The one being loved

The night before: shoe chipped, bib pinned, gel tucked into place, bag packed and ready.

I am not an artist.

I got up, ate my bagel flat with almond butter and drank my Vega Sport Performance Booster.  Kelly was running a half-marathon in Maine today, and having learned that the dragonfly is a symbol of hope and encouragement for the both of us, we "tattooed" them on ourselves as a way to be tangibly present to each other in spirit.  I sent my photo off to her and set out right around 0500.  I don't know why I didn't put it together in my head that so many of the 11200 marathoners and 8500 ten-milers would also be taking the buses from the Kelly Inn in St. Paul to the start line in downtown Minneapolis. I was supposed to meet Jen and Amy at 0630 for hugs and encouragement, but instead...

Those buses in the distance? 
That was the end of the line.

I think, now, that I didn't anticipate this because I tend to think I'm the only one doing things on her own.  And this despite having been embraced with support all week long and having received spirited texts already this early morning!  Silly when I look at it in that light.  But honestly, even if you have someone, who wants to get up and drive someone to the start line at 0500 when they could catch a free bus?  I finally boarded at 0622. The race started at 0709 (0718 for me).  No rush!

Look hard, look far...
it's there!

How badly I wanted to capture every moment, but there was no time: I jump off the bus at the Metrodome. Strip off my outer warm layer in a porta-potty and run to sweats check. Toss my bag over the top of several shorter runners, praying she makes it to the right bin, telling myself that it was only cheap cargo pants and an equally cheap Old Navy vest anyway.  Get lucky and find a water station; wander (fight?) my way through Corral 5, then Corral 3, to get to Corral 4. My iPod is still in repair so my cell was the music device of the day, making this the closest picture I could get of the start before strapping her in for the ride. Run into my abnormal psych professor in my corral as I'm stretching in the short five minutes I have left (weird).





I hear the shouts of excitement from the other corrals as they start off down Portland, and instead of becoming anxious, a calm and satisfied smile starts to rise within me.  Eyes closed and sinking into inner silence, I breathe deeply and appreciate where I am in this moment.  I marvel at how I got here and that this long-imagined day has actually arrived: six months ago, I could barely contain my anxiety about my first 5K.  Five months ago, I hadn't even heard of today's race and was beginning rehab on a long-standing knee and hip injury; four months ago, I could just finish 5 miles and only with a good deal of pain.  I have become a student of taping, bracing, stride, and form, but it's deeper than this: I simply know, in my soul, that my body can carry me today. I send blessing to myself, blessings to every runner I know today, blessings to all the unknown runners.

I gaze up at the start banner as I cross the timing mat and feel...peace.  It's not at all how I expected to feel today.

The first mile was somewhat downhill: easy!  I thanked every police officer I passed, at least those who made eye contact with me, for doing what is for them such a boring standby (been there, done that). I wondered if there's anything more breathtaking than watching the sun rise up as you pass along an autumn-leaved river (nope).  The slow but steady climb up West River Road and the view from over the river makes the run across the Franklin Ave bridge feel like an already-victory, though it could have also been the first of the water volunteers cheering from the other side at the three-mile mark.  They hollered for us like we were heroes.

We see the ALARC wall just shy of mile four (mile 19 for the marathoners): a big, inflated "brick" arch surrounded with more cheering spectators, who happened to be blasting "YMCA" as I ran beneath.  "Come on runners, you know it!" they yell.  Nearly impossible, I tell you, not to laugh as you and your fellow runners try to make the proper letters with your arms while you try to keep your breathing, keep your pace - what a spectacle! I laugh again now as I remember.

At every race but one thus far, as my thoughts and emotions moved through my striving body, I have begun to cry.  I felt strangely free of this today.  It only hit me as I passed by a banner of John "The Penguin" Bingham's famous quote: "The miracle isn't that I finished.  The miracle is that I had the courage to start."  My mind began its familiar rewind; there's just so much there to reflect on when I allow it.  The inner tremble began, but it lasted only the briefest of moments by comparison.  I am surrounded by excitement and celebration, and I don't want to cry today.  Today is a big day for a second reason: it's the five-year anniversary of my divorce.  I made it a point not to carry this into my conversations leading up to today.  I didn't want it to reduce or take away from any part of this: a day for moving forward, not backward.

There was one more tearful moment as I passed man with two little ones in a tandem stroller, with a sign attached to the back that read, "GO MOMMY!"  (Look away...look away.)

I happened to be looking to my right when I saw the flash of red hair I'd been waiting to see - Lindsay!  Cheering from strangers is one thing, but hearing someone yell my very own name was more uplifting than the electrolyte gel I pulled out a few minutes later.  I walked for a minute to get it down, and as I did I looked up through the trees, toward the sun, at the people.  Another wide, peaceful smile arrived for me.  I am here.  I really am here.

Half a mile or so later, just past Lexington Ave, I see the glinting off a big green poster board before I hear their yells: Jean, Maria, and Kim.  (Joe & Joey were busy being lost somewhere, but I know you were there in spirit!) Three-year-old Alexis looked quite puzzled ("Mom, what is all this about?") but as I ran up, took a knee at the curb and said, "Hi, Punkin' Pie!", her smile lit all the way up and across her face as she lifted her arms for a sweaty hug.  I paused for a hug from each of my incredible friends.  No PR is worth missing that.  I learned today that as I continued on, Alexis turned to Kim and said, "Mama, why is she running away?"  Oh my heart...

Most of the Summit Avenue stretch is one steady uphill climb; not as brutal for the ten-milers as for the marathoners, but still not fun!  I had long ceased to think about my time.  I kept taking pictures with my eyes: each howling, clapping spectator; each hilarious and inspiring sign; each volunteer that handed me Powerade, water, or swept my cup up off the road.  Twice more I paused to walk and just breathe in the experience.  Coming around the corner into that beautifully downhill final stretch, I see a familiar site, but from the opposite side this time:

Two fire engines and a flag (photo credit to Brian,
one of the marathoners).

*Insert here: beautiful picture of said engines and flag with St. Paul Cathedral in the background as I looked up John Ireland Blvd last year instead of down it. Lost on a flash drive somewhere.*

I remember looking around the finish area last year with excitement and amazement, mystified at the ways in which my 12-year-old self remembered all this vs. how my 32-year-old self was taking it in now.  I gazed searchingly up that hill for my friend, at that inspiring sight and gorgeous backdrop.  I sure as hell never thought I'd be seeing any portion of that course from this side just a year later.

The arches I stood at last year...from the inside :)

There was one more fantastic duo I was waiting to see: Mom and Lorrie.  Lorrie had joined me at the Expo for packet pick-up the day before and even bought her very own TCM sweatshirt to be as much a part of my support team as possible.  Today, she picked up my mom and delivered her to the finish line.  Of all the spectators in those bleachers, I don't think any two people cheered more loudly or jumped around more enthusiastically, drowning out even their own cowbells (because of course she found those too *wink*).  And then, what can you say to describe this?

1:41:57.  Thanks to Brian again for the capturing of this memory.

I got a text from my Papa, the former marathoner himself, at just the right moment: "No lying down for 3 hours...VERY PROUD of my girl!" And I'm quite sure that half a banana, a mini salted nut roll, and simple coffee never tasted so good.  I'm sure I seemed a little spaced out to all of you who called, texted, and embraced me - I was.  I couldn't stop thinking about how last year, I was the proud friend, excitedly watching and sending great intention from the outside. I held it as so important to be there, to support such a huge achievement in any way I could.  And you know, I don't think I cheered half as hard as my amazing friends did for me. I couldn't have imagined then how much the cheers mean: they're often the only thing that keeps you putting one leg in front of the other.

I could never have fathomed being the recipient of such love or attention - not last year, not ever.  I wouldn't have wanted it for how awkward and uncomfortable it makes me feel.  My independent determination has saved me in many ways, and while disappearing into my own experience has been necessary at times, I see how this has created in me a belief that I am ever and always on my own.   It was hard for me this year, so very hard: to run in public, enduring despite my self-consciousness and self-judgment; to step into a real running store and ask for guidance; to take my injury to a clinic especially for runners (because that can't be what I consider myself, right?).  It was all just so intimidating.  Harder still was to step forward and share this experience on a relational level, seeking out new friendships with whom to share such a grueling and personal endeavor, when I could barely share this with the friends who've loved and supported me for years!  What a welcome and unparalleled time this year has been, to discover that I belong to this life and to any experience I want to have in it, refusing to let fear and doubt speak more loudly than a belief in what might be possible for me.  I am no longer interested in playing small.  I have waited my whole life to believe that I deserve to be the one being loved.

To Lindsay, Jean, Maria, Kim, Alexis, Joe, Joey, Lorrie, Mom, and Ann, who got up so early with me, stood in the cold, battled the crowds, and hold enough love for me that you extended it to my fellow runners and friends...to Kelly and our dragonflies...to Jen and two Amys for running ten miles with me...and the countless of you who sent me your energy from afar:  I have never felt so loved, treasured, and lifted up in my whole life.  You give me back my heart and my power.  Thank you, thank you, thank you, for believing in me when I didn't believe in myself, for helping me recognize the good that lives within me, and for loving me that much - I am so fortunate, and I am so proud to have friends like you! 

Now who wants to train for a marathon with me next year?!?
(Because I finally lost my toenail last night - and I hear this makes me an honest-to-goodness, real live runner?!?)

 

Mom <3

Lorrie <3

Victory breakfast with Joey, Jean, Maria, & Joe

2011: Year One :)