Seeking

0000rowboat on the sea

Rowboat On The Dark Sea (artist unknown)

Would you believe me, if I told you
I am a rudderless boat
adrift beneath the starry sky?

Sometimes gliding with apparent purpose,
then spiraling aimlessly in a gyre,
or caught in tangles of Sargassum

Motionless, while schools of fish
swim by as though with singular ambition–
I float alone, without direction.

 

Would you believe me if I told you
my hull was not built for such voyages–
too small, too fragile, too easily damaged,

Not meant for vast oceans or rogue waves
battered, creaking and straining,
green water pulsing through cracks

Bailing feverishly, waiting with dread,
certain the next wave will splinter me–
drowning seems inevitable, if not immediate.

 

Would you believe me if I told you
I am pushed by unseen currents,
and my course cannot be charted

Strong winds cast my hull west,
against the lee shore, pounding surf,
fog blurring the horizon, where sky meets sea,

Beating to windward slow and vexing
dogged effort with little headway–
wind and waves conspiring against me

 

Would you believe me, if I told you
that some are meant to wander
and I am never truly lost

When I lie on the rough wooden boards, caked with salt
and look up at the star-filled sky,
my heart knows the course I should be sailing.

For now I must be content to sail on through the night,
change my course with the shifting gale,
and see what the sunrise brings.

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One week til Chicago.

The miles are in the bank. We are T-9 days away from the Chicago Marathon, and I feel confident that our Down. Not Out! team will cross the finish line together. I’m so proud of Ann, and I’m excited that I will be with her to see this goal through.

I am looking forward to the adventure, and yet, part of me is dreading it.

I am relieved to have my Table Rock 50K behind me. I enjoyed it thoroughly, but I was nervous about potential injury. Table Rock is a wicked course—one I hadn’t run—and there’s nothing easy about 5700 ft of elevation gain on single-track trails. In fact, it was harder than I expected (but I loved it all).

A couple of weeks ago, friends asked if I was doing extra training in addition to my weekly training with Ann, plus joining her long runs whenever we were both in town. Sometimes Chicago training looked like powerful walk/run intervals; other days we needed to do more walking. Ann persevered. Marathon training with stage 4 cancer is tough. There is no manual or instruction book. She’s writing it.

I sure as hell was not doing extra training. I don’t have time, and I’m not that dedicated. I was undertrained for distance and terrain, but that’s happened before, and it turned out OK. Still, I fumbled over my response. “No, but it’s fine.” Well, of course, duh. “Look,” I said, trying again, “my priorities are clear.”

I knew they were missing the whole truth, but I didn’t try to explain. I was worried that I might burst into tears unexpectedly and make everyone uncomfortable. Still, I squirmed inside about the possible misunderstanding.

My priorities are clear. That is true enough. A mistaken assumption, however, might be that my only priority is to help Ann finish her marathon. I think even Ann worried about it some. However, that isn’t the case at all. First, Ann has had many, many friends support her training. Second, I needed these miles together. For me.

As we neared the longest runs of her training two weeks ago, Ann said one day, with weariness, “I can’t wait for this training to be over. It is really hard on my body.” Her honest words filled me with deep sadness.

We knew that she would need to hang up her running shoes, to protect her long-term health and have energy for other goals. I’ve worried about her training. I know she’s making a good decision, at the right time, and I admire Ann for making the call and doing it on her own terms. Living life large has always been her style.

But there will be weeks and months and years ahead where I would trade anything for that time spent running together. Time that is free of distraction, often in the company of other friends. No agenda, just time spent sharing what’s on our minds, laughing about our kids, making plans, and telling stories.

I will miss it terribly.

So today, we run together. To get Ann to the start—and the finish—of the Chicago marathon, and fulfill a longtime dream of hers. At the same time, I am filling my cup for the road ahead, one without my best friend running by my side.

My priorities are clear. I treasure every single day that we can lace up our running shoes together.

ann and steph crystal coast 2011

Crystal Coast Half Marathon, 2011. One of our worst races together (Ann had a fever and my IT band crapped out), but the girls’ weekend with friends more than made up for it.

2015 tour de cure

Tour de Cure 2015. This was an awesome challenge for us to tackle together, since neither of us is very comfortable on a road bike. One of my favorite pics, taken at the end of the second long, hot day of riding.

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Sunset Beach Half Marathon last spring with the Peeps. It takes a flock!

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Chicago Marathon training in July with some Peep support.

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Many adventures are still ahead. We don’t just run. We also camp, eat Krispy Kremes, and listen to bluegrass. Plus a whole lot of other stuff.

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Our husbands (and kids) never question our crazy adventures and are our rocks of support. We’re looking forward to celebrating 20 years of friendship in 2018.

Tuesday reflection

Tuesday after work. I am

camping with Stephen at Shinleaf,

on the Mountains-to-Sea Trail,

after he has spent much of his day

slowly moving himself and many

surprising (to him) pounds of gear from

Bayleaf Church Road, about

ten miles away. Tomorrow,

he will walk another thirteen to

Rolling View and await pickup

after I finish work. An experiment

in carrying everything you need and living simply.

He is tired and sore, but clearly pleased with

his accomplishment. Yet he’s puzzled to also

feel somewhat disappointed, and it

gnaws at him. I let him talk

but don’t say much, allowing him

space to think more and return later.

As for me–I sit outdoors at 8:45 pm

watching the waning sunlight,

an early bedtime whispering the

sweet promise of rest before the

sun rises on Wednesday. And I can

tell you that I feel content

with this ordinary

yet extraordinary

evening.

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Reflections on running, while not running. Or, “How I Embraced the Taper”

My taper began at the track last week.  I arrived intending to run 6 x 800s, not too fast, which for me might look like 3:40s. Instead, I ran just under 3:30s. I was pretty consistent, but not feeling good. My legs felt tired and things hurt. I finished the 5th 800 and abruptly announced to Jeff that my taper had officially begun. Go directly to taper. Do not pass Go or collect $200.

Maybe I’ve really arrived as a runner, because I read about the taper blues and I seemed to have every symptom last week. I felt aches and pains I’ve never felt before. I was crabby. I felt tired, more tired than I’d been even during my peak training weeks. I longed to run quite desperately. It was pathetic.

My funk turned around last weekend, when I headed to Winston-Salem with Ann and two other quilting friends for an awesome sewing retreat. Despite my propensity to relentlessly deep-dive into whatever I’m working on at the moment (this time I cut and sewed 77 quilt blocks), Ann and I found the nearby Salem Creek Greenway and headed out and back for an easy 7 miles. It’s always fun exploring a new place, particularly with your best girlfriend. It’s an adventure. Add the possibility of getting lost or ending up in a sketchy place and you have that perfect edge that brings everything into focus.

Ann was my first real running partner when I started running as an adult, and we have covered many miles together, including our first half marathon. We don’t get to run together as often these days, so it was a real treat to spend some one-on-one time with her on a run.

We reached a flooded portion of the greenway before we reached Salem Lake and turned around. Our conversation turned to our evolution as runners. When we were younger, the training was just a time-consuming, sometimes annoying necessity to prevent dying in some race we’d signed up for on a crazy whim. Now that we’ve hit 40, we both appreciate the journey, anticipating race day as a celebration of the practice and hard effort of training.

I’m sure I’ll have some great memories from the upcoming Umstead marathon this Saturday, but I already have many favorite moments saved during the journey to get here. Thanks for a great run, Ann.

I think it was Kristin Armstrong who said it: We don’t have to run. We *get* to run.Image