The day after the attacks, a French newspaper said “Today, we are all American”. I’m struck by the name “Adams” read over and over again. Could they be related somehow to the Nation’s founding father? Others have syllables and consonants that would make my tongue cramp. Did the whole world perish that day?

* * *

My eyes are glued to the set. The South Tower falls. The newscasters talk about it being surreal, like something out of a Hollywood action movie, but it is horrifyingly real. I wonder how many people are in there. Tom Brokaw said something like “Thirty Thousand”. The hospitals are mobilizing, every ambulance on call. The Red Cross puts out a call for blood. Emergency rooms wait for the wounded. Cardinal Egan is giving last rights on the sidewalk. They switch to field reporters covered in ash and grit. It occurs to me that I’m supposed to fly to Boston tomorrow for work. There is no force in heaven or on earth that will get me on a plane in the near future. I pick up the phone and call my best friend and colleague BJ. “You’ve seen the news.” I say this as fact. He answers quizzically “What news?” They’d lost their internet connection before nine that morning. They know nothing. I tell him about New York, about the gaping fiery hole in the Pentagon. I’m frantic, frightened. I tell him I will not get on a plane. He reassures me that the safest time to fly is right after a hijacking. He can say this with detached logic, it’s just a concept right now; he hasn’t seen the images yet. My eyes are on the TV. There is a report that another plane has crashed in Pennsylvania. I gasp for air and scream into the phone “The planes are falling out of the sky!” How many more will crash?

* * *

The network runs a piece on the firefighters, how they are asked everyday by well-wishers about that day. It never leaves them. “The 10 House” , “54 and 4”, nearly 400 first responders were lost, more than ten percent of that day’s death toll came from those who went to the scene to help. The newscaster is interviewing the last survivor pulled from the rubble. Jenelle Guzman-McMillan spent 27 hours in the rubble, her head on the body of a firefighter who perished trying to save her and others. This is her first time back to Ground Zero. She grips the tissue in her hand and reflects on that day and the decade since. She has moved on, married, had children. She finds comfort in her faith; she mentions something about a Tabernacle church. The interviewer asks her how she feels to be back. She hesitates, measuring her words. “We all have to face our fears.”

* * *

The second tower is gone. I call my father and break down in tears. He is quiet. I’m sobbing, incoherent. He asks about Michel. I realize he thinks he was there, that something may have happened. Reports of where the hijacked planes originate filter through. Boston, Newark, National or Dulles? They speculate on the fear of the passengers on board – did they know what was happening? There are reports of Palestinians handing out candy and celebrating despite Yassir Arafat’s condemnation. They show pictures. I don’t understand this. What kind of a civilization is this? This is joy?

* * *

James Taylor sings “Close Your Eyes” – a lullaby I sang to my own kids over and over and over again. I feel the tears. There are many children there, I wonder about the young teens who probably have little memory of the mother or father lost. I wonder: do they remember only the faces because of photo? Is there some imprint of them somewhere from 10 years ago? They open the memorial to the families. They touch the names etched in the stone. A young girl does a pencil rubbing: ‘Patrick Qui…’. Tears on black granite, the names are all they have left that is tangible in this sacred place.

Yesterday I had a thought: what of those working the airport security in Logan and the other airports that day? I used to tell people I was shocked more airplanes weren’t hijacked out of Logan. I’d flown in and out of it dozens of times and I remember the security being a joke. I’d put my bags on the x-ray belt and half the time they weren’t even looking at the monitor. They let those madmen through, they didn’t know. Were they paying attention? Were they as complacent as all of us? Do they carry unimaginable guilt at the role they played? They were our Maginot Line.

And Bin Laden? He's gone, dispatched with two bullets from an unnamed SEAL. I'll admit it: I was happy when I learned he was gone. Was it joy? I don't think so. I don't know.

***

I look at the clock. It’s after noon. I’ve lost 3 hours, I haven’t moved from this chair. I don’t know what to do. I get up, and grab my keys. I drive to our church, Nativity, a couple minutes away. I don’t do this, go to church in the middle of a work day. It’s empty, dark and cool. Light is coming through the windows. I enter a pew and drop to my knees, cross myself, and bury my head in my hands. “Please, God…” I don’t know how to pray for what I’m feeling. I want to believe God can see into my heart. I get up and walk to the memorial candles. I light three of them, one for each site. I kneel again and am so scared, I wonder about all we have lost and what will come. Later that day I'm home, Madeleine and Luc arrive home from school, ages 10 and 6. I ask Madeleine if she knows what happened. She says some bad guys flew planes into buildings. They watched a little on TV. Luc doesn’t understand. He’s 6, I explain its ok, that our military will go get the bad guys. He asks if there will be war, I answer ‘probably’. He starts to cry; he thinks bombs will fall in our backyard. I run and get the globe. I show him where we live. Where his grandparents live. Then I show him where the middle east is, Afghanistan. “It’s very very far away. You will be safe.” I’m struck at how certain I am of that statement. Michel comes home and we look at each other and hug for a long time. The news comes on, I have Madeleine watch. The video replay of the plane hitting the building runs. She says “That’s cool…” and I snap and yell at her. She says she didn’t mean it like it was good. I realize she doesn’t know how to respond to this, to process it. I think at 10 years old what she sees is a special effect like the movies. She’s too young and innocent to couple that image with very real terror and death. She starts to cry, she is scared by my anger and I’m ashamed. I hold my girl. What have we lost?

* * *

The coverage of the 10 year anniversary runs a segment on the SEAL unit. They interview a retired SEAL who now runs the SEAL Team Foundation. He was fishing that day and contemplating retirement. He didn’t retire. The interviewer asks him if he changed his mind because of that day. He answers “My mind was changed for me.” When asked if he was deployed to Afghanistan he pauses, his face giving nothing away. “I was deployed as required.” The coverage returns to the Pentagon ceremony. A military choral unit sings ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’… Glory glory hallelujah…Flowers are placed on the benches dedicated to those who perished. The Pentagon is pristine, there is no evidence – beyond this memorial – of the plane that hit it. It is unscarred. They are at Shanksville now. White granite in a field of grass and wildflowers. It occurs to me that the terrorists thought to hit the symbols of Americas might: The World Trade Center was the symbol of our economic power, the Pentagon that of our military power, and that fourth plane was headed to the symbol of our government – the Capital Building. Ironic and fitting that ‘of, by, and for the people’ fought them from achieving their evil trifecta. And still… all that followed… how much have we lost? That day, members of Congress stood together singing “God Bless America.” Could they do that today I wonder?

* * *

It’s days after the attacks. No planes are allowed to fly. I look up at the sky and it is so blue. There are no contrails anywhere to be seen. . There were few survivors at Ground Zero, fewer bodies. They aren’t finding much in the rubble. Despite this attack, I don’t feel like we as a nation are paralyzed. I feel like we are galvanized. Today though the sky is blue and American flags fly everywhere.

* * *

Madeleine is 20 and in college. I text her about James Taylor’s song; she loves it. She reflects today in simple words “Ten years ago, I was a scrawny little 10-year old who knew nothing of true hate, fear, or profound sadness. In an instant, I learned all three. Ten years later, I'm a not so scrawny 20-year old who knows nothing of life, but will always remember a day in which everything changed.” Luc is 16 and pays tribute on his facebook page to the young man who worked in the South Tower – a lacrosse player and volunteer firefighter known for wearing a red bandana – who perished while helping many escape. Jean-Marc was 4 and remembers nothing of that day. He watches the coverage with me, and I explain – during a re-run of the actual coverage – what was happening, what I was thinking. I’m sharing this history with him, tell him how I felt that day.

Memory is thick sometimes. How do you measure the time before and after that day? How do you measure what we have lost or gained? How can you measure the change? How do you balance these scales? I don’t know. I may never know. I may never understand, there are some things that are just too big.

Just now I look out the window, the sun is shining, the sky is so blue. I see Luc. 10 years ago he was worried about bombs falling in our yard. Today I see him, and he’s cutting the grass.

God Bless America.

Field of Dreams

2011-08-11T07:37:00.001-04:00

*Written for the August/September issue of Robious Corrior Magazine

The start of the school year is just around the corner. We’ll head to the store to buy mountains of school supplies trailing our children who will bear a look of pitiful resignation: the summer is almost over. However, many will take to the fields for the ritual of Friday Night Lights. I love high school sports. It’s a joy to see athletes who have graduated beyond the ankle biter juice box leagues, flinging themselves around the field of play, passionate about sport, really getting it. However, there is always the few who wreck it for the many, who exhibit bad behavior and ruin it for everyone else. And it’s coming from the bleachers: “REF! ARE YOU BLIND???? THAT’S A BLATANT FOUL!!!!!” Yes, I’m talking about the parents. Not all parents, just the nutty few. You know the kind I’m talking about: they are pillars of society, hold good jobs, keep their lawns neat, help elderly ladies cross the street. Put them anywhere near a place where their child is locked in athletic combat and they morph into a seething mass of screaming irrationality. They know their children’s sports stats thin-sliced to the nth factor, but ask them the name of their son or daughter’s math teacher and they look at you like you’re speaking in Aramaic. The cautionary tales abound of over-the-top sports parents – their patron saint is Marv Marinovich, who started training his son Todd to be an all-star quarterback at the tender age of one month. His father wondered how well a kid could be developed if ‘given the perfect environment’. So he set out to create it forgetting that his grand assumption neglected the very real fact that his kid would eventually have to inhabit a very imperfect world. I think Todd probably woke up one day and couldn’t even ask himself “what do I want to be when I grow up?” It was probably more like “WHO do I want to be when I grow up?” He was just a big grand experiment, an athletic monster to his father’s Dr. Frankenstein. The kid who was never allowed to have a Ding Dong growing up has spent most of the last 10 years in rehab. The moral of the story is this: LET YOU KIDS HAVE A DAMN DING-DONG.

The truth of the matter is that nothing kills the fun of kids sports like parents. The remedy is simple: we need to back off and shut up. Period. I know whereof I speak: My name is Monica and I’m a recovering sports parent. The following are my own stereotypes of over-the-top parents from my years of half-wit, unscientific and wholly undocumented soccer, football, hockey, figure skating, lacrosse, swimming, tennis, cross-country field research. Yes, I know: several of the aforementioned sports don’t use fields. Its allegory, get over it.

The Early Achiever

It’s a late summer football scrimmage. Parents are standing along the sidelines chatting, it’s a lovely late afternoon, the sun is just beginning to set. The air is fragrant with the smell of trampled grass. If you were to look at the field, you’d see novice football players and 4 coaches trying to coax some form of organized play out of them. It would – to the untrained eye – look like an exercise in cat herding. Next to you is a guy dressed in business attire. He’s shed his suit coat and loosened his tie. He stands there, unsmiling. “Look at them. It’s pathetic. You’d think those coaches would have prepared them better. Look – they can’t even run routes.” You look at him with a mixture of amusement and confusion; you wonder if he’s joking…you say gently, “Yeah, but… the kids are only SIX.” You hope you see some sense of logic enter the mind of this guy, but NOPE: you’ve met the Early Achiever. He (or she) is the guy (or gal) that didn’t make the cut in high school, or made the team but didn’t do anything extraordinary. He has ‘it’ all figured out. “It” is the reason why he/she didn’t make the team and usually heavily discounts an absence of natural athletic ability. And he is still bitter about it. On any given day his complaints are like a Chinese menu of excuses and the blame will fall squarely on the coaches, the athletic organization, or the mom who organizes the snacks. This guy may never graduate to full-fledged screaming in the stands because his kid will get sick of the constant grumbling and give up sports for something that will not attract the glare of parental attention, like Accounting.

The Tennis Mom

This sports parent almost exclusively appears on girls’ tennis teams. They are close cousins to their northern species, The Figure Skating Mom. They themselves typically belong to tennis clubs and are active participants in the sport. They are rarely seen out of their own jaunty tennis apparel, and are always well groomed. They have an overwhelming need to take over the tennis program and turn it into a junior version of the country club. They have somehow forgotten that parental participation shouldn’t extend beyond the checkbook and minivan. Some ban their daughter’s boyfriend from attending matches because “it’s distracting”. Their daughter’s seed on the team is inversely proportional to their mood. If another girl challenges their daughter for their spot on the ladder, they get so fiercely protective they make Tiger Mothers look like pussycats. They demand a buffet at each tennis match that typically includes the following list of snacks: “A sweet, a salty, Gatorade, bottled water, sandwiches, 7-layer Mexican dip” which is I believe more food than is needed for all participants in all 27 stages of the Tour de France. When challenged on the need for a catered affair, they will icily respond “IT’S TRADITION”. Do not – under any circumstances – reply “So is rampant obesity.” Jaunty tennis attire is not appropriate wear for a rumble.

The Soccer Mom

Hasn’t this one been done to death? Yeah, I think so.

The Lemon

This parent is pretty bitter. A close relative of the early achiever, this parent’s child somehow manages to stay with the sport. The child can be gifted or not, a starter or not. The complaints aren’t usually about the performance of his/her child but about other kids out there, usually those that are better/faster/stronger. There is an inherent need to chip away at a performance. The amount of kid-bashing that goes on would make a Child Beauty Pageant Mother proud. Anything is fair game: their equipment, perceived dedication at practice, performance on game days, their ethnicity, shoe color, parents’ professions, suspected mental defects. They often accuse other players of cheating. You can spot these people from afar by simply looking a guy who is surrounded by other parents squirming to get away. One of my son’s plays the cello, and I tried to imagine a couple of parents engaging in this behavior at an audition. This is how I imagine it to go:

Parent A: Did you see Billy?

Parent B: Yeah. You know he’s going to get the first chair, he’s so good.

Parent A: Pfft. I know, pathetic. Do you know his private instructor? NOT EVEN EUROPEAN.

Parent B: Ok, but…

Parent A: And his parents? They have the orchestra director WRAPPED AROUND THEIR FINGER. He gets to leave early because of his private lessons.

Parent B: Well, yeah, but the kid is nearly a prodigy, they’re saying “Julliard”

Parent A: With that instrument? YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. He doesn’t even have a BELGIAN BRIDGE.

Parent B: Well the music he plays, it’s so beautiful.

Parent A: WHO GIVES A CRAP ABOUT THE MUSIC?

You get my drift.

The Thief

When I was growing up, there were these two girls who were incredibly gifted runners. Ridiculously so. They were a year apart and were breaking national age-group records in middle school. Their father was beyond intense. I mentioned him to my dad a few weeks ago and he replied “He was a monster”. If the girls didn’t run the time he demanded he was known to hurl empty soda cans at them and scream at the top of his lungs. I’m not sure if the girls ran out of fear or the need to please but by the time they were seniors in high school these girls who had competed at the national level were washed up, burned out, barely able to win a local meet and rebelling hard against their dictatorial dad. I competed against these girls and despite their handing me my rump in every single meet, I really felt sorry for them. I’d see them out on training runs and there was no joy in their face. They’d be out there pounding the miles with this look of – I don’t know – maybe, uncontained fury. I always wonder what happened to them. I couldn’t imagine running with that weight of my parents expectations on my shoulders.

I used “Mr. G” as an example of the over-the-top parent, and we’ve all seen them out there. Their kid isn’t necessarily a national caliber athlete – that is wholly immaterial. What they have in common is that they’ve stolen the dream from their child. Whatever fun their child had is long gone and has been replaced by the expectation to perform at a certain level for the benefit of the parent. Somehow the term “extra-curricular activity” is lost in the equation. They morph from reasonable people to thinking the balance of the earth rests in the outcome of the sporting event. Their entire ego is wrapped up in it, and if their child (or child’s team) fails, they have failed, they lose too. They’ve forgotten the meaning of the word ‘spectator’.

I witnessed perhaps the worst example this at a lacrosse game this past spring when a father was thrown out of the facility for verbally harassing and threatening the referee. I watched this man – who is probably a pretty reasonable guy – spin up and out of control the further his son’s team fell behind. His intermittent shouts turned into a full-throttled barrage of insults at perceived missed calls, accusations of favoritism and finally – the coup de grace – threatening bodily harm on the ref. Finally – after 30 minutes of the screaming (during which a substantial gap opened up between him and the next person) – the ref threw a yellow flag for an offense committed off the field of play. He motioned for the coach, met him mid-field and said – very loudly – “I want THAT MAN OUT OF THIS FACILITY NOW!” The father threw his hands up in the air and stomped away before he could be escorted out. I felt only pity for his son, who was left to finish playing the game. I wondered how he managed to play with the humiliatingly heavy cloak of his father’s public shame draped squarely on his padded shoulders. For these people, there is only one cure: DUCT TAPE.

As parents, we need to recognize that our child’s best might not be THE BEST. And while we may dream of our son or daughter reaching the highest pinnacle of sport, of imagining them standing on the top podium, belting out the Star Spangled Banner, the camera panning to a shot of you, the weeping parent who drove him 2 HOURS A DAY TO PRACTICE! WHAT DEDICATION TO THE CHILD! Cue the sappy music… STOP!!!! STOP IT RIGHT NOW. I know, it’s hard, but there is a cure. Be the ride, the financial sponsor, the reasonable cheerleader. Let the coaches teach them a bit about life using the field of play as the chalkboard. Let their teams be THEIR TEAMS; you can cry and cheer for them, not with them, because you are – I’m sorry – an outsider. Back off, loosen the apron strings, and if you’re sitting on the side lines, for heaven’s sake put away your whistle. Most importantly recognize your kid’s dream as theirs and theirs alone. They should have sole dominion over them, they are entitled to it. And you’ll see that in play – not in sleep as Shakespeare suggests – what dreams may come.

And if you can’t do that, then bring a big roll of duct tape.

Ghost Stories

2011-06-12T21:42:00.003-04:00

I recently went to Boston for a work-related day trip. I foolishly left my phone charger behind and I'm convinced this small omission resulted in an upending of karmic forces that caused the delay – and finally – cancellation of my flight home to Richmond. I found myself in the unenviable position of being at the airport, my iPhone running on fumes, and not even a toothbrush in my possession. After grumbling to the USAirways representative about the weather (she unsurprisingly grumbled back. Airline counter people are rarely known for their sunny dispositions), I made my way to the ironically named “Customer Services” desk to try and get a hotel for the evening. The closest hotel was not exactly close, located in the town of Winthrop. The hotel wasn’t your generic type of lodging, but an inn that the shuttle driver told me was a converted Jewish Community Center. I was later to be told it was a converted school. Regardless, it was a converted something and I noted wood floors throughout and very high ceilings as I made my way to my room with complementary toothpaste but no brush. When I’d asked for both, the desk clerk went to a closet and rummaged through a small plastic basket. Apparently they don’t often cater to stranded travelers. I was convinced my room was a converted squash court and soon discovered that the wood floors, high ceilings, and – I swear - paper maché walls resulted in it having the effect of an echo chamber: I heard people walking overhead and down the hallway all evening. Voices carried, heels on the floor reverberated; it was like trying to sleep at a Celtics game.

I awoke the next morning having gotten approximately 37 minutes of sleep (none of it consecutive) and felt a displacement and weariness down to my bones. The weather didn’t help: it was overcast and sprinkling outside. The inn was without a restaurant and the front desk clerk directed me to “walk two stop signs up the street” to a place called “The High Tide”. The walk up the street was longer than I’d anticipated, and depressing: every house seemed gray, and trees were dropping blossoms that were mashed and tattered on the damp sidewalk. The whole place looked tired. I entered the small town center I saw the effects of the recession everywhere: shuttered up business, empty storefronts. Peeling signs on stores that hadn’t had a person cross the threshold in many a moon. One hardware store was still operating, rakes and shovels stacked against the end of one wall. I opened the door to “The High Tide” and a bell jangled. Every head turned and looked at me from the counter and I felt like I’d interrupted a conversation. It was the kind of place that has disappeared from most towns and been replaced by generic chains with food as predictable and unremarkable as the clientele. It had a long counter with stools, a large grill at one end of the counter, a few tables, painted blue and white tin signs on the walls touting breakfast specials, the prices taped over many times. I was clearly a stranger here and after an awkward moment of silence that felt like an hour but was probably more like 5 seconds, I shook off my self-consciousness and made my way to the counter and sat down. I needed coffee and badly. I ordered my food and the cook – a thin, craggy older guy dressed in a ball cap and plaid shirt and who looked like the love child of actor Steve Buscemi and Gilligan – got busy on the grill.

These were clearly locals and regulars; they knew each other and their banter easy, their regional accents thick as chowder. Their dress reflected their blue-collar lives and I couldn’t have been more out of place in my business attire if I’d come dressed as Scarlett O’Hara. One guy got up to pay his bill, easily chatting with and hitting on the waitress. I guessed him to be in his 50’s, she a good 20 years younger, and he asked her to go to Vegas with him when he and his brothers take their mother for her 80^th birthday. Apparently, I found the place in the world where an appropriate birthday celebration for your elderly mother is a trip to sin city. He was loud and standing right next to me and it was all I could do not to turn and just look at him, to see what a character like this looked like. I somehow had the feeling that he wanted me to, so he could size up the stranger in their midst, quiz me on who I was, where I was from, what I was doing here.

As I was sipping my coffee, I looked around the room and marveled that this place, for the most part, had probably remained unchanged since it opened. The only exception came when the waitress brought me my juice in a small plastic cup and was hit with disappointment that it wasn’t in one of those heavy contoured glasses found at diners. The plastic was an anachronism here, a disposable item in a place that had endured the years. The remaining patrons chatted about the murder of a young boy at the hands of his mother, his body found on a remote road in New Hampshire. “I just don’t understand it…why didn’t she just drop him off with someone, a relative?” “It’s like that mother in Houston who drowned her five children….” They debated the topic for a while – never once suggesting that perhaps mental illness was a factor at play in the commission of the crime – and an elderly heavy-set guy two stools down from me finally shook his head and ended the discussion with “She’s not from around here. She’s from Texas.”

My food arrived, my plate heaped with eggs, bacon, toast, and homefries. I could have taken the plate and shaken it and the food would have remained stationary: this café was either unaware or unconcerned with the ill effects of saturated fat. It tasted good. Really, really good. I’d bought a book at the Airport and had it on the counter next to me. The man, who’d neatly explained the crime as a by-product of the suspect’s geography, looked over and asked “What are you reading? Is it good?” I explained that I’d bought it at the airport, but hadn’t started it. He asked where I was staying and I told him about the inn, and then offered up the information about the wood floors and the noise. He then offered up that the building was in fact a converted school… and the noise I heard? He had an explanation for that too. “Old buildings make noise. I didn’t used to believe in ghosts. But then I moved into the house of my neighbors. She’d died of cancer. He was so sad that he committed suicide after.” My first thought is WHY on earth anyone would willingly want to live in a house with such a history. But being the outsider I just nodded my head. “So, we had a ghost in the house. I’m sure it was him.” He went on to explain that he was an amiable spirit who didn’t like discord. If he started arguing with his wife or daughter-in-law, the ghost would turn on the TV or make things fall from the table. “He liked the house peaceful. He’s not in the house anymore though. He left when my daughter-in-law moved out.” He spoke so matter-of-factly, and the only thing I could manage to ask was “Do you miss him?” He replied with quiet sadness “Yeah, I do. He was a nice ghost.”

Another man got up and made his way to the cash register. He saw my book and asked “Whatcha readin? Is it good?” This question is evidently the local icebreaker. The cook and two guys in stools at the other end of the counter started arguing about sports. Boston fans are passionate about their teams, and it was at this point that I noticed the cook was wearing a New York Yankees cap. In Boston, this would be the same as wearing an “I Heart Bin Laden” shirt at ground zero. I couldn’t believe the chutzpah of a chowderhead rooting for the Yankees. I said – without thinking – “You’ve got a YANKEES cap on? HERE? IN BOSTON? Are you nuts?” He smiled at me and opened the buttons on his navy and white checked shirt to reveal a Yankees t-shirt underneath. “I gave up rootin’ faw the Red Sawx in 1968. What – I was supposed ta wait 86 yeahs? Fahget it.” I shook my head “Wow, you must catch a lot of flack.” He shot back quickly “I cook ya food – no one says nothin” and laughed.

I paid my bill – where can you get breakfast for $6.25 anymore? – and made my way on the damp streets toward the inn and the shuttle to the airport for my flight home. During the trek back I had this thought that these were the most real people I’d met in a long time. But later, on the flight back to Richmond, it occurred to me that maybe they weren’t, that if I were to go back to the café tomorrow, I’d find “The High Tide” long ago boarded up, it’s tin signs peeling and hanging neglected on the walls and discover that the folks I’d met weren’t in fact real, but spirits from another time.

Notes on the Run - "Forces of Nature"

2011-04-08T08:18:00.008-04:00

*Note: A piece I wrote for the April Issue of Robious Corridor Magazine. With a few edits.

I don’t know what it is about spring that makes me become so aware of nature. Summer comes and plants grow quickly or whither in the summer sun. In Autumn, the days shorten and the trees take their cue and drop their leaves. I’ve been through hurricane Isabel and remember feeling helpless against Mother Nature’s ultimate hissy fit and bad air day. Trees looked like a tangle of pixie sticks all over Salisbury. We get the occasional snowfall in Richmond, and on rare occasion an accumulation that causes everything slowdown and we have no choice but to go into a naturally-enforced time out. But for the most part, I tend not to be overly aware of nature. Until spring. I’m aware of it so much in my morning runs – most of which are in the dark. The first portent of the vernal equinox is the faint glow of dawn in the sky coming earlier and earlier each morning. It’s the raw scent of the warming earth and the sight of the daffodils ready for their seasonal debut. Recently at mile 14 of a long run, when my legs were tired and my fun meter near zero, I saw the first blooming tree of the season and those few simple blossoms of purple gave me a lift that carried me through the end of the run.

You can smell spring in the air. It’s the warming of the ground, the damp earthy smell that signals the awaking of it all. The bulbs push through the ground, flowers crack open the husks. Hibernating animals begin their sluggish awakening. I drive past Keswick farms and see the spring lambs. Spring is so restless, so relentless. Mother Nature is like that.

I think of spring as this quiet awakening – the gentle warming, the patient progress of the plants, the minute or two of extra sunlight as the days pass. I love the feeling of rebirth after the months of light-deprived sacrifice. It’s the needing only a sweater instead of a jacket, and then short sleeves instead of long. Picking up my son after lacrosse practice and not turning on the car’s headlights. Cooking dinner and still having the sunlight lighting up the kitchen. It feels like renewal, like the real promise and start to the new year.

It’s a morning at the beginning of March. Spring is a couple of weeks away and it’s just a weekend before Daylight Savings time. The sun is coming up earlier every day. I finish the run with my friends and need to run a few more miles on my own. The sky is clear and it is so quiet out but for the raucous singing of the birds. I think they’re welcoming the warming air and the change in the light that makes them start building nests. There is a pair of red finches nesting in the spotlights at the corner of my house. They define the term “spring into action” and think about the irony of the phrase. In a couple of weeks I’ll be stocking up on Swiffers to tackle the yellow-green pollen that will have invaded every crevice of the house, and pop the occasional Allegra to combat my itchy left eye. Yup: that’s the extent of my seasonal allergies: an annoyingly itchy left eye.

But Mother Nature can be volatile. She can bring floods and tornadoes. On this morning it is just before a monstrous 1-2 punch of earthquake and tsunami in Japan. Videos of the disaster show the water overpowering everything in its path, making matchsticks of buildings, picking up cars and buses and sweeping them away without slowing. This force of nature is horrifying and Mother Nature can render us dumbstruck with her ferocity and tempestuousness. She can make us feel so very small, so very helpless.

On this morning, I don’t think of her destructive power. It’s a calm day, the morning light soft, the sky a bright blue. I hear the birds singing and the air is scented with the perfume of the warming earth. I see nothing but her quiet beauty and gentle loveliness. I keep running toward home, my shadow stretched long in the rising sun.

Notes to Self: Tobacco Road Marathon Race Report

2011-03-21T15:47:00.000-04:00

3/21/11

Hey Pfitz.
Yeah? You ran yesterday didn’t you… how did it go?
Well Pfitz, despite doing just about every mile of your savagery cum training plan, I didn’t feel fit.
Get out. How can that be?
I don’t know. I just didn’t get my ‘marathon skinny’ going.
Well maybe if you’d put down the chardonnay and candy…
Don’t get all scientific with me. I get it. But I also think it’s because I haven’t done a marathon in 4 years. And I was…
Yes?
I was…
SPIT IT OUT!
I was kinda sorta scared.
YOU? GIVE. ME. A. BREAK.
First, stop stealing my punctuation. Second, UP. YOURS.
OK ok . I know, you’re probably all sore and cranky today.
Meh, my quads are little sore, but I feel pretty good.
See, I told you I trained you good.
Well, you know I missed my last planned 20 with that foot thing. And that did wonders to sprout the seeds of doubt already sown in my head.
Is this a race report or ‘The Grapes of Wrath’?
You wanna test the ‘Cranky’ part of your “sore and cranky’ theory?
Um no.
Then pipe down and listen, I’ll tell you about the race.
Oh. OK. Let me pull up a comfy chair.
Sure, whatever.
Should I order in some food? You tend to ramble on.
If you wanna keep those kneecaps I’d suggest you pretend you’re mute for a bit.
Sorry. Carry on.
Thank you your highness. So, about a week before the race I started to kinda think ‘How am I going to get through this?’
It’s called ‘Taper Madness’, remember?
Well, it was more than that. I didn’t have any explicit time goals, I just wanted to have a good race and not suffer badly. I wanted to finish and want to do another one. I didn’t want to be chanting ‘Never again….never again…never again…’ with each footfall.
I don’t think you could said ‘Never again’ 3 times with each footfall unless you’re talking really fast.
Don’t – DO NOT – make me get the duct tape. OK, so I started to toy with the idea of Gallowaying the first half of the race.
Gallo-whoing?
Galloway. Jeff Galloway.
Oh, the guy who ran the 10k in the 1972 Olympics? The guy who is the proponent of the wussy ‘RUN-WALK-RUN’ program?
Yeah. He was a non-medalist in the Olympics just like you.
Ow.
Anyway I’d done Galloway when I’d come back from injuries. And it was kinda fun and I thought “Why not?” The theory is that it delays the onset of muscle fatigue. So I made the decision to run at least the first half ‘a la’ Galloway.   I also decided that if it was warmer, it would be smart to keep me from overheating.
Is that all it takes?
You are treading on some thin ice dude.
I know, sorry. Some days I just crack myself up. How was the weather? Was the forecast apocalyptic? Your track record makes me think you pissed off Mother Nature something fierce. What – you don’t recycle or something?
I have to agree with you on that. But apparently, Mother Nature and I are now BFF’s because IT WAS PERFECT. Seriously. 44 degrees at the start, maybe 52 at the finish. And the course – THE COURSE! - 20 miles of it was on a converted rail bed that was mostly packed earth. So nice to run on! And tree-lined throughout – near constant shade! Anyway, here’s how it all shook out:
Michel and I went down the day before and I hit the tiny little expo. The merchandise was pretty thin and we both cracked up at the guy in a booth who was selling rugs. Oriental rugs.
Rugs?
Yeah. Total non-sequitur for sure but gave us a hearty laugh.
After the expo we went to buy Gatorade and bananas. Then we went to dinner at Bonefish Grill.
What – no pasta?
I can’t do red sauce before a marathon and knew if I got some rice and bread or something I’d be fine. While waiting for our table we were sitting at the bar tables next to some people who turned out to be from Niagara Falls, NY. Small world. Then, on the other side was a mother and son who were running the race. They were really nice, had a great chat with both of them. By the time we got our table it was like 7:15 and I was getting itchy to just eat and get outta there. On the way home, we saw the incredible “Super Moon” on the rise. Nice way to end the night.

I got up the next morning at 5:00 and the thought of eating anything was nauseating; I have such a hard time eating in the morning. I made some coffee and then mixed some Gatorade and chia seed gel with it. I’d bought bananas and instant grits but the only thing I could manage to eat was some of Robin’s granola bars she’d made for me and the Gatorade/chia mix. It was not a breakfast of champions but I typically run on a mostly empty stomach. My plan was to supplement along the way.

Michel drove me to the start at the USA Baseball facility – I got there with about half hour to spare. It was 44 degrees out and I was wearing my bike-style CW-X shorts and a fitted tank. 20 minutes before the start, I ditched my jacket and pants giving explicit instructions to Michel to meet me at the finish with them. The race gets two thumbs up for having ample port-a-potties for sure. On my way there I saw the sign for the Beer Garden after the finish. My only thought was there has to be an easier way to score a couple free beers than running 26.2. The race does get a thumb down for starting late. The Half was supposed to go off at 7:00, the full marathon 15 minutes later. The half didn’t go off until 7:15 and by then I was really chilled. When we lined up for the start of the marathon, I picked up a ‘throw away’ sweatshirt from someone in the half and put it on to stay warm. My only thought was that Robin the germ phobe would be horrified.

The gun went off at around 7:30 and off we went. I started easy and at eight minutes and 30 seconds my watch beeped for me to walk for a minute. I was very self conscious and made sure I walked off the road so as to not impede runners. I just KNEW there was someone out there sneering at me, but I just kept thinking “Yeah, and I’ll see you at mile 20.” Ahead of me, two women stopped to walk as well. At the two mile marker, I stopped for my minute walk as did the two women. They were also doing walk breaks. At this point I was looking for a darn port-o-potty with all the gatoarde I’d consumed. At mile 3 we turned off the roads and on to the American Tobacco Trail. It was really pretty – nice packed surface and lined with huge pine trees. At mile 4 I finally saw 1 port-a-potty and by the grace of God a woman jumped out just as I was running up. In and out and no wait. I exited and 100 yards later saw Michel in the throng of spectators, gave him the thumbs up and kept going. I looked for the two woman and saw the hot-pink top of one of them up ahead. I passed the 4:15 pace group in which my new friend Sondra was running. By mile 5 I’d caught up to the other two woman and we walked together. A guy ran buy us and said grumpily “You’re impeding other runners.” We weren’t walking 3 across at all – he was just a running snob. We started running again and passed grumpy guy. At our next walk break we walked single file and he went buy us. I’m sure he was feeling a bit self-conscious that he’d said something to us and we kept passing him with reckless abandon. About this time the lead runners had looped back and they went flying buy. I still get a thrill seeing people run so fast with such apparent ease. Lots of cheers from the crowd.   We hit the turnaround at mile 7.5, and I looked at my watch split of 1:10:27. I was a little disappointed that it wasn’t faster, but I hadn’t been paying attention to the splits. I remembered Galloways benchmark that you lose about 15 seconds a mile with the walk breaks, but the math wasn’t quite working out. Oh well. I kept running and at this point one of the two women – Christine – and I had separated from the other. She asked me if I thought we could break 4:00 and I told her we might. At this point I did glance at the average mile pace for the running portions and saw they were in the 8:40’s and 8:50’s and I thought we might have a shot to make up some ground. We were still playing ping-pong with the grumpy guy and he was starting to look hot and sweaty. We saw a woman who was dressed up in St. Patrick’s day gear and I noted I’d seen her pass her on the way back from the first turnaround and that we’d made up some significant ground on her.

At mile 11, we passed the spectator area and I tossed my hat, gloves, and arm warmers to Michel. My legs still felt very good, very fresh. At that point I made the decision to Galloway until Mile 20. I looked forward to the rest stops and it made the miles just fly by. In mile 12, Christine and I dusted grumpy man for good. She was in good spirits as well and we hit the half at 2:03 and change. I knew a sub-4 was probably out of the question but I really didn’t care. It was here I clicked ‘stop’ on my garmin instead of ‘lap’…and I didn’t realize until a good 30 seconds later. DAMN.

At mile 15 there was a long incline – not steep, but there. And then at mile 15.8, my Garmin lost its signal. It’s amazing how easy it is to get hooked on the technology. I didn’t know what my running pace was so I just told Christine we’d have to go on feel. We crossed the main road to the other arm of the trail. We saw the 22 mile marker on the other side. I said to Christine “3 miles out, 3 miles back.” At mile 17 I saw Michel again at the spectators section. I hadn’t expected to see him there and it was a nice surprise. My legs were starting to ache just a little. It seemed like we were on a perpetual incline and I made the comment that it would be nice on the way back. The trail was just so beautiful and we saw some spectators who had with them a very large GOAT. Not something you see in a marathon every day for sure. At mile 19 and change we made the turn around and hit mile 20 at 3:07 and I quietly told Christine that sub 4 was pretty much out of the question; she was on pace for a monster PR and she was totally fine with it. My goal had been to finish anywhere between my PR of 3:48 and my PW of 4:10.

It started to get hard. I sent up a prayer for a friend’s mom who was recently diagnosed with cancer. This mile was for her. I put on my iPod but it was more of an annoyance and I took it off after a couple of minutes. I was looking at my watch for the interval distance and we were both getting quiet. I started to think I was losing it a bit because I felt like we were on a perpetual incline – I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. I thought of my mom quite a bit, thought of when she was dying and how much harder that must have been on her than what I was feeling. I felt her with me out there; I could imagine her voice so clearly.

I’d been good about hydrating and taking gels, but my legs and hips were aching. At mile 21 I heard a “Go MONICA!” from the other side of the train and saw Sondra – she was running a hell of a race! At mile 22 I saw the lady I’d met at the Bonefish grill. I realized I didn’t even know her name. At the mile 23 water station I took a cup of Gatorade and my stomach rebelled. I grabbed a cup of water and drank it down but I felt the wave of nausea rip through me. At the turn onto the main road with 3.2 miles to go, Christine’s husband Stuart jumped in. He’d run the half and was pumped up and chatty and said “Think of the PIZZA at the finish!!!” I thought I would vomit. The running was now a grind. A woman was holding a sign that made us all laugh: Bloody nipples turn me on. My left foot was cramping in the arch and my left hamstring felt like it was going to seize at any moment. My thighs and hips were very sore. We’d been shielded from the elements on the trail, and when we turned on the road we got a face full of wind followed by an uphill. I used my arms as much as I could and made a crack to Christine “That wind wasn’t really necessary was it?” I wasn’t even looking at my pace, just the distance left to the next mile marker and the walk break. Christine’s husband was chattering away and she finally said “Stuart: stop talking, it’s annoying me.” It's amazing how little tolerance you have for anything when you're uncomfortable. After the mile 24 walk break, my legs hurt to start running, my left foot cramping even more. I had a couple dark moments, wanting to just break into a walk and thought “Banish them, banish those thoughts.” The nausea was irritating. At mile 25, we did the quick walk break and that mile and a quarter seemed very long. At 25.3 I said “less than a mile to go!”… at mile 25.6 I said “less than 3 laps of the track!” Christine slowed just a bit and I said “Come on girlfriend, I’m not crossing that finish with anyone but you!” We passed the mile 26 marker and kept running. Up ahead we saw the 13 mile marker for the half marathon and a turn and I said “there it is! A tenth to go!” We made the turn and Christine said “Come on MONICA!” and we both ran as fast as our tired legs would carry us. I saw 4:07 on the clock, and I had a momentary wave of disappointment: I thought I’d come in under 4:05. It didn’t last. I crossed the finish line and stopped and bent over. My legs and left foot just ached. I was so happy to be done running. I gave Christine a big hug – she’d run close to a 50 minute PR – and got my finishers medal that I joked was the size of a hubcap.

Pfitz: So… what were your splits?
Well, I’m kind of amazed. As much as I hurt those last 3 or 4 miles, I didn’t really slow down. My first half was in 2:03:21, and my second half was in 2:03:53.
Well, you can’t complain about consistency.
Nope. Now that I’ve kinda figured it out a bit, who knows? Maybe I can run faster.   It was kinda fun.
And the beer at the finish?
It was most excellent Pfitz, most excellent.

Happy in the Chase

2011-03-14T20:12:00.000-04:00

Note: This is my Boston race report from the 2007 race. I'm posting it on my blog in homage to all my dear friends who are running the race this year! I hope my description gives you inspiration... proud of all of you!!!

Happy in the Chase

Boston Marathon, 2007

Be careful what you wish for.

I look out the window of the hotel. It’s 6:30 am and I see rain falling slantwise, wind whipping the flags on the flagpoles. I think of what I have said to my husband 2 days earlier Why do these have to be so hard? Why can’t I run a race without having to battle the elements as well? It was a pure and simple whine. An emotional vent, a rage at the heavens. Poor me. I get over it. Because you can’t run 26.2 miles feeling sorry for yourself; you might as well not even start. Suck it up, get your game face on, and roll. Make it a Who is the toughest? Channel your inner Prefontaine. Make it one for the ages. I ran Boston 2007. I FINISHED Boston 2007

* * *

Training for this race was a grind. Spring marathons are the hardest because the training is done in the cold and dark of winter. And I started in a bit of a hole: the Charlotte Marathon was in mid-December and was followed by some recovery downtime, a minor injury, and a nasty bout of the flu. The new year dawned with my not having run more than a mile in 3 weeks and the realization I had less then 4 months to prepare for Boston. And Boston is special. It’s not like any other race: it’s the big daddy, the Mecca, the Holy Grail, the “show”, the super bowl of running. Pick your overused cliché; they all work. You run in the shadow of giants. You breathe their air.

My training was flat. I logged more miles than ever, but I was tired. The Richmond/Charlotte double had taken its toll. There are people who can run marathon after marathon with little time in between. I am not one of them. I was weary - both mentally and physically - and my training reflected it. Most of it was alone. I missed the company of Franny and Robin on the long runs. Robin was sidelined with a stress fracture and Franny was taking time off for work and family obligations. I looked forward to the weeks after Boston - not the race itself - so I could take a step back from the monster miles, the stomach-burning tempo runs and catch up on my rest and my life. Boston was supposed to be my victory lap. In those intervening months of training I thought more than once Be careful what you wish for. I had no time goals. I wanted to enjoy the run, the course, the crowds. I didn’t want to go for broke and crash. I didn’t want to run so hard that the course and experience would be nothing more than a tunnel-vision blur. I am guilty of the mortal sin of covetousness: I want that finisher’s medal, nothing more.

With less than a week to go, the weatherman crashes my most modest of dreams with a single meteorological term that turned my knees to gelatin: Nor’Easter. What kind of word is that anyway? It sounds like something from Moby Dick. It’s a made-up term for a very real weather phenomenon. It is inches of rain and strong winds in bone-chilling cold. Shit. I wonder about those predicted 30+ mph headwinds, with 50 mph gusts; Could I take that kind of a beating over 26+ miles? Damn. I joke to my friends, All I prayed for was “Please, let it not be warm.” I guess I should have been a little more specific on the downside. I laugh, I fret, I cry. There is no way I’m not starting this race. There is no way I’m not finishing. It probably won’t be pretty. It won’t be perfect. This is life.

Pre-Game

I arrive in Boston on Saturday, a day earlier then planned. The forecast for the bad weather has forced me to change my travel plans. I have wholly committed to running this race. But I have to actually GET to the starting line. My flight is not direct, and from the segment from Philly to Boston, there are no less than 4 other runners headed to the race. This gives me hope. When I arrive in Boston, I get my rental car and proceed directly to the runners’ expo at the convention center. The first order of business is to pick up my race number. I am bib number 17288. I pass the rows of runners with bib numbers in the 4-digits. I am humbled. I am a piker, a bush-league runner next to them. I find the line with my bib assignment and pick up my race packet. I then proceed past the rows of runners who have higher bib assignments. My head is held a bit higher. Faster than you. Faster than you. And you and you and you. Most of the time running is not so much about being first, but about not being last.

The expo is jammed and frenetic. The highlight is “THE WALL”. Adidas has their campaign, their “Reason XXX for running the Boston Marathon”. Reasons range from the trite (“Chicks dig runners”) to the philosophical (“Cheaper than therapy”) to the inspirational (“Running for Joe who is stationed in Iraq”). Any runner can grab a “Reason #” bib, write down their reason, and stick it to the wall. I don’t even have to think about mine. I grab the bib, stick it to the wall, grab the Sharpie hanging from a string and scrawl my reason. I take a photo to memorialize it. To run in the footsteps of my dad. – Monica C. #17288

BJ, Erin, and Reen will drive with me to the state park at Hopkinton. From there I’ll take a shuttle bus to the start. A day earlier, I’d chatted with a woman who was also staying at our hotel in Waltham. She was debating with how to get to the start. When I go to the front desk that morning to get a bowl for my 3 packs of instant oatmeal – my pre-race breakfast of choice – and to check out the howling wind and rain, I see her. Her parents and husband are in tow. It is 7:00 am. They are headed to Hopkinton. I’m not even dressed for the race. I tell her Good Luck! Hang in there, stay warm. To myself, I’m thinking ARE YOU CRAZY? It’s over 3 hours to race time. What do you intend to do? Freeze in the interim? I’m as equal a novice to the race as she, but can’t help to think – as she fights to open the door against the raging wind – Rookie. It ain’t gonna take 3 hours to get to the start 14 miles away. I’m certainly not being humble, but her caution borders on the absurd. The look in her eyes transmits nothing but fear. She’s done before she’s even started.

My phone beeps in volumes those 24 hours before the race. Text messages flow like the rain outside. From Craig, my dear South African running friend/coworker I will be sitting in my office with an umbrella open in support of your gallant and amazing run…From Maria Hey, what’s a little rain and wind and from Michel, my husband, who aches to be here U can do it. U know you can. I love you.

I’ve been dropped at the State Park at Hopkinton. All roads in are closed for all but residents. The sheer volume of runners would overrun a town of its size. Shuttle buses will take us in from this point. I exit the car with a steady rain falling, winds gusting all around me. I’m in full Gore-Tex rain gear, and old shoes and socks are on my feet. A quick hug to Erin, Reen, and BJ, and I’m off across the parking lot to get on the first available bus.

After I’m dropped off, I make the half-mile trek to the “Athletes Village”. It sounds so Olympian, but in reality the athletic fields and parking lot of the local middle school have been appropriated and packed with a large white tent, more port-a-johns than can be counted, and school buses for the bag-check. During this half-mile walk, I phone my dad. I know he is concerned about the weather. I call to tell him that the rain and wind have substantially abated. I don’t want him to worry for the next few hours. The wind chill is there, but I have dressed for the occasion. The rain is a steady drizzle interrupted by the occasional downpour, but the weathermen have assured us that it will get better, if colder, as the race progresses. At the village, I phone my friend Glenn. I’m trying to get a hold of Greta, his wife. Her bib number is also in the 17-thousands; we’ll be in the same starting corral. He tells me what she’s wearing. I change into my race shoes, peel off the rain-resistant gear, and check my bag.

I make the half-mile trek to the start and my corral. I’m making small talk with another runner. I remember nothing more about her than I’m sure she remembers about me. We’re passing the time, trying to forget what may lie ahead of us. Wind? Rain? Who knows. Give me the strength. I whisper a plea, a prayer for courage.

At the corral, I look for Greta. 1,000 people are in this area. Will I find a blond woman in a Kelly green jacket? With 2 minutes to the start, I miraculously spot her and make my way to her. My greeting is a frenzied GRETA! WE’RE HERE! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT! The comfort and calm at seeing her familiar face is enough to distract me from my fear and excitement. The rain has turned into a drizzle. I’m in the middle of a crowd and the wind is more memory than reality. In hindsight, I can say I love this moment. We move forward. We are on our way. A woman on a public address system tells us to smile and wave at the camera, and our shuffle turns to a walk, then to a slow jog, then to a run. I hear the chirp of the computers as our chips pass over the timing mat. We are off. I’ve started my journey to Boston.

Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head: Miles 1-14

The race is storied for its downhill start. A guy weaves past me after we start to run wearing a snorkel and scuba mask. Wiseacre. I have practiced my downhill form during my training, and put it right to work, repeating to my self Pop, pop, pop, hot like coals to keep my turnover quick and light, and stay off my heels. I take a quick check of my watch after the first mile and see 9:14. Nice and easy, my muscles are cold and this is a nice warm-up. At this point, Greta speeds up and I wish her a good race. Running my own race: this was a valuable lesson I learned in Charlotte, one I don’t intend to now forget. And while I don’t feel the wind too much at this point, I attributed this happy reality to the trees lining the streets and the densely packed crowd of runners. I run in the center of the road to avoid puddles along the sides. I stick right to the double yellow lines. My own yellow brick road.

By mile two, I am plenty warm and know my two technical shirts and wind-breaker are too much. Without breaking stride, I manage to remove one of my shirts and tie it around my waist. While I’d normally ditch it, it was a nice shirt and I’d worn it in Charlotte. It has sentimental value and I don’t have the heart to throw it away. I’ll pass it to Erin, Reenie, and BJ when I see them.

The running feels easy, and I click my watch every 5k. I’m not paying particularly close attention to the time, and miles are melting away. I have a very strange pain in my left ankle which is annoying. It hasn’t hurt up to this race. I write it off as a weird nothing and ignore it.

In Ashland around mile 4 we encounter some islands as the road forks. A volunteer with a bullhorn announces Runners to the right. Runners to the right. Funny. I’d have a hard time believing anyone would make a wrong turn with 16,000+ runners leading the way. Go figure. But as I pass him, he decides to interject a bit of Boston humor: Runners to the right. Yankees fans to the left. I laugh and say to two tall men running stride-for-stride next to me Did you hear that? They shoot me a look and say Why? Are you a Yankees fan? Yikes. They weren’t kidding about that Sox-Yankees rivalry. No, no, no. I didn’t grow up following baseball. I’m a nothing, a nobody. The one guy looks at me, and in his heavy Boston accent scolds me You’re not a nobody today. YOU are running THIS RACE. You ARE somebody today. I smile at him and say Thanks! Go SOX! It is the nicest thing anyone’s said to me that day.

My goal is to run on autopilot to get to Wellesley College, which is situated at about the half-way mark. There are stretches of rural road, empty of spectators, but beautiful. The course has some rolling hills, but certainly nothing like I faced in Charlotte. I focus on my form, and on the inclines I imagine a man with a fishing rod standing on a lamppost having hooked my shirt. He’s reeling me up the hills. It’s a great visual to keep my form correct. Lean into the hill, keep my head up. At the top of the hills, I can plan on a blast of wind.

There are some funny signs along the road, and at one mile marker one reads Mile 6: Be happy you don’t have bulls chasing you. I laugh out loud. I find I am smiling all the time. I can’t help it. We run through town squares, and they are packed with people. Before the race I had worried that the foul weather would keep people away. But as a Boston native assured me, this race is ingrained in the fabric of this city and its residents. A little wind and rain wouldn’t keep them away. They don’t disappoint: Adults hold signs, scream at anyone who ventures near. A Florida’s worth of orange slices are held out for anyone who needs energy, as are jelly beans, gummy bears, water. Children at the sides of the roads keep their hands out, hoping for a slap. I veer over and hit as many as I can.

Around mile 7 it starts to rain. Not hard, thankfully. A song pops in my head that Erin and I had been singing a day earlier on the way to pick up Reenie at the airport, a classic by Burt Bacharach:

Raindrops are fallin' on my head

And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed

Nothin' seems to fit

Those raindrops are fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'

It makes me think of all the worrying I had done about the weather. I had expected the absolute worst, but I’m running in conditions that are pretty decent.

So I just did me some talkin' to the sun

And I said I didn't like the way he got things done

Sleepin' on the job

Those raindrops are fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'

My dad had called me the Saturday and Sunday leading up to the race. I could sense some urgency in his voice as he read the articles about the weather. Will they cancel the race? They haven’t done it in 110 years. They are talking about the risks of hypothermia. Be careful. Pace yourself. The winds are going to be bad. I reassured him that I had bought an entire duffel bag’s worth of gear, that I had closely monitored the weather, and that if I had to wear an entire gore-tex suit to stay dry, I would. Erin, ever the rational, reasonable judge, was also there to provide wise counsel. And Reen, all heart has chimed in Quit yer bitchen. You’ll be fine. I was feeling good. I was in Boston. Nothing would keep me from this race.

But there's one thing I know

The blues they send to meet me won't defeat me

It won't be long till happiness steps up to greet me

The conditions could have been so, so much worse, and all my worrying has amounted to nothing but wasted energy.

Raindrops keep fallin' on my head

But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turnin' red

Cryin's not for me

'Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complainin'

Because I'm free

Nothin's worryin' me

After a couple of easy miles, the rain stops. I pass the half marathon point and look at my watch: 1:58:06. Wow. Didn’t think I was on a sub-4 pace. Before long, we enter Wellesley. We pass an open athletic field of a school, and the wind is pounding. I tuck myself off the shoulder of a taller runner. And then I hear it: A roar in the distance. I smile and know I’m coming up to the famed “Scream Tunnel” at Wellesley College.

It takes a full half mile to get there, and these women do not disappoint. I work with a Wellesley graduate, and I think to myself Mary, these women are doing you proud. They scream and hold Kiss me signs. A man in shorts bearing the Texas flag stops at least a dozen times to grant their wish. I slap some hands and the screaming is deafening. Their enthusiasm kills the whipping winds, falling rains. We all feel something more in our steps. These women scream their siren song, but their bewitching tune is one that propels us forward, not crashing into the rocks. They are extraordinary. My ears ring for minutes after.

Everywhere I look, I see your face

My sisters Erin and Reenie flew in from out of town to cheer me on. My sister Nicole has small children at home; her presence here is impossibility. I miss her. The course is packed with spectators throughout. But if you want to move from mile to mile, it not particularly spectator-friendly. My friend, BJ, had taken the day off of work to squire them about. I’ve known him for years. He is family. After consulting train maps, they have concluded they could probably make it to one or two stops, but not until later in the course. I have told them that I’d rather see them later than sooner, and any time after Wellesley would be fine.

My thighs are starting to ache. Wow, kinda early. Those early downhill miles – despite being run with care – are taking their toll. OK, this is going to hurt. Embrace the pain. Smile when you do. After passing through the scream tunnel, I spend the miles scanning the crowd for Erin, Reenie and BJ. I figure they’ll probably be in the famed “Newton Hills”. But I search them out anyway. I’m also looking for a port-a-john that doesn’t have a line. At mile 15 and change, there is a screaming downhill into Lower Newton Falls. I’d driven it the day before and again chant my down-hill mantra. At the bottom of the hill, I see a free port-a-john. Someone sneaks in just before me, and I curse. I hate, hate, hate losing time like this. And I hate that I always seem to have to stop. But I also know something else: the first of the four famed hills is just up ahead.

The evening before the race, my sisters and I have eaten a wonderful meal at one of my favorite restaurants in Waltham, ‘The Tuscan Grille’. We were joined by BJ, and my dear friends Dan and Tammy Smith. It is a wonderful, laid-back gathering. I attack the breadbasket with gusto, even have a glass of beer. It feels like family, this gathering of ours. I have a view of the front door, and while we are eating, a man walks in. I do a double take. Erin! Reenie! Look at that guy that just walked in. The one in the beige Boston Marathon ball cap. Doesn’t he look EXACTLY like dad? I have so wanted my dad to be here to witness this event. He had run so many Boston Marathons, and despite his retiring from the sport 20 years ago, he is still - to this day - my running inspiration. But having returned from California that day, his getting to Boston by the next day is impossible. And yet here is his spirit. The same white beard and mustache. And the Boston Marathon cap to boot. We laugh at this coincidence.

I bolt from the port-a-john and make my way to the base of first hill. I’d driven these hills three times before the race, and they are familiar. The jury is split on these hills: Ask Boston veterans about them and half will say They’re no big deal and the other half will rule They are death incarnate. As I drive them each time, I find that the truth lies somewhere between these two poles. I’ve trained hills, both up and down. Nasty, gnarly, steep, gut-churning hills. I throw them in the latter parts of long runs to simulate what I’ll face in this race. My friend Robin has warned me.

As I approach the first hill, I’m still scanning the crowds for my own personal cheering section. I turn to my left and there – standing all alone – at the base of the first hill, is the man I’ve seen at the restaurant the evening before. He is even wearing the ball cap. I laugh out loud I can’t wait to tell ‘em this one! I know my dad is following every step of this race, checking my splits. He’s probably driving his wife Marlene nuts. And I know – know to my bones – that when he sees the next split, he won’t think the delay is due to fatigue, but to my cranky gut.

The man with the fishing pole pulls me up the first hill. Wow. That really wasn’t that bad. At all. I look down at my wrist and see the blue and yellow friendship bracelet my son, Jean-Marc has made me, just for this race. I smile and think of him. He, Luc, Madeleine, and Michel: they are right here with me. There’s a bit over a mile to the turn at the Newton Fire Station and the second hill. The crowds are thicker, and pushing into the streets. So many of these people are looking for someone, a racer out there on this course. I scan the road looking for my crew. They have 6 eyes, I have 2. Keep on looking. You’ll find them. They’ll find you. I see hundreds of faces, all friendly, none familiar. I pass the Newton-Wellesley Hospital on my right. So not going there today. On my left is the stately Woodland Country Club. Oh, for the 19^th hole. I’m feeling surprisingly good. I’m blissfully unaware of my time and am confident going into these hills. The second one is the steepest. I make the turn onto Commonwealth Avenue at the Newton Fire Station. The assault and ascent to Heartbreak Hill have begun.

Running over heartache

I’ve been smiling non-stop since the start of the race. I can’t help it; this is the unexplainable magic that is the Boston Marathon. I start up the second hill, the steepest in terms of grade, and I still smile. This isn’t that bad. Just keep going. In between the hills are sections of flat or downhill. In my head, I approach them as intervals. Two down, two to go. Regroup and attack on the next hill. The crowds are thick on both sides of the streets. They stand or sit in chairs. Some have drinks, others have pom-poms, signs, balloons. With their voices and presence, they carry us all over these hills.

At the base of the third hill, a man is running next to me. He turns my way. You look like you are enjoying this way too much. We are on the Newton Hills, you know. I have been smiling since my first step on this course. I can’t help it! How can you not smile out here! Look at these people! At my qualifying race the temperature was 19 degrees at the start. There were maybe 1,000 runners in the race. The course was empty of spectators from the half to the finish! He asks me where I qualified. I give him the Readers’ Digest version of my Richmond/Charlotte double. He laughs and points to his shirt: it is a Richmond Marathon race shirt. You’re kidding – you were at that race?! These spirits: they are all over the course.

I reach mile 20. The clock reads 3 hours and something. I don’t remember. Was it 3:02? :03? :04? I neither know, nor care. Six months before this race I would have been painfully aware of not only the hours and minutes, but of the seconds. What has happened to me? From where has this inner peace come?

Ten days before the race, during my last long run, I’ve had an epiphany: I will dedicate these hills – particularly “Heartbreak Hill” - to those who are suffering heartache. Winter is the lean season. It is cold and dark. It is the time we use to remind us of how much we love the light, the warmth. Raised Catholic, I am aware of this time of Lenten sacrifice. In the grander scheme, this race is a caprice. I am lucky to be able to participate in it with such joy and abandon. I offer this very humble sacrifice to these people. I know each hill will take minutes to climb, and that they are undergoing pain that lasts so much longer:

Gillian, my dear friend recently diagnosed with breast cancer. She is the mother of two young boys, and she and her English-born husband are a treasure to us here in America. Her Irish pluck and grace give all of us pause. Before undergoing her double lumpectomy, she informs her surgeon Make the girls look good. I have a party to attend this weekend. She is extraordinary.

Mom. She is suffering through the latter stages of dementia. She no longer remembers where I live, how many children I have or what their names and sexes are, the name of my husband of 20 years. She lives in a nightmare of confusion and fear.

De, my feisty brother-in-law. He has recently dubbed me “Spider Legs”. He’s a quietly funny guy who makes the best popovers and grilled chicken on the planet. He adores my sister, Erin. He lost his only sibling, several years ago. He injured his back – including a fractured vertebrae - in the early autumn and has been living in pain 24-7.

Pearl, Marlene’s mother. 90 years old, feisty and independent. But fighting a recurrence of her cancer.

Jon. My brother-in-law is burying his father this day. His dad has recently lost a horrific battle with cancer. He was in his mid-80’s when he passed, his family with him at the end.

Franny’s mom. My dear friend Franny, “Miss Daisy”. Her mother has been recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. She is a warm, wonderful, and artistically talented woman, and her children are amazing, each of them. They are generous, solid, and strong, full of faith in and love for each other. A wonderful family.

Robin’s mom who is battling lung cancer. Robin is my other rock. Solid, strong as iron, smart and sassy. I wouldn’t be here without her.

Cody, my friend Mickey’s son. 4 years old and recovering from stage IV neuroblastoma. Stem-cell transplants, hearing decimated by chemotherapy. Mickey runs his first marathon wearing a shirt with the words “CODY IS MY REASON”. A living nightmare for parents. They live month-to-month, worrying about recurrence, praying to God to spare their son.

Kirk, another running friend, who has just buried his mother.

I approach the base of Heartbreak Hill. I am at mile 21 and a bit. I feel good. I start the ascent and feel the backward pull of gravity. Reel me in, Ishmael. I start my chant. I say these names as inspiration, as prayer: Gill Mom De Pearl Jon Franny’s mom Robin’s mom Mick Cody Kirk. Gill Mom De Pearl Jon Franny’s mom Robin’s mom Mick Cody Kirk. Gill Mom De Pearl Jon Franny’s mom Robin’s mom Mick Cody Kirk. I say these names over and over in my head, occasionally whispering them as I climb. Toward the end of this half mile climb, I condense it to one name, and I sound like the small ‘engine that could”: Gill Gill Gill Gill Gill Gill Gill.

The top of Heartbreak Hill is an illusion. You think you’re done, but then another small ascent challenges your grit. I have driven these hills and I know that when I see the steeples of Boston College I am done. I crest the first hill and keep charging. I turn a corner and see the steeples. I’ve never felt the second bit of incline. The hills are over. My legs are fine; I’ve not only survived, I’m ready to roll. Amen.

Hustle and Flow

The Boston College students are out in force. They are raucous with energy, youth, and beer. I am lucky to be running near one of their own. They scream JOSH!!!! RUN JOSH!!! They have outstretched hands and I slap so many. I look to the steeples of the BC church, and as I turn the curve of the road feel a strong gust of wind. Then I hear it: MONICA! FEVE! GO RUN GO!!!! I turn and see Erin, Reenie and BJ. I dart to them and they protest WHY ARE YOU STOPPING? I untie my lucky shirt from my waist and empty the pockets of my windbreaker. Feeling great! I’m outta here! I’m off. It’s a steep downhill and I pump my arms. Leg muscles be damned, we’ve got 4-something miles to go and it’s time to grind it out. At the 35 km split, I look at my watch. It reads 3:20:21. Holy shit! If I hustle, I can break 4:00! I’ve lost my ability to do precise math; I can’t figure exactly how much time I have to make up, but I start to move. A commuter train runs along the road. It is packed with people. I look up ahead to my left and see two runners, a rope tied around each one of their waists. They wear matching orange shirts. One reads Guide, the other Visually Impaired. They are both walking on the left side of the road. As I pass, I pat the blind runner’s back. You’re doing great! The spectators scream inspiration to this duo. Amazing. He is running this without seeing all that is before him. He can’t see the crowds, the buildings, the hills.

Somewhere around mile 23, I see the Prudential Building. The race finishes directly in front of it. Oh I am so close. Then I see the CITGO sign. The crowds are getting deeper. At an intersection, 3 college-aged kids bolt in front of me, pizza boxes in hand. We nearly collide. Taken out by 3 large cheese and pepperoni. If I could, I would have laughed out loud.

At mile 24, the 3 gels and the sickly sweet Gatorade I’ve consumed throughout the course wreak havoc. A wave of nausea rises up: I have over-carbed. Screw it. Do your best. You can puke at the finish. I’m really tired now, and I know I’ve got to manage this as best I can. Go too fast, and I’ll be heaving at the side of the road before the finish. Go too slow, and I’ll not only NOT break 4:00, I wont re-qualify for next year. We get to Kenmore Square. Holy cow, how will this end? Apparently, there is a hill going into Kenmore square. I never feel it. I’m running as fast as I can without ending in ignobility on the side of the road. And then I see it, a yellow sign of hope: 1 MILE TO GO.

I don’t know how I will react at the finish. Will it be like my first marathon – blissful, thankful disbelief? I know it won’t be like my second at Marine Corps, a grueling disappointing crawl. Will it be like Charlotte, the joyous, tearful shout of redemption? I don’t think so. It’s exciting, a drama played out in real time. My mind is focused, joyous and happy despite the nausea Living the dream! I am LIVING THE DREAM! How often do we get to do this? How often do any of us get to live our dreams? The road dips under Mass Avenue. I see a woman in a pink running skirt ahead of me, and I make a dash for her. We make a quick right on to Hereford Avenue and a short block later, a left onto Boylston. A quick glance at my watch and I see 3:57:something. Oh man. I see the finish line, a blue and yellow arch. I pump my arms. The crowds are ten or more deep. I’m sure the cacophony of voices is deafening. I hear nothing. Nothing. I’m running running running. My legs are on fire. My stomach is in my throat. I’m getting that medal. I’m steps from the finish line.

Spring in Boston

What is Spring? Is it a season, an aligning of stars, a state of mind? In my faith, we have celebrated spring with the Easter feast a short week and a day before I toed the starting line of this race. Spring is the conclusion of the dark season, the end to fast and sacrifice. It is the hope and promise of renewal, the warmth of longer sunlit days, the seasonal promise of redemption and salvation. The day before Easter, snow fell in Richmond Virginia, the first and only snow of the year. I ran that day and saw cotton fluffs on the pink and white blossoms of cherry and dogwood. Neighbors were out, walking on the roads as the sun broke and we marveled at this anachronism, this oddity and fit of Mother Nature. She awes us with her ferocity, tempestuousness, and beauty. On Patriots Day in 2007, I have found all of these. Whatever I feared before the start of this journey –one that started back in December – is dissolved in the magic and healing that is faith and belief and hope. Whatever nature decided to put down as speed bumps on this course – be it wind, rain, or cold - are negated by the warm embrace of those who love and believe in me. The mountains that challenged me on this day – mountains of reality or myth – are leveled by the courage and example of those who grace my life every day.

I cross the finish line, arms up. I laugh out loud and celebrate all that is determination and strength and energy and life. I look at my watch, at the 4:00:10, and am not disappointed at not finishing under four hours. As in my first marathon, I am again reminded that the reward of the journey is not at the moment and measurement of its completion, but at the gifts that have been so generously bestowed upon me along the way.

I am a Boston Marathon finisher. But I am more than that: I am a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a friend. I’m smiling, and I am wholly content.

Birth of a Learning Curve

2011-02-01T19:08:00.001-05:00

*Note: A piece I wrote for the February Issue of Robious Corridor Magazine.

In December, I ended a job I’d had for 7 years. I’d been on the job so long I could do it with my eyes closed, on auto pilot, hands free. I left to ‘pursue greener pastures’, to ‘expand my knowledge base’….in honesty I left to ‘pursue more dough’ and to ‘expand my bank account’. I’m as pragmatic as the next person and darn if those kids of mine don’t expect an education beyond high school.

Call me a sucker.

Leaving the old gig wasn’t an easy decision: I liked the company and people a lot. Then we were acquired by a giant logo so big it is only eclipsed by Coca-Cola. It wasn’t a bad thing at all; it just didn’t strike me as my thing. I like the ‘small pond’ ideal: it keeps me motivated, accountable. My last few days at my former employer were frenzied; I respected the opportunity for having worked for them enough to leave them with my whole effort. At the end of my last week, as I was catching my breath, I realized the finality of my situation. My first thought was this: Here endeth the lesson. I was closing a chapter on a book with the smug satisfaction that I’d move seamlessly on to the next chapter.

I was wrong. Very, very WRONG.

I started my new job in January. And within a few hours I was reminded of a couple things: Labor pains and the subjunctive tense in French.

OK, stay with me here, this may take some explaining.

I started in a similar job in software but in a completely new ‘space’. In software that means more the purpose of the application and less about the moon and stars. Learning a new space means not only what it does, but how it is applied across different business types. Which leads me to labor pains.

It suddenly occurred to me that learning is very similar to giving birth: you work hard, sweat, breathe heavily, fret, and wish to the heavens for it to be over. Then, when the process is done and you’re looking at the product of your work, you forget the pain. You feel joy and self-satisfaction. I’m convinced if anyone remembered how hard the learning curve is, they’d never switch jobs. I’m also wholly convinced that ‘lifers’ – those who stay with a company their entire careers – are not unmotivated or lacking in adventure, but remember how brutal it is to ‘ramp up’.

On to the French subjunctive tense. Learning this new software space and conquering all the unknowns transported me back to my days of learning a new language. You can learn the alphabet, get the hang of conjugating verbs, and learn some idiomatic expressions. During the process, you can giggle that a term of endearment is “my little cabbage”. The English equivalent is probably something along the lines of “sweet pea”. Produce, apparently, is the universal language. In English, we have pragmatic tenses. You know when to use them. But we have no subjunctive tense. It’s based on ‘maybe’, on feeling. This linguistic mystery is all too apparent in French. I personally think if the French had employed it during WWI instead of the Maginot Line, WWII could have been completely avoided. To me, it’s a complete mystery.

I remember my days toiling to understand this tense that French toddlers could pick up with such ease and wishing I had some Gallic Rosetta Stone. And now I look at my children struggling over algebra or some other concept with new eyes: I’ve forgotten the frustration. For years they’ve expressed theirs in a variety of forms but my response has basically taken the same form: buck up, put on your big kid britches, think, and deal with it.

And now, I’m in their place. AGAIN. I’m faced with the French Subjunctive in the form of a software space and the clock is ticking. And the labor pains start. I think back to Lamaze classes, that silly concept that regular breathing will help you cope. Until the anesthesiologist gets there. Regular breathing helps nothing but to keep you living. Between that and the birth, we have to just use our minds and hope like heck there isn’t a pop quiz. So here I am, mid-learning curve, in pain and breathing for all I’m worth. And I envy the future because when I get there, I’ll forget how hard these current weeks have been. I’ll feel the comfort of the learning amnesia. And I’ll fix dinner and smugly cluck to my homework-grumbling children to buck up, put on their big kid britches, think, and deal with it. But definitely not in the French subjunctive.

Season of Lights

2011-01-17T09:36:00.000-05:00

*Note* A piece I wrote for Robious Corridor Magazine in December...

It’s the time of year when the days get shorter. They’re still 24 hours long, but the sun takes a bit of a holiday for several weeks. The shorter daylight and cold air compel us to hunker down and more often than not, stay inside. I spent most of my life in the snow belt of western New York and learned the way to survive the gray skies, mountains of snow, and frigid temps were two face cords of wood and a sturdy crock pot.

When I moved to Midlothian eight years ago, I was immediately struck at the number of people who ran, walked, and biked throughout my neighborhood in Salisbury – even in winter. Granted, our much gentler climate allows for this luxury.

The neighborhood is lovely indeed – it’s streets a ‘bowl of spaghetti’ of turns and rolling hills, instead of the grid-like neighborhoods in which I’d grown up. I’m lucky to live in such a park-like setting which provides miles of roads for safe recreation. I’ve spotted the Albino deer, hurtled snakes, seen owls and hawks fly past. I chart the progress of the seasons with the budding and blooming of trees in the spring, the smell of honeysuckle in the summer, and the riot of color in the fall. But the winter running is often the hardest of all, as most of it is done in the dark.

The 6 weeks between Thanksgiving and New Years, though, provide a gift of light. The winter solstice – the darkest day of the year – falls right in the middle. After the seasonal chow-down of Thanksgiving, the Christmas lights start to show up on the houses, and each run through the neighborhood reveals another house or two that is lit up to celebrate the holidays and combat these long dark days. I’m wearing my own version of “Holiday Lights”: reflective clothing and a halogen headlamp that I refer to as my “miners light.” Getting out on a cold night and anticipating the next new set of lights then finishing up with my cheeks red from the cold and seeing my breath in the cold air, I’m transported back to my middle-school self running home for dinner.

The neighborhood is a friendly place. People rarely fail to wave when I pass them in a car or on foot. In the dark of winter, they often have their bright headlights on to see. And if they don’t, often times they’ll put them on when they see a runner or walker as if to say “Yup, I see you.” It’s just a funny observation I’ve made over the years that many drivers turn off their highbeams for oncoming cars but turn them on for people on foot, and I’ve taken to wearing a ballcap in the middle of winter to block the glare, a seasonal anomaly for sure. I went for a Christmas Eve run one year to do a tour of the luminaries. It was a crisp winter evening; the glow of the candles along the road was enchanting. Headed home around a curve in the road I saw an oncoming car. And – you got it – the driver turned on his brights. I was momentarily blinded, took a wrong step on a spot of crumbling pavement and tumbled head-over-heels into someone’s yard. It was not an elegant dismount. Fortunately I didn’t hit any of the luminaries and become the Richmond version of Mrs. O’Leary’s cow. To his credit, the driver stopped to make sure I was ok. Gasping for air – the fall had winded me – I thanked the driver for stopping and explained the source of my gymnastic exhibition. I then wished him a Merry Christmas and continued home to bandage my bleeding hands and knees.

The mornings can be particularly dicey with people rushing to school and work, trying to beat the clock and I take extra care to avoid the routes that have a lot of traffic or blind corners. A week or two ago, I was running with my Tuesday/Thursday morning group. We were turning a corner on Kentford Drive in single file headed toward the Salisbury Golf Course’s water fountain. A car came caroming around the corner, its tires hugging the edge of the road. We were all wearing some kind of reflective gear and I was wearing my trusty “miners light”. In addition, the sun was rising and it was light out. However, the driver was either careless or distracted and all four of us were forced off the road to prevent being hit. Out of breath and incensed is not a good combination and we loudly grumbled the remaining tenth of a mile until we got to the water fountain. What if that had been a kid? What make of car was it? Someone had seen the first three numbers on the license plate; someone else mentioned the car was a Volkswagon. To which I laughed and said “BLACK ONE” and gently smacked his arm.

After Christmas, the light displays are turned off, and are pretty much gone by early January. Then it’s just me and the occasional headlights. The temperatures dip, they days are pretty dark, and spring seems a long way off. And while the desire to hunker down is as strong as ever, I’ll still take to the streets for a run. And when I return, I’ll throw another log in the hearth and then fire up my crock pot.

Airplanes in the Night Sky

2010-08-26T20:50:00.013-04:00

Everyday we make choices. Do you need the jolt of caffeine or will decaf do? Has the workout allowed for the favorite lunch or are we going to be a low-fat citizen? Expressway or the road less taken? Most of the time the options are barked by some underpaid, disinterested hourly worker. There’s no urgency in the question or in the process of the decision beyond the few seconds that proceed or follow it. Despite how they may momentarily distract or irritate us, these choices are meaningless in the grand scheme of our lives. We make them often without really thinking about them. Most of the time we are barely paying attention.

On the other side, we have so many ways to occupy ourselves that personally I’ve lost the ability to listen. To be really listen. I can’t remember the last time I waited in line without whipping out my blackberry to check email or search the web, looking for a way to speed the ticking clock. I find myself so distracted by so much noise and static that often I lose the ability to sort out the wheat from the chaff.

I was waiting in the airport for my flight when I had a small lesson on clarity. I’m funny in airports: I’m always looking for a familiar face. I’ve never seen one, but I always look. All those people; I figure the odds are in my favor. Like most people, I try and find a seat away from all the strangers. I read the paper or a book, catch up on work, or return phone calls. But here I was with time to kill and without my tools to kill it: my flight was a bit delayed, the paper was read, and my toys of distraction – blackberry, laptop, and iPod – are out of juice. And not an outlet in sight. The result is a restlessness which is uncomfortable. Life is so busy sometimes I feel I’ve lost the ability to be still, to be quiet. It’s an ongoing effort to still the horses in my head that are ready to break from the gate.

I head to Legal Seafood near the gate to grab a quick bite to eat. It’ll deliciously kill the time. I park my suitcase against the metal bar the divides the small open-air restaurant from the adjoining gate and claim a seat at the end of some stacked tables designed for singles or small groups of fliers not looking for a privacy. I’m lucky on this night to find an empty seat – the rest of the tables are full. My seat is across from a neatly dressed woman who I take to be in business. She’s got a glass of red wine in front of her and she’s staring at her blackberry. She’s on the end and I’m across from her, and next to another traveler and his companion sitting side-by-side. I order my food and sit and think. The company for which I work has just been acquired and there is plenty to work through.

The waiter brings my glass of wine and I swirl and contemplate the straw-colored liquid. This woman across from me – I’ve just about forgotten she’s there. Until she starts talking. A quick glance verifies she’s on her phone. It clearly isn’t a business call. There is something about her voice. She’s speaking in low tones, but I’m so close to her. I can hear a looseness to it, a rawness. She speaks, How could I have been so blind? It was all a lie…I thought it was real. For 3 years, I thought it was real. What would I know – it was the first real thing I’ve had. What do I do now? I keep swirling my wine. I take a sip. I can't betray my eavesdropping ways. I’m so close to her. It’s odd how anonymity can give someone the feeling of privacy. She takes a deep breath, listening to the person on the other end of the line. She lifts her glass and takes a deep draw. She utters an odd yeah…I know.. uh huh… from time to time. She starts to speak again I know. I know the smart thing to do is to move on. I just don’t know how to do it. I just want to call him, to beg him to make it like before. Pathetic. Goddamn, I’m so pathetic. Please, promise me you won’t let me do that… her voice is quietly shaking. She’s really angry and sad and so all over the map. She’s momentarily distracted at the waiter as he puts down my food. She lifts her hand and catches his eye, points to her glass. She orders another without uttering a single word, her ear still listening to the person on the other end of the line. She keeps talking and I try and focus on my food, my wine.

Shortly, the waiter sets down another glass of wine and then clears her plate of nearly untouched food. The only indication that she’s aware of this is the change of her grasp from the empty glass to the full one. She says I just want to get home. Fall into bed. Wake up when this is all over…She swirls the red liquid; a bit splashes over the edge on to her hand. She lets go of the glass for a second and wipes the back of her hand on a napkin. She’s staring at the placemat, her eyes open, her breathing slowed and regular. Her emotional fatigue or the wine – or a combination of the two – is slowing her down. I swear, between work and him, I’ve been moving so fast for so long, I think I … I don’t know. I think I missed my exit or something. She utters a weary laugh. I’m ashamed at my eavesdropping but equally rewarded with this verbal gem. “Missed my exit.” I literally do that more often than I’d like to admit. I’ll be driving somewhere and will get so caught up in my thoughts that I miss the turn, the street. Recently, I blew through a red light without even being aware of the intersection. I realize this woman was speaking metaphorically, but I instantly boil it down to the dual demons of choices and multitasking. We’re so intent on both of these that we miss so many details – important or not. They are the threads of the fabric of our lives. I sit there and look at the dinner I barely thought about before ordering, and realize I haven’t tasted a bite.

The waiter brings her bill and she mechanically retrieves her credit card. He processes it right in front of her with a clever little gizmo, and prints off three copies of her bill. She scribbles the tip and signs her name and slides one copy across the table to the waiter. She’s still on her phone. She says quietly I’m fine. I’ll call you tomorrow. She disconnects the call and lays her phone on the table. She swirls her wine – gently this time – and takes a sip, then pushes the glass away. She puts her face to her hands and rubs her face, as if removing evidence of the day. She rests her forearms on the table, her hands clasped as if in prayer. She’s looking at her hands then nods her head slowly; I hear a deep sigh. She unclasps her hands and studies her palms for a second or two. I’m struck with the idea that she’s astonished to find them empty. She stares at them for a second longer, then rubs one gently against the other, as if brushing away crumbs. Ok then. This is the last thing she says before gathering her phone and briefcase and heading out of the restaurant. I watch her, walking across the concourse to her flight home. I don't know her and am left with the feeling that - despite this - she is oddly familiar.

Note to Self (Race Report for the Crossroads 17.75K)

2010-06-13T21:27:00.001-04:00

Dear Monica,

Just a quick note to remind you of a few things. Please think of these as constructive criticism, not the heiney whomping you so richly deserve.

1. Confirm the start time of a race. Preferably the evening before the race as opposed to 30 seconds after you hear the starting gun fire.
Putting the race in your calendar (but not verifying all the details), printing out the confirmation ticket 4 days prior to the race (but not actually reading it), and thinking you know the start of the race is not the same as actually knowing the start time of the race. I'm jogging to the start when I hear the gun go off. I'm thinking "Oh, kids fun run!" Until I see lead pack of very post-pubescent men round the corner. Sprint in opposite direction ("she must have taken the small bus to the race...") about two tenths of a mile and somehow find the packet pick up. Which has been broken down. Nice lady goes into truck, gets number and chip. She's pinning my number on my shorts as I'm putting chip on shoe. She tells me “you better hurry to the start before they break it down…we've radioed down that you're coming” and I sprint toward it thinking that I’ve just used up about 75% of the energy I needed for the entire race…As I pass the starting line – alone - a dozen or so marines cheer me. Humilitation: I ran your gauntlet.

2. Turn on your Garmin well before you need it.
Realize my garmin isn't on. Power it up and it takes half a lifetime to synch. Make a turn onto a street and hope I can see people in the distance. I do, but…mirage? Warm and humid. I have no clue how fast I’m running or how far I’ve gone since Garmin is still scratching its rump. Realize I'm a slave to technology. Wonder how Phiddipedes managed without even the cheapest of Timex choronographs. Catch the walkers ...then the speed walkers...then the back of pack runners. Finally garmin synchs. I haven’t seen mile markers, so I start scanning the crowd of runners for signs of techno running geeks who can give me some clue as to time and distance.

3. As with starting time, make sure you KNOW the terrain.
At mile 2, make a turn into Prince William Park. I’m wearing racing flats which have the advantage of being nice and light, but the disadvantage of not having a lot of cushion. The pavement has been replaced by packed dirt and this big rocky gravel. Ow. Wonder how I'll handle many miles of this. Fortunately the nasty gravel goes away after a while. About the same time I realize I forgot the headband for my hair. While we have hills/trails it is shade covered which is great, and the glasses now are used as de facto headband.

4. In order to take care of essential pre-race business, see memo point #1.
Since I got to race late I was unable to attend to certain pre-race business. Take a bio break at the mile 4 fluid/aid station. It’s very warm/humid and I hadn’t had time to take my pre-race gel or drink as much Gatorade as I’d wanted, so I make the decision to hit every station: 3 gulps of Poweraid, dump cup of water on back of neck/head. One highpoint is I actually execute this in the correct order, which is good because it’s BLUE Poweraid and I would have hated to look like one of those blue smurfycats from Avatar in my race photo.

5. In order to not get frustrated at trying to pass a bunch of people on a narrow trail, see memo point #1.
The trail narrows and passing anyone is an exercise in patience. There are lots of up and downs and funky footing and it’s crowded on the trail. I keep weaving in and out of folks and try to be polite when I pass. There are times I wait rather than do the “gentle nudge past” (aka, ‘elbow shove’) because that person had the good sense to VERIFY WHEN THE RACE ACTUALLY STARTED. However, there is always the one guy. The one who is pissed when you try and pass, even though there is a mass of humanity in front of him. The one who thinks the only thing that stands between him and everlasting glory is NOT the 800 people in front of him, but the lady in the sweaty lime green sports bra next to him. We pass someone at about the same time, and then he tries to lose me. He speeds up and I just keep running my pace and eventually am even with him. He does it again. And a third time. I realize he is incensed he's getting passed by an old broad. I'm thinking "Dude, I started probably 5 minutes behind you." Cue eye roll.

6. Take a peek at the course elevation before the race.
Before I know it I'm about halfway thru. I have no clue what my elapsed time is so I'm just treating it as a hard workout. Then we hit hills. We'd had some up and downs but the trail is now road and these things are monsters. At 8.5 there is a hill so steep I can almost walk it as fast as run it (yes, I test the theory, what the heck, the race is a complete cluster at this point). Then steep down hills which are equally painful. And another half-mile long exquisitely painful hill. Exit park at about 9.5 miles into full sun. Move glasses from top of head to eyes: they are totally smudged and icky. Hit the 10 mile mark, and feel ok - legs are trashed from hills - I'm tired, its hot, and I just want to be done. But at least we’re on flat pavement. We make a turn on the street that goes to the National Museum of the Marine Corps and the finish. It’s uphill. At this point I want a quick death. Turn into entrance to museum - still uphill. And, well, I start grunting. Literally. Every exhale I'm sounding like Monica Seles hitting a killer forehand. Embarassing but I'm exhausted.

7. There is no grunting in road races.
Finally the uphill gives way to a gentle downhill. I see the finish line. I’m grunting louder and louder which is just disturbing. TO ME. I can't speak for those who were running near me. I cross the finish line and continue the gruntfest. A Marine hands me a bottled water and I hand it to another because I swear I can’t open it. He does it without asking questions because any Marine has good sense enough not to mess with a grunting, sweaty, stinky, exhausted, organizationally-challenged woman. And don’t even talk to me about the race photos…we're talking a Code Blue to the Makeup Unit.

8. Marines run great races.
All runners can appreciate a well-organized, well-staffed, well-stocked race. But there are also the very special ‘only the Marines’ intangibles that make these races so special: a strong "looking good ma’am", the funny signs planted at intervals throughout the race, my favorite pair being a photo of a barking drill Sergeant and “MY GRANDPA IS ABOUT TO PASS YOU…” followed by “IN HIS WALKER!!!!!”, a randomly called ‘OORAH’, and the finish line organization that is world class. Not to mention the fact that they bent over backward to the disorganized piker who couldn't even get to the starting line on time. And beer company race sponors. Which mean BEER AT THE FINISH. 9:15 am, Micholob Ultra, Breakfast of Champions. Oorah.

Enduring Love

2009-12-16T20:31:00.018-05:00

It is early morning in Manassas, Virginia. The sky to the east is just showing the first colors of purple and red. Mickey Johnson, 47, makes his way to the end of the driveway, ready to set off on a morning run. Today holds 6 miles, part of his marathon training regimen. He reaches the bottom of the driveway and looks down a small hill. It’s the hill his 3 children would ascend on their trip home from the bus stop. Justin and Daniela, his two older kids, would be ahead, bickering, laughing, their packs bouncing on their backs with the rhythm of their stops. Cody would be behind them. He was quiet, and air of calm around this normally frenetic child. Mick would wonder if it was the work going up the hill, the weight of the pack, or just the fatigue from a full day of school. Mickey smells the air. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath trying to catch a familiar scent.

It’s August 13th, 2009 and 12 friends who have never met meet for time at a Forum Event. All of these runners post on the Masters Forum of the Runners World On-Line Discussion Boards. While they normally share daily workouts, training tips, and race results on line, this “FE” gives them the rare chance to gather and share a meal before a race. They all agree that the Masters Forum is a special place, that it fosters incredible friendship. They have a digital community of runners from different walks of life whose foundation for acquaintance are the common bricks of running, cemented by mortar of dedication and shared sacrifice. They tend to be over 40, but the Masters Forum attracts those younger than, those who are looking for the sweet, grounded advice of those who have been around the block or the track more than a few times. There is a sense not only of kinship, but that they have each others back: a DNF is met with words of encouragement, a PR is a group celebration. There are even non-running topics discussed and shared: a new job, a child’s graduation, a move to a new city.

The organizer of this group, Scott Reiss, lives in the events home state. The others have travelled from a confetti of locales - Indiana, Virginia, New York , Maryland,– and will run multiple legs and double digit miles in the ‘100 on 100 Heart of Vermont Relay’ that rolls through the Green mountains from the Trapp Family Lodge one hundred miles to Ludlow, VT.

The next day, race day, is forecasted to be warm and sunny. These newly minted friends eat, laugh, and share stories. They review details for the next day’s race, fret about the weather, terrain, clothing, and food. This is what runners do: they sweat the details as much as the miles. However - unlike other races - they are here not to chase a PR or win an age group. They are here to honor a child they have never met: Cody Johnson.

Cody Johnson was diagnosed with stage 4 neuroblastoma 3 days before his 2nd birthday. He was born on the first anniversary of the 9-11 terror attacks and grew to be a feisty, spirit-filled toddler. Neuroblastoma is an “orphan” cancer: it occurs almost exclusively in children under the age of 10 and as such doesn’t benefit from research done on cancers such as leukemia and lymphoma that strike both adult and child populations. The average age of a child diagnosed with Lymphoma is 17 months, so young the child can’t articulate their pain. Like Cody’s case, 70% are not diagnosed until the disease has spread.

Cody was admitted to Georgetown Hospital for 10 days of baseline testing. His radiology scans lit up, the cancer present in every part of his body. A round of high-dose chemo was ordered and required Cody to be in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) for 31 days where Mickey slept every night in a chair next to Cody’s bed. Cody suffered from the treatment: he vomited a pitcher full of blood from cancer-infected adenoids. He suffered fevers and side effects from the toxic chemicals. Surgery was required to remove the remains of lung and kidney tumors, as well as his adrenal gland and surrounding lymph nodes. The final step in his 4 month treatment – during which he rarely was home for more than 24 hours at a time – was a stem-cell transplant. The transplant had complications - Cody had a reaction to one of the transplant drugs. His lungs filled with blood and he suffered congestive heart failure and partial kidney failure. His oxygen intake dropped to 30%; doctors worked through the night to save him. A priest was called to the floor to be on stand by. His condition was minute-to- minute for 9 frightening days. Mickey and his wife, Diane, kept vigil over their fragile son, praying for a miracle, praying for their 2- year- old to endure and pull through. He survived those harrowing days and greeted the nurses treating him by throwing anything he could reach at them.

The 100 –on-100 was not the first time the RWOL masters had come together to support Cody. In April, Bill Allen – a member of the 2009 US World 24-Hour Run Team - put out a call to the Masters Forum and organized a team for the Virginia 24 hour Run for Cancer - 24 hour Ultra and Relay. Bill had been deeply moved by Cody’s struggle and wanted to support the Johnson family. He found the race and was committed to participating, despite it being a few short weeks before the World Championships in Italy. Ten ROWL Masters made the trek – from Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, Mississippi, New Jersey, and Virginia – to run for Cody. Bill made a flag that each would carry.

One participant, Shannon McGinn, 33, drove from Rahway, NJ to run in Virginia. Diagnosed at 29 with breast cancer, she survived and took up the sport of running. This race is special because she is raising money to fight the illness that has so personally touched her. In doing so, she abandons her bib for the 113th Boston Marathon to be contested the Monday after this relay. It was to be her first Boston, but it matters little to her: she understands all too clearly the fight for life against this disease; Boston can wait.

Nine of the ten participants complete 50 miles during the 24-hour relay and each carry the “Cody’s Crew” flag. During the dark hours on the trail, Mickey thinks often of the pain his young boy endured; these miles become spiritual for him, an act of contrition, perhaps, that parents feel for not being able to spare their children from certain pain. Cody’s Beach Bound Crew of Pirates raises $1200 for Neuroblastoma research.

Cody’s first treatment caused agony beyond imagination. While he’d learned to walk before the disease struck, he needed to re-learn the skill – twice – due to muscle atrophy caused by the cancer treatments. When Cody finished his treatments, Mickey looked at his own physical health and found it wanting. He took up running and put his sights on running the Richmond Marathon in November, 2006. Race day was unseasonably warm and as he struggled with cramps and fatigue over the last half of the course, he thought of his son – his image on his t-shirt and the words “Cody is My Reason” – and the pain he had endured. He thought of the treatments that would cause Cody’s lips to blister and peel, the mucositis that resulted in the degeneration of the lining of Cody’s mouth. Drinking milk from a bottle felt like drinking shards of glass. He thought of Cody’s first words, and how they related to the hospital, the drugs, his treatments. Mickey knew that his own fatigue and cramps were nothing, that the discomfort was temporary. He knew when his pain would end, that whatever agony he was feeling was but a small slice of what Cody had. Cody had survived his first brush with cancer; Mickey would finish this race.

Race day in Vermont dawns cool but the sun will quickly heat up the course. Each team member will carry the Cody’s Crew flag during the relay. Eric Cheung of New York City is the lead-off runner for Team 1 of Cody’s Crew. He’d met Mickey at a Masters FE at the 2007 Philadelphia Marathon, and found him to be as ebullient and warm as the man on the boards. Mickey believed with all his heart that Cody was cured, but his son’s battle for health was a constant, the disease has a frighteningly high rate of recurrence. Eric could feel this weight on Mickey. “When the 100-on-100 teams were recruiting runners, I felt a strong urge to do something, anything to help.”

Somehow, this 6-year-old boy has infected these runners with his toughness and determination. During each of the 3 legs of this hundred mile relay, they’ll think often of Cody, this boy they know but never met. They feel a common mission, a common a purpose. None can put a finger on it; perhaps it is that Mickey could have been any of them, that Cody could have been any of their sons. Tobey Hobbes of Indiana would later reflect “The emotional energy and sense of purpose from these other 11 people was so contagious that you couldn’t help feeling like we were all one big family.”

When Karen Faber, 42, of Bowie Maryland, signed up, she knew nothing about Cody or Cody’s Crew. She stumbled upon a thread in the RWOL Masters Forum looking for a runner to fill in for a participant who had withdrawn. “At the time I knew very little about Cody or Mickey or neuroblastoma. But I liked to run and I wanted to see Vermont.” During her preparations for the race she frequented the Masters forum more often. “I started learning more about Cody… I read about the 24 hour relay in Hampton, and I found out that there was this big, compassionate group of runners out there…”

It is 2 days before Thanksgiving, 2007. Cody is cranky, his belly is hurting. He’s a typical 5- year- old: he’s started kindergarten, he loves his teachers, he tests the rules. He gets tired and cranky at the end of the day but he loves getting on that bus with his siblings Justin and Daniela. Mickey and Diane take him to the doctor thinking he has nothing more than a virus. But the beast is back, Cody has relapsed: Scans show an enormous tumor on his liver. One of the top Neuroblastoma surgeons at Memorial Sloan Kettering declares the tumor inoperable. Mick and Diane refuse to surrender. They find a surgeon at Georgetown University hospital who will perform an 85% liver resection. Before the surgery, Cody goes through additional rounds of chemo to shrink the tumor. Santa visits the children’s Oncology unit at Georgetown University hospital. Mickey is there and uncertain how Cody will react; he has been in a foul mood all morning. Cody is angry; his world has been upended yet again. He’s had to withdraw from his beloved kindergarten. He has to have the toxic chemicals with their nausea and hair loss infused in his veins. He wants to be home with his family. He submits to the treatment but has tantrums in between: he is incensed at this intrusion in his life. Cody sees the bearded man in red and hesitantly approaches him, then wraps his arms around him and hugs him for nearly half a minute. A Washington Post reporter is on hand to capture the moment.

“A gift for Santa too”, Washington Post
Elizabeth Scott, 44, a native of Vermont, has been an active fundraiser for cancer research for years. “You start feeling powerless and that there’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop the march of this beast.” She relishes the opportunity to raise money to combat the disease, and with good reason: it has claimed nearly the entire side of her father’s family: Her grandmother, uncle, and father all perished from colon cancer. Her sister has fought breast cancer. A cousin had lung cancer, another is fighting an aggressive brain tumor. “Running races for cancer research funding has given me a bit of peace, and a feeling of control over this disease.”

Rick Knuth from Fort Wayne, Indiana competes despite a nagging hip injury. A devout Catholic, he feels participating in the event is a spiritual call, to give something. “I have been blessed with three healthy daughters and just can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for Mickey and Diane during Cody’s illness. Nobody should have to go through that.” During the difficult parts of the day’s racing he falls back on traditional Catholic prayers, saying countless Hail Marys and Our Fathers.

Cody endures additional cycles of chemotherapy and radiation during that winter and spring. Cody never complains about going to the hospital, but he doesn’t always willingly submit to the treatments. He misses kindergarten, and is thrilled when he is able to attend his class’ Valentines Day party. He’s excited to be going back and when he arrives Cody had hugs for everyone: the secretaries, the school nurse, even the principal. He goes to his classroom and hugs both of his teachers. Back at the hospital, Cody is Jekyll and Hyde with the nurses, charming one minute, angry the next. Mickey worries at how Cody lashes out, at how angry his little boy can be. In hindsight he realizes Cody was fighting back the only way he knew how. He has such spirit – he enters a room and takes it over with his smile, his laugh, his devilish charm.

The day goes from cool to very warm with temperatures reaching the 90’s. The course is very hilly and there are stretches where there is no relief from the sun. The relay runners feel the fatigue and discomfort from the course and heat. They carry Cody’s flag and all think of him during the tough stretches. Elizabeth is suffering from nausea, as is Mickey. Despite his second leg of the relay being relatively flat, the lack of shade is crippling. “Although it was relatively flat the heat just sucked the life right out of me.” The thought of Cody and all he had gone through kept him from walking during this leg. After he finishes this part of the relay he finds an ice cold stream and jumps in. He thinks about Cody’s favorite place, the beach.

Over the summer, the Johnson’s take Cody on a trip to Ocean City, Maryland,. The beach is Cody’s favorite place and it is a wonderful chance to be together without the intrusion of hospitals and doctors. The trip is a respite for the marathon treatments to come. In September, the Johnson’s take Cody to Memorial Sloan Kettering Hospital in NYC to undergo 3F8 antibody treatments. These treatments are designed to attack any remaining cancer cells in Cody’s body and are the best protocol available to fight neuroblastoma. It is a painful process, each infusion causing more and more pain, and morphine rescues are often needed during the 20 minute treatments. Cody is in MSK for 2 weeks and passes his 6th birthday in the hospital. The doctors are hopeful: the results of the tests show Cody is tolerating the treatments well. He returns to MSK in October, and again in November to undergo additional cycles. It has been a year since his cancer has returned and they feel a corner has been turned, that Cody is getting better.

While the afternoon conditions are tough, Cody’s Crew is smiling: they are having so much fun. They joke about not making unscheduled stops at the Ben and Jerry’s ice cream factory that they will pass. They crew for each other, provide water for their runners on the course. Other runners question Cody’s Crew about the flag, and they are happy to spread the word, to share the mission. Later in the day, they are cheered along the course by other participants who have heard of their cause. They feel like running evangelists, spreading the gospel of Cody.

The Johnson’s hope is short-lived. It is December, 2008 and they are looking forward to spending the holidays together as a family. Just before Christmas, Mickey takes Cody to Georgetown University hospital for some tests. The whites of Cody’s eyes have developed some yellowing and the tests indicate increased bilirubin: something is going on with Cody’s liver. The doctors conclude that it is inflamed due to a virus, and work to get it stabilized. Just after Christmas, Cody begins to limp. He’d hurt his leg the last time he had been to New York City and this same leg is giving him trouble. Mickey and Diane pray it is related to the injury and the doctor thinks it may very well be. However, on December 30, 2008, a scan shows the presence of a bone lesion: the beast has returned.

The sun sets on the runners in Vermont. They have each started the third and final leg of the relay; they are closing in on the finish line. Teams 1 and 2 of Cody’s Crew run the third leg together. Their legs are sore and tired from the miles. Their feet hurt and the heat of the day has sapped much of their energy but the cooling air and the colors of dusk lift their spirits. They wear reflective vests, head lamps, reflective arm and leg bands. They see the faintly glowing figures of other runners. It is a spiritual, - almost holy - time for them.

Time. Runners seem to be centered on it, measuring miles and kilometers run in hours, minutes, seconds. Marathoners trying to qualify for Boston know all too well how long one second can be, the difference between standing on the starting line and sitting at home on Patriots day. But this evening in Vermont, the time it takes to run the course has ceased to have meaning. While these runners would normally want to speed through the miles as fast as possible – minimizing time - they instead savor it on this night. They remember how Cody loved his older brother Justin, and how his one wish was to be ten years old like him. That’s all Cody wanted, just a little more time. They have a new clarity of just how precious it is; Cody’s journey has given them that.

The presence of the cancer so soon after the 3F8 treatments is not good news. More lesions are found Cody is scheduled for chemo and radiation to try and knock it out fast. However, the chemo can’t be administered until his liver resumes normal functioning. The doctors wait as long as possible, and then have to settle on half doses of chemo to prevent further damaging his liver. They are balancing the delicate scales of time: they need time for his liver to heal, but every day they wait is a day the cancer grows. Cody starts treatment at the end of January and is home in time to watch his beloved Pittsburgh Steelers play in the Super Bowl. Photos of Cody show him smiling wide, excited. But one can’t help but notice his yellowed skin. It’s incongruous, to see the beautiful smile on this evidently ill child. His liver numbers continue to deteriorate and the doctors have to suspend the chemo.

Bill Barnes of Boston runs the final stretch of the relay with Mickey. They will carry the Cody’s Crew flags over the finish line. It is dark out and they chat amiably about the relay, their previous runs that day, how they felt. The air is so cool they can see their breath. They get very quiet. At that moment, Bill experiences his first ‘runners high’. “It was extremely dark and our senses of sound, scent, and touch took over from our sense of sight. We ran in silence except for the perfectly cadenced footsteps and breaths… We were, simply, two runners doing what we love to do.”

2 weeks later Cody’s stomach begins to hurt. When the Johnsons call the doctor, she tells them to come in the next day. This gives them pause: why wait, why not take him in now? She tells them gently that it is most likely the cancer, that it has spread. Scans reveal cancer covering 50% of Cody’s lungs. There are new spots on his liver in addition to the lesions on his leg; the progression of the disease is frighteningly fast. They cease all treatment. Mickey and Diane go into ‘Memory Making Overdrive’. They quickly plan a final trip to Florida, to get Cody back to his beloved beach. The trip is hard, Cody is ill and irritable. His skin is deeply yellow and people stare at him. He is quiet and tired during most of the time there; the cancer is wearing him down. They play miniature golf and he sits after each shot. He is only well enough to go to the beach one afternoon. They return home on March 1st and take Cody to Georgetown University Hospital for an evaluation. The cancer is rapidly advancing in his lungs and liver. Two weeks earlier Cody’s doctor had thought he might have 3 months left. She now says he has a week, perhaps two. His breathing is becoming more labored and he is in continual pain. They take Cody home with a morphine pump and oxygen. He is sleeping when Mickey and Diane have the hardest talk imaginable with Justin and Daniela: they have to tell them their little brother is dying.

Mickey would reflect on this time, this last leg of the relay. “There is nothing like running at night, along a lake, in the pitch dark with a friend and just listening to the sound of your shoes hitting the road.” He and Bill approach the finish line and see the cluster of the other ten members of Cody’s Crew waiting for them. “I can’t explain what I felt or what I remember at that moment. It was all just a blur. I remember all of the Cody’s Crew members hugging each other and the tears were flowing. It was all I had hoped it would be. I know my son was watching me and was very proud of all of us. I felt closer to Cody at that moment than I have since the day we lost him.” They crossed the finish line together, each of them holding their “Cody’s Crew” flag high.

Every runner at one time or another questions his or her reason for being out there, for running mile after mile without regard to weather, fatigue, discomfort. But what makes runners go out of their way to run for a child they’ve never met? It makes you wonder about the nature of friendship, particularly of these friendships. Are they friends because of the running, is the sport the cement that holds these people together? Or is it something more, that the running and the Masters forum were the springboard for all of this? They started out with a common denominator of running, but at the end it wasn’t about the running; it was about Cody, he was their reason.

Kerry Lambert, also of Vermont later reflects on the weekend. “Cody deserves more…he deserves a legacy, a positive legacy. If our run and this race can raise funds and awareness that get us even a smidgeon closer to helping another child with this horrid disease, then sign me up. Make me a shirt, give me the flag, point me toward the race. I’ll run because I can…and because Cody can’t.”

Karen Faber – who joined the relay so she could see Vermont – left knowing she had been there for something much more meaningful than a weekend sightseeing trip. “I get a little choked up when I think about the weekend… I realized that I wasn’t just there to run a few miles in Vermont, I was there for something much bigger. I was there for Cody. I was there for an amazing kid that even after his death is doing great things through his parents and his dad’s running.”

Despite his tremendous loss, Mickey is overwhelmed by the generosity of both spirit and body of these people. “Runners are not afraid to work very hard for something they believe in. Where many people would just write a check from their check book to help, our team members did that plus wrote checks with their sweat, tears and pain.” He is humbled by their gesture. He intends to continue his fight and while his intention was to raise funds for a cure for neuroblastoma, he also finds he has collected willing volunteers who spread his mission a step, a block, a mile at a time. They are, after all, runners.

Mickey loved the smell of Cody’s hair, loved the way it felt on his face when Cody would sit on his lap. He feels Cody with him, in his aching heart. He misses him so much. Mickey opens his eyes. He takes one last look down the hill; Justin and Daniela will be headed down to the bus later that morning. He turns and starts out on his morning run. Cody is his reason.

Cody Johnson died on March 6th, 2009. He was 6 years old.

Donations to find a cure Neuroblastoma may be made to http://www.codys-crew.org/

Goodnight, Moon

2009-03-11T19:02:00.016-04:00

I’m driving south on I-95, a few dozen miles south of Manassas, Virginia. I'm listening to an audio book, but my mind keeps drifting. It is dark out, and I glance out the driver’s side window and see the full moon, bright in the sky.

I’m reflecting on this evening and thinking of similar evenings I’ve had this past year. I’ve just come from the wake of a child who spent nearly 5 of his 6 years battling the vicious beast of cancer. I was trying to make sense of it and not making any headway. The moon caught my eye.

I think back to last spring, when my Aunt died. She was in her late 70’s, and had been bedridden for many years after a stroke. In some ways, her death was a blessing. People talk of “quality of life” and hers was not one I envied. She’d had a full – if hard – life. She survived the sinking of the Andrea Dorea. She married and had 3 children, although her third child – a girl – was born severely disabled and institutionalized nearly from birth. She had a loving family. Her death was sad – she was a beloved family member. But she had had her fair shot at life. It may not have been even close to perfect, but she got to the starting line and ran the race. I could do the math on this one.

In December, my family was hit with the sudden and very tragic death of my cousin Melissa. The last time I’d seen her alive was at her wedding, not 18 months earlier. A lifelong epileptic, her neurologist changed her medication so she could safely carry the baby she and her husband so wanted to have. Melissa was a feisty one, and I remember thinking when she was 12 or 13 that she was ‘an old soul’. I don’t know if I attributed it to her illness or her status of “first born’, but I had this vague notion that she was born a few years later than she should have; She always seemed to be a few squares ahead of her peers in the game of Life. As tough as she was, she was 10 times a sweet and loving and giving. She was the uber-aunt, adored by her nieces, the person ready to jump in and help at a moment’s notice. While she swore – as a 20-something year old – that she would never marry or have children, she fond her soul mate, a sweet, burly teddy bear of a man. At 37 she married, and from there they started their all-too-short journey. The medication switch fatally altered her blood chemistry, and shortly before Christmas, she collapsed. She was rushed to the hospital and put on life support. It was December in Milwaukee, and it was snowing. My Aunt later related while eulogizing her daughter that her condition was getting grim. Her niece pulled her over to a window – it was dark out – and she pointed to something under a lit street lamp: a single, perfect snow angel. There were no boot prints around the angel, and they grabbed on to this talisman of hope and comfort after Melissa died. I don’t know if we look for these ‘small miracles’ to help make sense of the senseless; as with so many situation, you find any port in a storm. I know – while it may have helped – there is nothing to balance out the loss of a child.

As I speed down the 95, I glance again at the moon. While still bright, there is a slight bit of haze covering it. I think about these deaths, and about the one I have most recently faced.

How do you reconcile the death of a child - a beautiful, lively 6-year old boy? Cody Johnson was this boy, a mere slipknot of a child who loved pirates, legos, and his family. The cancer was so vicious and without remorse it claimed 80% of his liver, his ability to live a carefree childhood, and ultimately his life. He endured more pain than most of us will collectively face in a lifetime. His parents are in awe of the courage of their son. His father, Mickey, told me he never complained, never ever put up a fuss of having to go to the hospital. That’s not to say that Cody was sweetly ignorant of his predicament: when he was subject to procedures he’d sometimes put up a fight, he’d lash out in anger, or be plain grumpy. He rebelled against this slice of his existence, the one over-inhabited with needles, chemo, nausea, and procedures that kept him from being ‘just a little boy’. I’m not sure if he was brave or didn’t have a memory that didn’t include a life without discomfort and pain. His resiliency was born of experience that predated memory. He just knew that this thing robbed him of kindergarten and soccer, and often interfered with swimming in a pool or his beloved ocean.

As I entered the funeral home, I saw an incongruous sight: a white hearse parked behind a blue minivan. I’ve never been to the wake of a child – I have no experience against which to draw. I’m lucky in that sense. I don’t know how parents face this; I know there is no chapter in any child-rearing guide titled “Burying Your Child”. I know enough to know there are no words for a moment like this: There is nothing for a moment like this. I walk into the viewing room and see Cody’s profile peeking out of an impossibly small coffin. I’ve never met this child, and this is not certainly the way I wanted to. My eyes fill. I can think only of a pithy sentence: It’s just not fair. I see my friend Mickey and he looks strong but the fatigue and grief are etched around his eyes. I hug him tightly, this tough, sweet, genuine friend of mine. I suspect he is in the numb antechamber of disbelief and denial. I guess he is trying to get through the next days, the next horrible few days of saying goodbye forever to his beloved son, to be brave and solid and be like his hero, Cody.

His wife, Diane, is beyond sorrow. When I embrace her I have a sudden realization that all the strength she garnered for her son is – for the moment – gone. She feels so thin and fragile, I want to hold her forever and help her support her impossibly heavy heart. I hold her face in my hands and I want to say something – ANYTHING – that will resonate, that will help her in the certain dark days to come. I believed he’d get better – it was easy for me. I could make the logic work, that the chemicals would do their horrible, wonderful magic and kill the thief that was trying to rob this sweet family of their child. But he wasn’t MY SON; I didn’t have that emotional investment. I could stand pat on the science and hope for the best. It’s emotionally cowardly, but I have to admit to its truth.

It is this heartbroken mother who says something of such simple ferocity that I am left nearly breathless: I can’t believe Cody is dead! I never thought he would die! Even when he was so sick, I believed he would get better, that one day he would wake up and just start playing with his toys… She hoped beyond hope, and was betrayed by her hope and her child was taken and he is not coming back…what do you say to this? Nothing. I hug her again, tightly. She has been so brave, and devoted, and caring and still her sweet baby is gone. How can anyone make sense of this?

I go to see the boy. While waiting in the receiving line, I watch streaming slideshows of him. Anyone can deduce from the photos he was a feisty kid, full of life, in the thick of everything. You see him smiling, mugging for the camera, kicking a soccer ball, wresting with his brother or his cousin, Chris. There is such LIFE to this boy. And when I approach the casket, I see that yes, the funeral home has done a nice job in preparing him, but it’s not Cody, at least the Cody I have come to know. Regardless of the genetic makeup of this tiny body lying so still in front of me, this is not CODY. Cody was perpetual motion, and animation, and LIFE. Like a blossom, the beauty is on the tree, in the air, near the sky; the husk of the flower is on the ground.

I have a sudden realization and kneel before the casket and pray - not for Cody - but for his family. I pray for those left to mourn this brave, sweet child. I pray for his parents - for Mickey and Diane - that their grief will not consume them, that the beast will not further add to its tally of this family. I know this is a wound that will never totally heal, and like the beginning of his life, they will be living the horrible mirror image of a year of “firsts” where they will be desperately missing their boy and saying too often the word without. I know many people believe in heaven and an afterlife, and if there is one, then Cody is surely in it. If there is a God, I believe he is one that ushers children in without the scrutiny that is leveled on adults. I want to believe Cody is there; but even if there is no afterlife, Cody is still at peace and free from the pain, needles and chemicals. He may be gone from the earth, but he is most certainly not out of the orbit of those who love him.

I speed down the I-95. That moon is still there. I reflect back on how I believed in Cody’s treatment, I firmly believed it would work. I’m trying to make sense of something that is senseless – it is the ultimate exercise in futility. There are those who try and find some meaning in such tragedies – but regardless of whether Cody is an angel in heaven, or his illness causes a philantrhopic streak to raise funds to cure the disease – there is NO WAY you can convince me that there is some earthly math that will balance each side of the equals sign. Regardless of the aftermath, there is nothing that will mitigate the ultimate loss of this child. There can be redemption and solace, but not a loss of memory; It is the very definition of grief.

And now I look at the moon and wonder if my belief and hope were of any substance, like the light of the moon. I get angry for a moment – this moon is a fraud. It creates no light – it simply reflects the light of the sun. It hijacks it and passes it off as its own. Without the sun, the moon is nothing but a gray, barren, crater-pocked rock in orbit around our Earth. It’s a cold, lifeless place. But of course the moon doesn’t steal the sun, it redirects its light. And then it occurs to me: we are all like the moon. We would orbit this Earth, cold and barren but for the light and beauty of the warmth of something bigger than us all: LOVE. We are nothing without it.

I want to believe - regardless of the final resting place of the souls of those who leave us too soon – that we carry with us an ember of their love and humanity. And I throw up a silent prayer to the moon and beyond for these parents of stolen children that they not feel some sort of misplaced responsibility to live for their lost child, but to live life – with joy – for having had the blessing that was this child, for however unfairly short was their time on our Earth. And that in reflecting the love for their child, it will light their way.

For Cody and Melissa

The Son Also Rises

2008-11-09T09:50:00.017-05:00

“Hard work PAYS OFF” – Chant and Mantra of the Weaver Football Titans Senior football team, 2008

I was never a ‘real’ team-sport athlete. I think I was drawn more toward individual performance than that of a team. I ran Cross-Country and track in high school, and there certainly were team scores. But I was more keenly interested in - and aware of - the result I posted for each meet. If the team won but I’d had a bad performance, I felt no sense of victory; in some way, I didn’t feel I’d “won”, despite the points I may have contributed toward the team total.

My son Luc, however, is a different kind of animal: he is a born ‘team player’. He loves the camaraderie of a playing unit, doing his best for the greater good of his team, individual performance as a part of the machine of team competitiveness. He’s a social guy with an easy smile, sense of humor, and a fierce competitive instinct. He lives for game day. He’s one of those kids that is best when ‘it counts’. Even when he was a more junior player, I noticed a change in him on game day – a focus and determination that we in the running world refer to as ‘race day magic’. He’d get on the field and deliver. There was no joking on the sidelines. He’d sit or stand alone and intently watch the action on the field. His coaches would ask him to make a big play, he’d promise, then deliver on the promise.

He has been lucky to have been part of a youth program since the 4th grade, with talented, decent, and hard-working coaches who never confused winning on the field with winning in life. I would call the headcoach jokingly The Man with the Whistle. The coaches' job was to teach the game of football, but much more than that, they wove in lessons of teamwork, sportsmanship, and fair play. You couldn’t come to practice if you hadn’t completed your homework. They often told the players to thank their parents for having driven them to the game or to practice. Their style was about guiding these young teenagers through a slice of life using the field of play as the chalkboard. At the end of each practice, the team would cluster together around the coaches for a few words, and it would end with the head coach yelling HARD WORK and boys would reply PAYS OFF! They always left each practice and game with these last words.

The team played well, had a near-perfect record, and made the playoffs as they had in years past. However this season was different – this young team won its first ever playoff game and headed into the second round. Luc had a great season and seemed – to my untrained eye – to be all over the field in every game. His competitive spirit would show up when he’d make a great tackle, cause a fumble, sack the quarterback. But he was definitely part of a bigger unit. He’d jump up after a great play and find a teammate to do a raucous chest bump or share a high five. He never celebrated alone. He cheered his teammates accomplishments with equal enthusiam. He left everything on the field, even when the scoreboard would tell a story that would say well before the final horn declared It’s over. After the one loss during the regular season to a hated rival team - known for dirty play and unsportsmanlike conduct from the coaching staff on down – I watched the team, and my son, during the post-game coaches talk. It had been a warm and humid morning, and boys who had played sat exhausted, soaked with sweat and dirt, their faces grim. Normally, these gatherings were one of uncontained teenage joy, the only kind that can be expressed by those young enough to have little to worry about beyond the next five minutes. I watched my son, his helmet off. He bit his lower lip and I saw a tear fall from his eye. He wiped it quickly away. The coaches called out the names of 3 players, recognizing their effort. Luc was the third player called. The head coach said I want you to look at him. They turned their heads. Luc never gave up. He never quit. To me, that is the highest praise given. I’d seen Luc chase down a player and tackle him just as he crossed into the end zone. He fell on the other player’s legs, knocking his own wind out. I saw him on all fours, and then try and stand upright. His knees buckled twice, but he fought to his feet. He jogged over, then fell and rolled on the ground. He got up again. He would not come out. He did not want to sit a single down. The coach’s words were small comfort to Luc. He didn’t smile or acknowledge any sense of accomplishment. He would have traded the praise and the loss for anonymity and the win in a second.

The Weaver Titans were certainly underdogs headed into the playoffs, but my son had a fervent belief they could make – and win! – the league’s Super Bowl. One day I was making him breakfast, I asked him a question. In hindsight, I’m not sure why I asked him the question: was it my own ego at play? I’d heard from so many parents and coaches – dads in particular – about what a fine player Luc was. And of course I agreed with them because I’m his mother: To me, he’s potentially the second coming. I think it was also a bit of the runner in me looking for some kind of individual performance gauge beyond the team record. Do you think you’ll make the Super Senior Bowl? This game is the league’s equivalent of the All-Star team. He leveled his eyes at me and replied – without hesitation, No. There was no disappointment in his voice. I was confused. Why not? He gave me one of his easy smiles, Because you don’t play in that game if you’re in the Super Bowl. My 14-year-old son gave me the best lesson I’ve ever had with those simple words. Not only was he unconcerned about individual accolades, it wasn’t a factor. He wanted to share in a team honor. But bigger than that, I was struck with the depth of conviction in the belief that they’d win. Despite their record and ranking and a calculated match-up of team size and strength, this did not factor. He believed the team could and would win.

They played the second playoff game and lost. If one could boil it down to the one thing, that one card they had that we didn’t, it was speed that we couldn’t match: If you can’t catch the guy, you pretty much can’t stop him. Our team fought valiently, they never gave up. Luc never, ever quit. Even when their top threat went sprinting toward the end zone, Luc was the last guy to chase him down and threw himself at him at the 4 or 5 yard line in a desperate - and ultimately unsuccessful - attempt to keep him from the end zone. The team kept trying. On their last possession, on 4th and something, it was the last shot. They were down 12 points and needed a score, and then some luck with an onside kick. They needed some last minute heroics. They believed. We – in the stands – cheered our boys on. The Titans QB shouted the cadence. The ball was snapped, and something happened. I’m not sure if it was a bad snap or a missed count or what, but the play never got off; it was over before it even started. And like that, the season was over, and my son’s elementary and middle school football seasons were behind him.

At the final post-game team debriefing, the boys each took a knee on the field. They were so quiet. I looked at the group and couldn’t find Luc, although I knew he was there. An official from the league’s governing body stepped up and offered words of encouragement, praise in the blunt, tough voice of football to which I’ve come to expect. I know you’re disappointed. But tomorrow will come and it will be a day of opportunity. Take that feeling with you to next season. I’m not sure his words registered with any of the players. He then called the numbers of those players who’d been selected for the Super Senior Bowl. Luc’s was not one of them. Again, the individual athlete in me ached for my son, but my face and demeanor did not change. The This is not about me or my expectations was the Yin to the This is what can happen when anything but the clock is the judge Yang. A second later a father who was behind me tapped me on the shoulder. Luc had a great game. I smiled, Thanks. I don’t know if he felt my disappointment for my son, or my own ego. I was trying to anticipate my son’s face. I looked in the clot of purple jerseys and still couldn’t find him. Each coach spoke; many of them wept. They hurt for the boys, but I think they couldn't believe that the fun - the season - was over. The bond between these players and these coaches was nothing short of magic. And in the 5 years my son was lucky enough to be coached by these men, I was coached too. I learned how to take a step back, how to let my son play, to take my own ideas out of the mix and have faith in this wonderful group of dedicated volunteers. I watched as they gave these boys the well-earned confidence to play each game with enthusiasm and passion. I felt such sadness that their roles in my son's life had come to an end. They offered a some final words of encouragement then gathered the team in a tight mass. The head coach - the man with the whistle - yelled HARD WORK and they answered in unison and without hesitation PAYS OFF! and the meeting broke up.

My son walked over to me; he was sobbing. His disappointment was overwhelming, his grief palpable. I hugged my boy who is a full head taller than I. I could hardly get my arms around his padded shoulders. I kissed his sweaty face. Luc, I’m so sorry. I’m so proud of you. He buried his face in my neck and let me hug him for a moment, then pushed away, inconsolable. He did not seek out his teammates. My tough son who never quit was now working through the agonizing math of shattering disappointment. He invested heavily in hope and was living the hard side of the equation of a sporting contest.

I thought about how much courage it takes to do that, to believe that fervently and put so much hope and stock in that belief. To put so much emotional capital on the line. The disappointment can be crippling, and there are some who can somehow put it in context and move on, to dare to do great things with equal persistance, and those who retreat to the safety of banality and – to paraphrase Teddy Roosevelt – prefer the gray twilight and know neither victory nor defeat. I knew in some sense what he was feeling, and I thought long and hard about how he individually mourned his team’s defeat. But in some small way, I thought he was also mourning the end of the season, the end of this team and how he’d move on next year beyond the safety net of the players and coaches he knew and loved.

I saw him walk off the field with his dad – we had come in separate cars for logistical reasons – and I wondered what that car ride home would be like. Teenage boys naturally gravitate to their fathers, and I envied not being the ‘go to’ person like I’d been when Luc was a young child. My heart ached for my son. I knew this was a necessary part of life, a key ingredient to the foundation of character: to face disappointment, to manage the process, to find the meaningful lesson. And most importantly, to move on to the next pursuit wiser, but with no less enthusiasm or fearlessness. I hoped he’d find the courage to believe again; I was certain he would. Like all parents, I prayed that one day he’d be on the winning end of the equation, and feel the uncontained joy of living the dream. But at the moment, I was Luc's mother; I just wanted my boy to be happy.

I arrived home and he came down the stairs a few minutes later, freshly showered. His face was no longer a study in grief. Are you hungry? He smiled a bit, No just really thirsty. Can I have a Gatorade? I got my son his drink and put a frozen pizza in the oven, certain that his appetite would arrive soon after he quenched his thirst. He went into the family room and turned on the television. His sister came home from a babysitting job, and after hearing about the loss, she went to join him.

The next day, he needed to run an errand, something for school. It was a rare opportunity for me to spend some ‘alone’ time with him; for me it was a blessing it came the day after this game. I didn’t mention the previous evening, just chatted about his homework project and what else he was planning to do with his day. There was a lull in the conversation, and he said quietly I’m still bummed we lost. I can’t believe football is over. I can’t believe I won’t be playing for Weaver anymore. I sat for a second more, waiting for him to express disappointment over not making the Super Senior Bowl. But he said nothing else. I told him a story of my biggest disappointment in high school track. It was so disappointing, Luc. All those miles of training, and my relay team was passed with a hundred meters to go… and then I told him how you move on, find the lesson. And that he should look not at the last loss, but all he’d gained from his years with his wonderful friends and coaches, how he learned respect, and fair play, and to “pursue victory with honor” – another cornerstone of the program. And how the hated rival may win, but in the long run he will have gained infinitly more. He nodded his head. He didn’t seem sad, but I could tell he was still working through the regret of the previous evening.

We walked in the house, and within an hour two of his buddies were at the door - one a teammate, the other a neighbor. They'd been to a video game store and had bought Luc a game – a belated birthday gift. I went upstairs to fold laundry. As I walked up the stairs, I heard them chatting in the patois of teenage boys, sentances heavily peppered with the word Dude. I didn’t hear what they were saying and continued my ascent. And as I reached the landing, I heard the sweet, healing music of their laughter.

For you, Luc, and the men with the whistles.

The Alchemy of Bronze

2008-08-24T20:24:00.010-04:00

The Olympic Games. One of the more compelling races was in Track & Field, the men’s 400 meter final. The world’s eyes were on LaShawn Merrit – the upstart – and Jerimy Wariner, the world champion and reigning Olympic gold medalist. The upstart had outrun the champ at the trials, but the champ ran flawless, fast, and nearly effortless heats. It was down to the finals. The two had been in a season-long battle, is has been a fierce and unfriendly rivalry, and were each 2-2 against the other. You sensed perhaps grudging respect - at best - between the two. Then there was the question given less attention: Who would win the bronze?

The Bronze. Let’s face it: most Olympic aficionado’s can name a particular sport’s Gold medalist. But silver? doubtful. Don’t even ask about Bronze. Bronze is the red-headed step child among the noble metals. You hear the term “Golden Boy”, and “Sterling argument” – but bronze? It’s the mongrel among the purebreds, the alloy among its precious cousins. In the Games, Gold reigns supreme.

As each competitor stands in his starting blocks during the athletes’ introduction, I can't help but notice their faces: they are certainly happy and excited to be there, but for whatever reason, feel the need to contain the smile. Their faces twitch, like they want to smile, like the kid in church who wants to laugh but knows the penance that awaits is not worth the momentary loss of control. These athlets want to yell, to scream “LOOK AT ME, I’M IN THE OLYMPICS!!!”, but gamesmanship or concentration suppresses it: “I’m icy cool, calm.” There’s a part of me that sees the high school athlete playing it cool, casual. I get the impression that during the pre-race intros and warm-up the goal is to be expressionless, to show nothing. I can understand the need for focus, calm, the need to bring one’s attention to a single point on the track, not spread it out among the thousands of spectators. But I can't help but wonder how much energy it costs to contain it.

Merritt is all brash and braggadocio. And he is incredibly talented and fast. He’s the man, will win, the champ, anointed. HE BELIEVES. I believe him to be all these things, but also wholly lacking in humility. However, he’s in those starting blocks, not I. It’s his game. He's paid the price to be there.

Wariner is hiding behind his shades: they are his trademark. They are an odd prop, big and mirrored and really don’t fit his face. When he takes them off, he seems almost a bit cross-eyed, out of his element; the deer in the headlights. Perhaps the shades keep his competitors from seeing his eyes, from those precious, telling “wells of the soul”. The man is tough and talented; but why shades? Is he like a thoroughbred in need of “blinkers”, is he that distractible? Do his eyes show his fear and make him vulnerable? I don’t know. All I know is they just look plain goofy.

But here they are, these fast man-boys on center stage of planet Earth. The gun fires. And they run. They run fast. Really, really fast. The last 100 meters they are digging for any nugget of strength and speed. At the finish line, the brash upstart is ahead by – in sprint terms – a mile, and the champ comes in second. Following them is a pack: who will grab the bronze? It is David Neville, the “other” American, who dives –literally- across the finish line, belly-flopping after the finish to grab the final spot on the podium.

Merritt is ecstatic. He boastfully proclaims that he is not surprised, that he did what he set out to do. His fierce rival, Wariner, it devastated. He buries his face in the American flag, there must be tears; the regret as thick as the air in Beijing. This is the price of unfettered arrogance and gamesmenship.

The medal ceremony is the moment of reckoning. Merritt is cool, smiling but clearly contained. I think that he's trying to maintain some kind of image. It pains me to think that here he is, at the pinnacle of his sport, and he can't just let go. The official hangs the medal on his neck, shakes his hand. Wariner is grim, you can sense how unhappy he is to be on the lower podium, the discomfort and humiliation of being unseated by his rival, to have to settle for second. And then there is the bronze medalist, the afterthought of this race. He is the one that captures my attention. To get to the lowest rung of Olympic royalty he has literally thrown himself across the line onto the ground of the field of play. He has given every inch of his being to be there. The annoucement of the national anthem is given over the PA. In this race, it is the anthem of all 3 medalists. Merritt – who has barely cracked a smile - puts his hand over his chest momentarily, then re-thinks the gesture and lowers it. I think “What's this? Are you truly that arrogant? Is it too humbling to think that you are not a product of one, but that of all you inhabit, including your country? Is it too much to ask that while this is an individual achievement, you do so as a representative of your your nation? Would your golden cool somehow be tarnished by showing a bit of sentimentality?” Call me a nationalistic zealot if you will, but who has not watched those medal ceremonies and smiled, cheered, wept because of what - and who - these athletes represent? They represent us, and we can only wonder how incomparable that moment must be like to live. Wariner is stone-faced; his diappointment is palpable and he looks to be doing all he can do avoid weeping on the stand and showing the world what is painfully obvious to the world: he was not the strongest, fastest man on this day. And oh, how he wishes he were.

Then there is Neville. In a few weeks time, I bet 99% of us won’t be able to answer the question “Who won the bronze medal in the 400?”, or “Who is David Neville?” but I really, truly don’t think he cares. He stands tall on the podium, hand over his chest, belting the anthem, a smile a quarter mile wide. Despite his being the 2nd runner-up, he is the one that captures the spirit of the games, the one which represents the Olympic ideal. The gold medalist is too smug, the silver medalist too disappointed, but it is the bronze medalist - the third place afterthought - who stands so tall on this steamy summer evening. He understands with all clarity how precious and rare it is to be right there, right then. With his effort, determination, and uncontained joy in that singular moment, he’d morphed from a sprinter to an alchemist and discovered the secret of transforming bronze into gold.

Running on Empty

2008-07-25T16:21:00.006-04:00

The price of so many things has gone through the roof. Gallons of everything, from milk to gasoline are at record highs. My weekly grocery bill is the same as the GNP of some small developing nations. It’s mid-summer, and cucumbers are over $1. EACH. I can almost hear my mother clucking her disapproval and saying "Highway robbery." It is becoming more and more difficult and costly to fill our tanks both mechanical and physical.

Then there is our psychic tank. Running has always served me as the proper fuel, a way to recharge my flagging internal battery, lift my spirits, and provide an outlet for my stress, anxiety, and temperamental moods. When I started running a few years ago, I used to joke that I did it so I wouldn’t be relegated to the scourge of dumpy soccer moms everywhere: the dreaded pleated jeans. My vanity led me to discover the more substantive rewards the sport offers beyond wearing the cool pair of Lucky Brand jeans hanging in my closet. Some runs were not geared for anything more than to “bleed the pipes”. I’d start out angry or sad or pissed off at some offense - real or imagined - and feel reborn by turning up the volume on the iPod and running as hard as I could. It was almost always fun, the simple fun I remember from running down empty school halls without some monitor demanding my pass and telling me to slow down. It rarely failed to put a smile on my face.

I don’t think I ever took running for granted. I’d had enough injuries that put me on the sidelines and I was all too aware of what I was missing. Recently, my running has been a challenge in so many ways. My slowly degenerating thyroid - under attack by my own body – isn’t functioning as it should, and I frequently feel tired, my heart rate measurably higher, and my muscles feeling shot. What used to be an easy recovery run 8 weeks ago now feels like the last 5 miles of a marathon. My legs are heavy from nearly the start, there is little or no spring in my step. My heart rate starts to rise quickly and steadily, 140, 150, 160…and within a mile and a half is nearing 170, a number I usually see after repeated hard half-mile intervals, a tempo run at 10k race pace, or a long steep hill climb. The effort is palpable. But I’m going slow – 2 full minutes slower than my “hard run” days, topography chosen to deliberately avoid inclines. These days, the velocity of my heart is tied inversely to my spirits: they ride the same see-saw with one rising, the other falling in perfect tandem. Everyday is a struggle. Running is no longer fun.

I still keep running and try and find some grander purpose or lesson (“this will be great mental training for the last 10k of the next marathon – I’ll be so mentally tough!”) but even that has an element of looking forward to when I feel better, and I have no clue when that will be. It is yet another reminder of how hard these days are. In some ways, my body has become a lover who has abandoned me; I feel oddly betrayed. I have no idea when these days will be behind me, and for now I’m left without that which makes me feel better spiritually. Running has become a double agent, sabotaging my happiness and giving secrets to the enemy: It is a source of stress. I’ve taken to inserting walk breaks when my heart rate spikes, and while I’m trying to mentally coax my heart beat down – watching and cheering the falling numbers on my monitor – another inner voice chides this; walking just feels like surrender.

I find myself envying my kids. I watch my sons cut through the water during a swim meet race, overflowing with energy and the ability to recover in the time it takes to chug a Gatorade. I look at them and think “I wish…” But I’ve also learned enough in this life to understand the danger of spending too much time looking backward, pressing some mental rewind button because the fact is there are no do-overs in this life when it comes to the days ticking off the calendar. I have only the here and now and there are no guaranteed tomorrows. In five or ten years I hope to be able to reflect on this time, and don’t want to say “I wish… if only I’d…” I only hope I can be strong enough today – right now – to mitigate if not wholly prevent regret tomorrow. I need to do my best to live ‘in the moment’. I’ll have hope that in the future my body responds quickly to the medication. That the overworked muscle in my chest will be humming efficiently, my muscles and spirits will follow suit, and I can look to the sky and say “Thank you for this day” and really mean it.

When I used to feel my motivation flagging, I’d think of a fall race: the smell of autumn leaves mixed with Ben Gay, the current of anticipation at the starting line, the rush of possibility. I could get addicted to the feeling of crossing the line after a great race. Today, I miss that. But I miss more the simple feeling of being able to crank out a last fast mile on a training run, to climb a hill and whisper “I own you”, to race Father Time and feel he’s outgunned, to run and not need to look to the past for inspiration, but to find it right there, in that moment.

My mission, my goal has become much more humble. On the days where my physical and mental tanks – which are so interdependent – are approaching “E”, I’ll summon all my discipline to look neither backward nor too far ahead. I’ll focus solely on the challenge of that moment. And I’ll hope - with every beat of my heart - that it’ll be enough.

The Cruelest Month

2008-02-21T09:57:00.011-05:00

"April is the Cruelest Month" - T. S. Elliot

If you'd asked me about this quote 7 years ago, I would have agreed with Mr. Elliot. I grew up in the Northeast and April was the month I often begged for spring, warmth, and sunshine but was more often than not dished up a meal of cold and grey with a random side dish of lake effect snow.

Now comfortably situated in Virginia, I'd argue against his theory and say that February - not April, is the cruelest month. It's dark, it's cold, and well into a winter we often wish was over. The warmth and congeniality of Christmas and New Year's are but a memory, and Easter is a long, long way off. Days are short; the patience for spring is shorter. This February was particularly cruel for me, the runner: it was the month I was rudely awakened from my dream of running this April's Boston Marathon. Running a marathon is often as much about conquering the distance as it is conquering the limits of the human body. But this also assumes that you can actually get to the starting line. In January, as I ramped up my training, the hamstring I so gingerly pampered in the Autumn again reminded me to not think too far ahead, to not be overly presumptuous. Various scans and medical visits confirmed my fears: if I were to be in Boston on Patriots' Weekend, it would be as a spectator.

I committed half-heatedly to my physical therapy and the realization that I was a goal-oriented runner. Without some noble goal, I couldn't seem to drag myself out of bed for the cold, dark morning runs. These runs, for so long, were my own beacon of light in my day: they provided energy, clarity, and a route to focus. But without some greater goal, I was laid bare and felt the basest of hypocrites: did I not love running for running itself? Was my ego and sense of accomplishment too closely tied to a finishers medal? Maybe. Possibly. Maybe I was like so many who preferred to hibernate in the cozy comfort of flannel sheets on the cold winter mornings. Or maybe I was just tired.

I sought for some kind of meaning out of my predicament, but found myself irritable and often times needing to pout. So often in my blogs I speak of relativity and gratitude; I wish I was as ardent a practitioner as a preacher. Like so many very members of this oh-so-human race, my words are easier to write than actually do. Hypocrisy: thy name is mine.

February is the cruelest month.

As a child, I welcomed the month - this month, February, the month of my birth. As an adult, I'm much more aware that this day is really one that parents celebrate. And if we raise our children right, they may eventually think not of themselves, but of those who put them on this earth. On my 46th birthday, I ran and thought so often of my mother and father, and threw out thanks and gratitude to them for their love, patience (LOTS of patience), and the gift of their example. The road I ran was one they had paved for me so many years ago. But as I get older, I find myself not so much dreading as minimizing the date the milestone represents. I joke about now being in "the back 9 of my 40's" and feeling caught somewhere in the purgatory that is youth and old age: I feel far too vibrant to say I'm 'old', but see all too well the history and it's footprint in my face and body to know I'm several years removed from the pinnacle of youth. And if my rational brain doesn't convince me of that, my body is happy to remind me that the fountain of youth is not even close to Richmond, Virginia.

If February has a color, it is red. Despite the darkness and cold and seasonal association with sacrifice and lent, there is still the mid-month celebration of love. I see the representations of the holiday: red roses, red boxes of chocolate, red lips, red hearts. I wonder about those newly twinned with love and the pressure this holiday evokes. I wonder about those whose love has become ambivalent and how the holiday was once something to be revered and treasured but has - somehow - evolved into another item on the 'To Do' list.

I found myself in an airport on February 13th, trying to get to Boston for work. The weather in the northeast caused delays, and I sat on a bar stool with an hour to kill, the battery on my laptop long since depleted. I chatted with a young lady in her 20's. She was from Toronto and was full of the energy and promise I remembered possessing at that age. When I heard the first call for my flight, I asked the waitress for my bill, and offered to pay for hers in a spirit of camaraderie that stranded and delayed travelers so often feel. As I reached for my credit card, I saw a man in army fatigues, and as I handed the card over to the waitress, said I'll pay my tab and hers.... and tipping my head in the direction of the soldier and his. He looked at me, and smiled weakly. Thanks a lot. I appreciate that. The glass of wine had made me magnanimous but there was something in his quiet answer that gave me pause. I thanked him for his service and asked him where he was headed. Paris, he answered. I jumped on his answer It's a beautiful city! How long will you be there? He looked at his beer, then answered quietly, Not too long. It's just a layover until I catch the flight to Iraq. I'll be there 2 months, and then I'm done. I didn't know how to respond; I knew there was nothing I could say that would ease his concern. I asked him where he was from, where his family was. Well, I'm from Tennessee, but my family... well, I don't have any family now. All of a sudden those roses and red hearts ceased to have meaning. His sadness was palpable. Stay safe. It was the only thing I could weakly muster. His quiet, humble way just made me re-think my own frustration at a delayed flight, bad weather. I thought that even if he did make it safely home in 2 months, to what kind of home would he return? I shook his hand, then left. I said a quiet prayer for his safety and peace of spirit. I never learned his name.

I made my way to the plane and boarded with the hope of a quiet flight and 90 minutes to read or sleep. I found my seat on the aisle. There was a woman on the window seat; I guessed her age somewhere between mine and 10 years older. She was very blond, a few pounds overweight, and nervously chatty. Her clothing was a bit rumpled and baggy, very 'Earth Mother'. She was reading a book I knew my daughter had read and we had polite conversation about it. The flight took off and I dove into my own book.

About 15 minutes before we were to land I set aside my book, and my row companion struck up a conversation. I don't know how it started. I remember complementing her on some her jewelry: it was interesting but I'll admit I didn't look too closely at it. She said Yes, I have on all my Pagan stuff today. I blinked and thought OK, this is a little weird. I'll admit it: I wasn't being exactly tolerant. Chalk it up to fatigue. I changed the subject, What brings you to Boston? This is usually the safest of questions, the answer almost always Business or Vacation or Family. She looked at me, then looked at her lap and replied I'm here to scatter my son's ashes. I'm a mother and at that moment a giant hand wrapped around my throat. For the second time that day, I knew there was nothing I could say that would help the wound heal. I'm so sorry. I'm a mother too, I'm so so sorry... I looked her in the eyes and saw nothing but the deepest regret. He died 14 months ago. He was 22... I was raised to not ask too many questions in situations like this, and she didn't offer an others with respect to her son's death. She did talk about her 2 daughters who both lived in Texas. She didn't mention a spouse, so I concluded there wasn't one. There were tears in her eyes. I reached over and held her hand I know there is nothing I can say. I'm so sorry for your loss. I hope that this trip helps you in some way... my voice trailed off. Thanks, she quietly said. I've been dreading this trip but I know it'll help. She stopped, then laughed and said I have his ashes in my carry-on bag. I was ready to put up a fight if they gave me a hard time at the security screening... She smiled and I weakly smiled back. We sat in silence and I held her hand until the plane landed. As I got off the plane, I turned to her and said Take care, be well. I thought that was the last I'd see of her. But I ran into her at Baggage Claim. She seemed hyper and a bit wired; I think she realized she was that much closer to letting go of her boy. She chatted on and I grabbed my bag to go. She looked at me, and I put my bag down and hugged her, one mother to another. She held on to me tightly and I whispered to her I know you'll never forget him. I let go of her. She looked at me and said Thanks. When I tell most people about his death, they change the subject. I smiled and said the same thing I'd said to the soldier: Stay safe.

I walked out of Logan Airport toward the Rental Car Courtesy Shuttle, and couldn't shake the last couple of hours, what I had seen in the eyes of these people whose paths randomly crossed mine. I thought about the nasty weather and travel delays and my griping about a hamstring and a missed race and balanced them against the soldier and this woman. The scales were most definitely tipped and not in their favor. I was the lucky one. My worries were nothing that wouldn't pass with time. In a couple of hourse I'd have forgotten about the hassles of travel. In a few months, I'd be ready to try and qualify for Boston. It would all be gone, forgotten. The soldier, however: would he return? I'll never know and I hope I remember him and the payment exacted from him for his service. And this mother, travelling to Boston to let go of her son on Valentine's day, the day of love. For her, it was, I imagine, a day of limitless sorrow. I sat in the dim light of the courtesy shuttle and thought how providence can shine one day and be absent the next, and we could never be certain what is around the next corner. I thought about the next day and the significance of the holiday. There would be people celebrating love. For these two people, they would be perhaps regretting it, missing it; They would have their memories and little else. I looked at my hands and turned them over - they'd shaken the hand of the soldier and held the mother of a dead son. They looked very small.

February is the cruelest month. But not for me, at least not this year.

Auld Lang Syne

2008-01-20T17:47:00.001-05:00

Auld Lang Syne

Every year at New Year, I face the same demon, staring me in the face. No, not ‘I WILL LOSE that extra weight’, or ‘I WILL get in shape’, or ‘I SWEAR, this is the YEAR I get organized.’ No, this is the time when I feel the need to shed all my excess ‘stuff’. When the ball drops on New Year’s Eve ushering a new January 1st, we always hear “Auld Lang Syne.” My particular favorite version of this song is by James Taylor. I listen to the words and frankly, have no clue what they mean. “Auld Lang Syne”: what does this MEAN? No clue. So I looked it up. It’s translation from old whatever-it-is means “Old Long Time Ago”. Not unlike my closet. It’s the perfect seague: from toasting champagne to getting rid of all that stuff I haven’t used.

On my runs, I’ve been thinking about why I feel the need to “shed” at the new year. I guess I’m no different than all those other resolutionists, trying to shed weight, bad health, or destructive habits. I just shed old stuff, lighten my load, get rid of stuff that’s dated, old, no longer useful, or appealing. This year I’m also shedding the easy running of the fall, the sleeping in, the rehabbing from injury. I’ve 95% committed to running Boston again, which means crack-of-dawn runs, regimented training plans, attention to diet, and the limiting of – alas – my favorite evening glass of wine. During spring marathon season, Lent comes plenty early in this house. But what I most desperately want to shed is the dark.

I get restless in Januray. The 6 weeks before the New Year is constant motion, energy, things to do, deadlines to meet in both work and home life. Then the New Year comes and it’s the darkest time of year. The sun rises late and sets early, there is no festival of lights on the horizon and March seems a long way off. One of the weird little rituals I have is to look at the paper every day and see when the sun rises and sets, and each day a minute or two of daylight is added. Those hundred or so seconds a day add up to the hope of spring. I feel not unlike the caged animal waiting for the regularly scheduled meal. However, the nourishment I wait for is light. I don't like the dark. Oh, there are moments when it serves its purpose. On Christmas Eve, I ran after the sunset amid the luminaries of my neighborhood. But it wasn't the dark I embraced then, but the little points of light that lined the streets during my 5 mile jaunt.

Darkness is also a state of mind - depression, anger, hurt - that robs us of our precious energy. I'm fond of saying "It's a zero-sum game: we only have so much energy, so spend it well." I wish I could say I was an orthodox practitioner of my theory, but being part of the ever-so-human race, I often don't practice what I preach. I fret about the state of my house, my lack of organization, my anger at insignificant things outside my sphere of control... I pick my poison with seasonal punctuality. Maybe what I don't like about New Year's resolutions is that they focus on our personal failures, and at this dark time of year, this is not what I need. I like to think one can decide to make an improvement in one's life without it being dictated by the calendar. Maybe its my own need to exert as much control over my life as I can. For example, I gave up weighing myself daily years ago. In fact, I rarely step on my scale at home because I don't like to have my self-worth measured in mere pounds. I know I eat well, exercise far more than the average person, and my clothes fit me; beyond that, the number on this scale should - and does - mean nothing.

On New Year's Day, my 'Old Long Time Ago' is the previous spring, that moment when I'll step out of my house and be delightfully assaulted with the smell of the warming earth and see the dawn already in the sky.

My friend Franny and I have started the New Year with Monday track workouts, mine for marathon training, hers for fitness and to keep me company. That’s what my friends do: make meals when you’re sick, watch your kids when you’re in a bind, run insane intervals on a track before the sun rises just because. On a recent morning when we arrived at the oval at 6 am, it was still dark out. We stretched on the track and looked up at the bright constellations. “Yup, there’s the big dipper and we are a couple of big dips”, Franny sleepily cracked. Several hard intervals later we left the track, the sun on the rise, and a Starbucks latte in our very near future, our traditional hard track workout reward of choice. We both remarked that this hardest workout of the week leaves us feeling the most energized: we get out two-fold what we put in. I’m not sure it’s as much the workout as it is the companionship of good friends, the regularity of track, and the post-workout caffeine jolt. We drive home, laughing, in the best of spirits.

Maybe I've got it all wrong. Maybe the New Year isn't about throwing out all that is old, but in weeding out the clutter and continuing to embrace all that is constant: love, friendship, the stars, and the seasonal challenge that makes me - in January - renew my love of the light.

The Glass Half Full

2007-12-09T19:36:00.000-05:00

Does anyone else have a problem with radio stations that play Christmas music on Thanksgiving? I do. To me it’s the invited guest that shows up 30 minutes early. I’m still trying to get the desserts cooked and I’m forced to fast forward beyond the moment. I want to scream "Wait! We're not done with this holiday yet!" But every year, the musical ghost of Christmas Present comes about 24 hours too early. I think its there to help the retailers who need people in an instant holiday mood - the mood that makes people so willing to part with cash on stuff they would never - ever -buy at any other time of the year. When I walk into a store, I chuckle at some of the stuff that is for sale. I mean, how desperate must someone be to purchase a Homer Simpson Chia pet? Is there nothing better to give as a gift than a wall-mounted fish that sings? The fact is, if you can't find anything more meaningful to give than that, then the person you are buying for is clearly not in need of anything!

Every kid's mantra is "What I want for Christmas is..." Don't get me wrong: this is not going to be some anti-consumerism screed. Au contraire. On my runs of late, I've been thinking particularly about this particular season and how it's quite contradictory. While the lesson of the season is that it is better to give than to receive, I see it as a season of "want". What do you want for Christmas? What's on your Christmas list? Little kids are quick to rattle off the items that'll make their hearts flutter on Christmas morning. But when you get older, I think it’s harder to answer. At least it is for me. What do I really need that can be bought in a store? It's the time of year when we focus on what we don't have, and replace it with stuff that we really don't need. It just kind of fills a seasonal void.

Even with that quasi-morose thought, I still find myself drawn to the season. Just after Thanksgiving, the dark morning or early evening runs become a voyage of discovery - to see which house has but up lights this day. On Christmas eve, I load up my iPod with Christmas tunes and hit the roads, a smile on my face and cheer fueling my legs. Later that evening, our neighborhood has a standing tradition of placing luminaries on our respective properties, on the road. The roads of Salisbury are lined with thousands of glowing candles - truly beautiful. Perhaps this isn't the right time to mention our first Christmas here in Richmond, when I set out our luminaries, lit the small tea candles inside the white paper bags, and retreated to our front porch to view my handiwork. What I saw was truly remarkable, and quite different than expected: several of my bags were going up in flames. I had a moment of panic that I would become the Richmond equivalent of Mrs. O'Leary's cow, and was certain, somewhere, that Martha Stewart was having a seizure.

I love making the magic for my kids on Christmas. I remember one year - in a fit of alpha-mommy grandeur - I made a home-made Gingerbread house, recipe and architecture courtesy of Martha Steward and her Turkey-Hill elves. It was a work of art, truly, and took 2 days to make and assemble. It was pure gingerbread, with a thatched roof of shredded wheat, and caramelized sugar window panes. On Christmas, I had the brilliant idea of - during dinner - putting a tea light in the house to light the windows. It created a lovely glow. I expected a miniature Hansel and Gretel to come dashing out of it at any moment. And it smelled heavenly: The candle heated the gingerbread and it smelled fairy-tale like. The heat of the candle, however, melted the glass windowpanes, something that never, ever happens in Martha Stewart land.

I probably should have saved that house, sprayed it with lacquer and brought it out year after year. Maybe given the roof a quick refurb with a new set of frosted shredded wheat tiles, replaced the window panes. But I didn't. I pitched it after the holiday was over. Why? It was a labor of love; why would I discard it so quickly? I don't know. Maybe the magic that it cast expired after the New Year. Like decorations for sale in a store, they look faded and tired once the holiday is over.

My kids are getting older and wiser, and they don’t ‘buy in’ to the magic as much. I find myself trying to protect them more from the rampant consumerism, and to remind them – as a friend recently reminded me – to not forget ‘the baby’.

The season comes too swiftly and leaves equally fast, and I find myself often left feeling a bit empty when it’s over. I’m selfish: I want the glow to keep going. I often tell my kids that it’s good to not always get what you want; if you did, how boring life would be. I guess things aren’t as special if they are always guaranteed to be had.

I wish for the same thing every year at Christmas. It’s something very personal, and very simple, and mine and mine alone. I’ve learned some wonderful lessons this year and will – instead of wishing for anything – be thankful for having lived and learned those lessons. In hanging on to what I don’t have I’m not living in the season of doing for others before myself. Instead, when someone asks me what I want for Christmas, I’ll say nothing, and smile, to them and to myself. In my own way, I’ll reclaim the beauty, simplicity, and joy of this season, to hear the music, to smell the pine, to live the miracle and be true to my mantra thank you for this day. For a myriad of reasons, this year, it will be more than enough.

Gratitude

2007-11-21T19:51:00.001-05:00

Thanksgiving day is upon is. It's a day where we give thanks by eating everything in sight except for maybe the table cloth, linens, and silverware. It's a day of happy oblivion, a day eat more than is wise, drink more than is necessary, think less than is required.

I'd like to say that everyday I'm grateful for what I have, but there are moments where the mundane distractions of life overtake the grounded reality where I'd prefer to be planted and I find myself whining about broken microwave ovens, gutters that are peeling off the house, and the dishwasher my daughter has again forgotten to empty.

Today was the ultimate reality check. My dear friend Mickey - and his warrior of a son, Cody - is the check I wish I didn't have. Cody is in remission from neuroblastoma, a hideous form of childhood cancer with a high rate of recurrance and not a single iota of compassion. He has been through chemo that has diminished his hearing, stem cell transplants, and more pain than any one person should live through in a lifetime. Cody is 5 years old.

And, on this eve of the day when we all give thanks, my dear friend Mickey and his wife Diane, are staring into the abyss once again with a diagnosis on their dear son that is grave: the cancer has recurred.

It's days like this where you reevalutae where your feet rest. What is it that you gripe about, and in the grander scheme, is it really all that big a deal? My shameful answer is a resounding "NO". I have 3 beautiful, healthy childern. I am not a single mom, and I live a life that 95% of the world doesn't live. I don't worry if I have enough money to feed my kids, if I have enough to pay my mortgage... or worse: I don't have to worry - at present - that there may nothing to save the life of one of my childern.

I'd like to be able to write something of hope and grace for this day of thanksgiving; with news of Cody, it is harder than ever.

So, I'll offer up a simple prayer of hope that at this time next year, we are thankful for Cody's good health, good friends, and the days with which we have been blessed.

For you, Cody.

Monica

The Theory of Relativity

2007-11-16T23:22:00.000-05:00

I was never the best science student. I took two years of it in college - biology and chemistry - before concluding that this particular course of study and I would be acquaintances but never lovers. I could appreciate its precision, work hard at the discipline, but like a pianist who is all thumbs could do a great rendition of 'Heart and Soul' but would never, ever be mistaken for Mozart. I still take pride in understanding the 'Heisenberg Uncertainty Principal'. OK, 'understanding' might be a bit of an overstatement; I can spell 'Heisenberg' as long as I enable spell check, and can remember that it’s a statistical probability of the location of electrons orbiting an atom. Or something like that. I have used it to describe the location of my children during the course of the day: I may not be able to say precisely where they are at any given moment, but I have a pretty good idea. See: esoteric scientific theories do have application in everyday life.

I can barely begin to understand Einstein’s "Theory of Relativity". I know that people often mistake it to mean E=mc^2, which I think – but am not certain – is a product of the theory. I know very broadly that one facet of it is about how time behaves with respect to motion and gravity - or something like that. I turned to Google for a more precise definition and found that the time/gravity behavior – Time Dilation – is a consequence of this theory. This definition, in its simplest form is:

Moving clocks tick slower than an observer's stationary clock

I read this and the first thing that came to mind was: Albert Einstein was full of shit.

I had plenty of proof to contradict his theory.

"Busy" is an understatement of an adjective to describe my typical day. With 3 involved kids, a full-time job, and a husband who frequently travels, my day is thin-sliced into small fragments of time. I know I can fold a load of laundry in 5 minutes, unless its whites. In that case we're talking HOURS of trying to match socks, and that Heisenberg principal comes into play again: I think I know where the match to this sock is… I swear I just saw it in this pile, I know its here somewhere… When I’m on a deadline, I’m praying for another 15 minutes. I race the clock on my morning runs, when I’m hosting book club or a party, or trying to get dinner on the table at a reasonable hour on weeknights. I have more than enough memory to know that when I’m racing through my day, my moving clock – unlike Einstein’s – ticks faster, not slower. When I try and remember moments of my days, they register more like a blurred photograph – the F-stop too wide and the shutter speed too slow - than a discrete image.

Last weekend my dearest friends, Robin and Franny, challenged my crossed-armed certainty of my own theory of relativity when they ran the Richmond Marathon.

I’d signed up for the race – the 30th Anniversary! - the year before, on the same day I’d staggered off the course just shy of mile 18, a victim of dehydration and the unseasonably warm temperatures. While hooked up to my second bag of fluids in the hospital’s ER, I vowed to wreak vengeance on the course the following year. It was not to be: 10 weeks before the race, a pulled hamstring derailed my plans.

Have you ever had this moment of clarity where you realize how lucky you are in one particular aspect of your life? I’ve been blessed in this regard when it comes to friends: I may not have a lot of them, but the ones I have are the best on the planet. I have a handful who are indelibly imprinted on my heart: they know who they are without my telling them. Robin and Franny are two of them.

Robin swore off marathons forever; she’d done many – maybe 10? – and she had convinced herself that she’d done more than her fair share. Franny had done two: we’d been inspired by Robin and vowed to run our own, and trained together and finished the Shamrock Marathon in 2005. We followed up quickly – the three of us – with the 30th anniversary of the Marine Corps Marathon in October of that year. In both events, Franny and I started together but finished apart. As friends, there are few better. Robin is type A++: hardworking, organized, hard-charging, loyal. Franny is equally accomplished but with a different style: gentle, thoughtful, and with the patience of Job. I tease her and say I’m riding her coattails to heaven and I hope like hell they don’t do baggage screening at the pearly gates. She always finds the best in people, and in turn, people see the absolute best in her. These two friends of mine are rarities: without even trying they make everyone around them better.

On race day in Richmond, it was supposed to be Franny and me running this race. With my injury, Franny soldiered on, and Robin stepped up her training to keep her on pace as Franny wanted to qualify for Boston. A week before the marathon, she entered the race to guide Franny through the course. Think of that commitment and friendship: to run 26 miles with your friend for your friend’s sake. It boggles the mind, but is no surprise for those who know Robin.

Days before the race, I agreed to pace Robin’s husband, Carlton, through the 8k race run in conjunction with the marathon. It was loads of fun running with Carlton and their 12-year-old son Michael. I tried my best to navigate them through the crowd of 4,000+ participants. It was a nice change of pace, to be a coach, to think of others and be blissfully unaware of the ticking clock.

After the race and a quick cup of coffee, I ran the several blocks to my car and raced to mile 19.5 all the time thinking I wish I had 15 more minutes. Time was speeding by; I could not be late and let them down. I parked and ran on foot to the agreed upon meeting place. Within 15 minutes, I saw them approach in tandem, stride for stride. Shortly before they reached me, Franny’s brother, Joe, jumped in to accompany his sister; he’d drive in from Washington, DC that morning.

I was screaming and cheering and getting them pumped up. I jumped in with Robin who said Run with me. Franny has Joe. I told her I’d run her to 23, then run with Franny the rest of the way. It was my own way of playing King Solomon for the last 6.2-ish miles. I quizzed her about Franny’s current state: Did you keep her slow for the first few miles? Did she hydrate well? How did she handle the dreaded Lee Bridge? Robin gave me the run-down, and was chatty and smiling. More than once I remarked on how effortless and smooth she was after running 20-something miles. At one point I took a look behind me and Franny and Joe were nowhere to be found. I started to fret. At mile 23, I sent Robin on her way to the finish. The time and miles were flowing by. I had no concerns about her finishing; her stride and mood were light and fluid. I turned around and ran against the flow, cheering the other runners I met Looking good, you’re almost at 23, hang in there, keep it smooth… until I saw Franny and Joe.

Purgatory happens in the latter part of a marathon. The strength of the mind has to overcome the fatigue of the body and when I looked at my dear friend, her face was a study of pain. At mile 23, I re-evaluated Einstein’s – and my own – Theory of Time Dilation. She was moving, but according to my theory, the clock should be moving with equal or faster speed; I should have known better. When you run a marathon and you are beyond mile 20, you don’t so much count down the miles as you do the minutes: 4 miles to go… that’s about X minutes… and suddenly time slows to a crawl.

I join her and Joe. I hear her feet slapping on the pavement and issue my first command: You’re overstriding, shorten it up. Relax your shoulders. Think smooth. I ask her questions and her breathing is labored; she is in the long dark miles. She tells me she can’t really answer and I know what I need to do: distract her for about 30 endless minutes. I tell her about my running with Robin, I ask her questions that require nothing more than a single syllable. At mile 24, Joe and I start telling jokes; the look on her face tells me she’s hearing nothing. Joe strays a bit in front of us, and I bark an order at this Coast Guard Captain: Joe! Get right next to her! I’m on one side, you’re on the other. We’re guiding her in. We hit a hill and Franny starts to fade. I know how strong she is; I can’t bear to see her succumb. C’mon Franny: use your arms! Pump your arms! This is where is all comes together! This is where all those miles pay off! All those 800’s come home! Remember them all – every one of them! This hill is nothing – you OWN this hill! I look at her face – I think she is going to cry. I have a moment of fear: She can’t give up now. We’re almost at mile 25. She can do this. I say See the top of that building Franny? That’s the finish! You can see it! 15 minutes Franny! It’s over in 15 minutes!

It’s here that my time theory is turned on its head: I understand with perfect clarity just how long 15 minutes can be. On any given day, I beg for 15 more minutes. In these waning moments of this race, Franny wants this over now, but she keeps running on, with little or nothing in the tank. We hit another hill, and knowing nothing about these last miles I say with all confidence This is the last hill! This is it! Work it, use your arms. We turn a corner and in the distance I see the mile marker Look! Up there! 1.2 miles to go! That’s 5 laps of the track! I’m yelling, I can feel my throat getting sore. I want to believe that I’m helping, but have been in Franny’s shoes enough to know that my efforts are nothing short of window dressing. Look Franny, it’s just a couple of blocks, a couple of turns. A zig and a zag. You just need to get to that final turn. It doesn’t end at the finish, it ends when you can SEE the finish. The rest is gravy. We turn a corner and face another hill. Damn. I’ve lied. Franny’s face crumbles. I’m afraid she’s going to break down. DON’T YOU QUIT ON ME NOW! Alright Franny, it’s time to ANSWER THE QUESTION! Answer it, Franny, Answer the FRIGGING QUESTION!!!

One of my friends on a running forum has a little acronym that he uses in the latter stages of the marathon: ATFQ. Answer The Frigging Question. I guess it applies to any stressful point in life, and the question is pretty fluid: How bad do you want it? How much are you willing to pay? How much does it matter? Each of us has to answer that question, and the truly brave replace the easy answer that comes naturally with one whose price is more difficult to tender. I watched Franny do just that: she gritted her teeth and took that hill. She even tried to jokingly punch me out as I continued my useless loud bootstrapping. And when we turned that final corner, the finish line a quarter mile down the road, time ceased to exist: her 3 children were there with her husband at the top of the last hill. Her 10-year old twins took off, running their mom in, and I was laughing and screaming Leave it here, leave it all out on the course! She heard nothing: She saw only her kids, felt only the surge of joy and love that their presence gave and in that found her legs and another gear. I stepped off the course and marveled at my friend, cheered, laughed, cried. I knew Robin was already in, and could see this moment, was feeling the joy of what she had fostered with her training and last-minute race entry. And, as with all good friends, I realized that in my weak efforts to inspire Franny and Robin, I was the one left inspired and renewed. Franny flew down that last hill toward her best time ever. She may not have met that qualifying standard for the Boston Marathon, but it didn’t matter: She’d conquered the distance and her doubts in those last terrible, wonderful miles. My quiet friend loudly answered that question I had put to her and in that final sprint to the finish joyfully raced with her children and - in those short two tenths of a mile - left fatigue, despair, and Einstein’s theories in her wake.

Second Chances

2007-11-09T23:40:00.001-05:00

Do Over.

Is there any more glorious phrase? When you're kid, there is nothing more redeeming than the coveted 'do over'. Isn't it blessed relief when things don’t count, when you get that trial run to figure it out without anyone looking or keeping score? Think of high school and the exam you KNOW you bombed, and the teacher announcing that the scores weren’t what she expected so there will be a retest? Is there any sweeter bliss? You get a pass, a chance to do it right this time… Often we think If only life were so generous, so forgiving and believe that it isn’t. But more often than not, it is. We read about them daily: the addict who has found new life in recovery, the high school sweethearts who rediscover their long-ago love at a 50th reunion, the rat-race career hound who changes jobs and finds meaning and purpose in teaching or helping others, the profoundly depressed person who claws herself to the light and embraces life with new vigor and hope. Second chances abound, if we are lucky enough to recognize them, grab them, and hold them close: second chances at life, at love, at doing it right, at fill-in-the-blank. It’s that ‘Lazarus moment”, that sweet moment of ecstasy at discovering your ultimate point of do over. Do you have one? Can you pinpoint it? Some have the epiphany, the profound moment that changes the life. For others, it is in the act of atonement that they find their second life. For the most of us, that moment is much more subtle, and that first step is discovered in looking back. It doesn’t matter that hindsight provides the clarity.

When you think about it, is the moment given as much as created, taken? That sublime do over is there for anyone to seize. It comes from a tiny ember that lives in all of us although too-often deprived of light and oxygen from fear and life experience. This thing? HOPE.

Hope lives in all of us – we are born with it. Through the course of life, childlike precociousness is tempered by the fear of experience that becomes adult wariness. That fire that burns deep inside each of us is – if not extinguished – tamed by the oxygen-deprivation of life experience. The ember keeps burning, it’s there, whispering in our ears, begging to be fed.

I was a runner in my early through late teens. I lived it, breathed it, ate it, drank it, slept it. I measured my seasons by ‘cross country’, ‘indoor track’, ‘outdoor track’, and ‘summer track’. Those were my seasons, the ebb and flow of my life. The sport was the barometer, the science by which I ate, rested, and worked. It filled the empty space between waking, school and dinner. It metastasized in my summers so that days were spent not at a pool slathered in sunscreen or shopping at a mall but at a track running intervals timed with absolute precision. My days were measured in hours:minutes:seconds. Then there was injury, followed by ennui, reinforced by marriage, job, and children. My seasons took on a much different tone, color, pace. I buried my running career and moved on down the life.

For me, running wasn’t the ‘do over’ itself as it was the route to the ‘do over’. It created the ability to believe in something bigger than my life, to expand the boundaries of what I believed was possible, the opportunity to push beyond the colloquially acceptable. But at a more gut-level, it extended beyond running to life, work, motherhood, family. It gave me the stamina and courage to change what was fundamentally broken, to break through the wall of inertia, and to charge through life with vigor and determination. Running didn’t make me a better person; hope did. My hope was expressed through the simple exercise of believing I could go one more step, one more block, one more mile. And while my natural impatience was tempered and humbled by the distances I ran, the confidence to overcome my perceived shortcomings were shored up in the belief and hope that maybe – just maybe – if I dared to believe in something well beyond what I thought possible, the trickle down would be contentment, clarity, and happiness. And when I crossed the finish line of my first marathon, I looked at the bright blue sky and thanked the heavens for having had the courage to throw down the gauntlet, to challenge the distance and not bow to fatigue, pain, or disbelief.

Grab hope wherever you find it. Be it a tiny, flickering ember or the white hot blaze of realization, capture it, harness it, take the leap of faith and believe. If you want that second chance,don’t wait for it to surface: mine it, find it, make it happen. That is the essence of hope: it exists on the tiniest sliver of faith, desire, and childlike belief in the simple ability to dare to try, to take that first step. Hope rarely dies, doesn't have a shelf life, and to sustain it requires very little but the smallest idea of a dream. The dream of something different: to break the addiction, to find love, to claw out of the dark toward the light, to believe in something bigger than oneself. Hope is the best of all things.

Run with all grace and audacity.

Requiem

2007-11-05T20:36:00.000-05:00

Requiem
11/5/07

Thank you for this day.

These 5 simple words typically start every one of my runs. In the early morning, even before the sun may be up, I’ll look up at the sky and whisper these words. It’s a small prayer, a mantra, a habit, my talisman of good luck. It is my verbal charm, my small something to remind myself in the busy swirl of this life, how lucky I am to be standing there, at that moment.

This past Saturday morning was a lazy day, and as I drank my coffee before I was to run, I got caught up in watching the US Men’s marathon trials live on my laptop. Those runners were something to see, the grace, the effort, the speed. As they sped throught the miles, it was Ryan Hall who awed us all with the apparent ease in which he conquered not only the unforgiveable distance and the hills of Central Park, but a field as deep in talent as this country has ever assembled. I got caught up in the battle for 3rd place, and alternately cheered for the dark horse Brian Sell - whose mustache and sideburns made him look hauntingly like a blond Steve Prefontaine – and Dan Browne, who would muster challenge after challenge before succumbing to cramps and the spirit of Sell to fall out of contention. It was exhilarating to watch, inspiring, wonderful. They were something to see. You can’t help but breathe deep and exhale, and feel the energy of possibility. It again reminded me of the lesson that if you do the work and believe in yourself, you can do the extraordinary. I took this and the images of those valiant runners with me as I went out on my familiar 8.1 mile loop.

Upon my return, I hopped back on the laptop to check the results of all the finishers and was stunned to read the news that Ryan Shay had died. How could this be? How could one as young and fit as Shay DIE? IN A RACE? Every year there is always a story of someone dying at the end of a marathon – the rigors of the race provoke weaknesses in the body which have – until that moment – gone unnoticed. But Shay was a proven product, someone who pushed his body to the limits of its endurance, a world-class athlete. Suddenly, Hall’s triumph was muted by the tragedy. And runners around the world struggled to make sense of his death.

The thing about running is that it makes you feel so alive. You feel good, you feel bad, you sweat, you’re hot, you're cold, you feel like you could run forever, you want to stop NOW. You ache, you fly, you want to do this forever, you wish you were doing anything but this. It is an impossibility to fit Shay’s square-pegged death in the round-holed life affirmation that is the marathon trails. I can’t believe it…How many times did we hear this repeated? I thought of his wife of only 3 months, had they even finished writing thank-you notes for their wedding gifts?

He was young, seemingly healthy, infinitely talented. Overlay death on this description and you have the essence of tragedy. It’s not a new scenario: it happens, every day. Killed in a car accident… In a roadside bombing… from cancer. We’ve become immune to the descriptions. We all feel a palpable sense of loss when we read of someone’s child, snatched from this earth too soon. But typically we’re far enough removed where that the sense of loss is – for better or worse – fleeting. Those of us who run felt more than just a momentary jolt when we read of Shay. He was ‘one of us’, a fellow runner. I couldn’t help but wonder what his last moments were like, as he stepped off the course and staggered toward the boathouse in Central Park. Was he confused or disoriented? Was he afraid? Did he know something terrible was happening? Did he look to the sky and wonder if this was real? Was his heart pounding wildly and did he somehow think be still my beating heart without fully understanding the devastating precision with which his prayer would be answered?

The running forums were jammed with threads of disbelief. A petition was started for Shay to be on the cover of a prominent running magazine. I thought about this: What do we celebrate here? Hall’s triumph? Shay’s death? Shay’s life? I’m pretty sure a cover on a magazine will not be adequate homage to a young man of such gift and talent, but in our effort to assuage our own sense of grief and loss, it is the best we can muster. The cover of this running magazine may well be our idea of Elysium for him. We will wonder if his equally talented widow will be able to train while carrying the burden of such heavy loss on her heart. And our own sorrow will pass like smoke in the wind; We will leave the true grieving to those who loved and knew him best.

We may not acknowledge it, but Shay’s death reminds us of how lucky we are in comparison to those whose lives are cut short. From a dusty road in the middle east to a 26 mile swath of pavement in Manhattan - and all the places in between -we need to memorialize the loss of all those whose middle age is their teens. Lofty thoughts, for sure. It begs the question how do you reconcile these deaths, these lives? The best you can: by lacing up your shoes, looking to the place where your soul finds meaning, and humbly giving thanks for the simple ability to participate in the endurance sport of life.

How do you start anything?

2007-11-03T13:52:00.000-04:00

I've always had trouble starting something big. Always. I have trouble getting my arms around it, trouble scoping out the steps, and most of time I leave it to the last minute. Then I'm left with the inevitable regret of wishing I'd been more organized or patient in the planning process. I have trouble with long-term thinking; I can see point "A" and point "Z" but have trouble imagining the alphabet in between.

Writing is a perfect example.

I've thought about writing for, not surprisingly, a long time. "Write, Monica", people tell me, "You should really write". And then I think "Yeah, I'll write... but about what?" I get spooked thinking about this big thing - WRITING - and feel this need to come to the blank sheet with all these ideas waiting to be transcribed. It's not really writer's block. It's more accurately "How do I begin?"

It seems my best writing is about running. But how many times can I write about a marathon or a race? Maybe - just perhaps - my best writing can come out of running. Maybe it's inevitable that as I let my legs run free, my mind follows. I think of all kinds of stuff when I run, I work out problems, run off anxiety and anger, burn off the excess negative energy. It's random and I just think. A Lot. So during today's run, an idea filtered through the endorphin-fueled jumble: Start a blog, and write about what I think about on my runs.

What should I name this blog? What shape should it take? Certainly, not just about running; that would be pretty myopic and boring. I thought about an article I had just read in Sports Illustrated about Alberto Salazar - the American marathoning legend from the early 80's - battling back from a heart attack. And the author wrote "Marathoning isn't life, as Alberto Salazar once believed. rather, life is a marathon..." The marathon as a metaphor for life is cliche and overplayed. I find the notion of the marathon of life a bit more compelling. You have to pace yourself through a day in this life much like you do a race, but how do you measure the pace of life? In a race, pace is minutes per mile (or minutes per kilometer), but how does that translate to life? Is it hours worked, errands run, loads of laundry folded, noses wiped, tears dried, hugs given and received? I don't know the answer, I don't think there is one single answer. But its neat idea to noodle over.

I'm standing at point A and am making my way point Z. And I'll figure out that alphabet along the way.

Lao-tsu said "Even the longest journey must begin where you stand." The warm-up is over. Runners take your mark...