It catches me unexpectedly, missing you so.
The fog creeps in, sometimes for days.
Yet I’m grateful for the depth of our friendship
And the chance to honor it.
I run alone through the woods for miles
Missing you quietly.
When I was in high school, I rode my bike everywhere. I had saved for and purchased a pink-and-gray Huffy 10-speed for about eighty dollars. I loved that bike. In addition to riding it 2 miles each way to school most days, I often took weekend excursions with my friend Suzie. We had a Monmouth County map, a few favorite destinations, and a host of delis along the way for re-fueling (Snickers bars). Of course there were no cell phones, but we always carried a patch kit and a couple of dimes for pay phones in case of emergency. Those were the days!
College wasn’t much different—I didn’t have or need a car there. I rode less frequently, but still didn’t think there was anything unusual about hopping on my bike for routine errands. When Andrew and I graduated from South Carolina, we’d been dating less than a year, and I’d replaced by battered and vandalized Huffy with a Specialized Crossroads Cruz. We took our bikes to Europe for four months, rode about 1400 miles from London to Genoa, and fell in love.
Life has changed. Now we live in the suburban wilds of North Raleigh. I drive my Civic nearly 20K miles a year. And I rarely think about hopping in the car—to go to the grocery store, to meet friends for a run, to go to the YMCA, to shuttle kids, to eat out—most trips less than 2 miles. Sometime after college (and after I got my first car), I fell out of the habit of riding everywhere. It seems like too much trouble, and as with most people who have complex lives (mine includes work, business, kids, activities), too much time.
All this is to say that I recently decided to sign up for the Tour de Cure. I’d been considering it for a while, actually, wanting to support my friend Diane’s Team Cheetah, but the timing had never worked out. Now Ann was signed up, and it seemed like too good of an opportunity to miss. Awesome!
People who know me were, to put it mildly, surprised. No one knows me as a cyclist, and I refer to spin classes derisively as the “Bike to Nowhere.” I like riding alone on a stationary bike even less than spin class. Maybe it’s because I grew up riding as my primary means of transportation that sitting on a bike going nowhere fast seems like an appalling waste of time.
Here’s another thing: I’ve become terrified of being hit by a car. Sure, Suzie and I had plenty of close calls, riding Route 537 past the horse farms in Colt’s Neck and the place where they make Laird’s Applejack when we were still too young to drink it. When Andrew and I were riding in Italy, a man once opened his car door about 2 feet in front of me and I crashed my overloaded bike into it (arm-waving and shouting—in English and Italian—ensued, ending with smiles and hugs). Still, I didn’t think much about it. The term “road rage” had not yet entered the daily lexicon.
So I despise riding nowhere, but I’m not thrilled with traffic. Still, I need to get myself used to the saddle again, so I began toying with the idea of riding my bike to work. Not every day, or most days. Once a week is the small goal I have set for myself.
I don’t know a lot of people who bike commute. I have only one friend who does it regularly around here. However, the concept isn’t new, lots of people do it, and Raleigh boasts an amazing greenway system—unparalleled, really, for a city its size. It’s been exciting to watch the planning the last few years especially, as different sections are connected. You can now ride 27 miles along the Neuse River Greenway from Wake Forest to Clayton, and soon you’ll be able to ride from Wake Forest past Crabtree Valley, through Umstead, and onto the American Tobacco Trail, which will take you all the way to Durham. I have one word for the forward-thinking leaders in the 1970s who dreamed up our greenway system long before it was in vogue: Visionary.
I have a number of factors in my favor for bike commuting once a week:
1. It is 13.3 miles from my house to NC State. A bit long, but a good workout—worthwhile.
2. Incredibly, less than 4 miles of the route is on roads traveled by cars.
3. I have access to a shower in my building.
4. My work schedule is flexible. I work from home a couple of days a week, which buys me more commute time on the days I go in. I can choose good weather.
5. NC State has an emergency ride service, if the need arises.
I picked this week to give it a try because it’s Spring Break and I had fewer meetings and commitments. Stay tuned…
“In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night…You–only you–will have stars that can laugh! And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me. You will always be my friend.” -Antoine de Saint-Exupery
This weekend was hard. Two years have not been enough time to ease my sorrow. It was a long day Saturday missing one of my closest friends. Suzie loved the wisdom of Le Petit Prince.
Andrew, the boys and I camped in Pisgah National Forest for a rainy long weekend. I picked Flat Laurel Gap at Mt. Pisgah because of its elevation (5000 ft.) and proximity to some beautiful areas of western North Carolina. I’d never camped there before, though I’ve taken classes to the bog in the middle of the campground. We’ll definitely go back!
We lucked out on Saturday with the weather. I’d wanted to take the boys to the Shining Rock Wilderness, so we trekked the strenuous Art Loeb Trail above 6000 ft. to Ivestor Gap. After bushwacking (and feasting on wild blueberries) on Grassy Cove Top, we retraced our steps to find the trail, hiking to within sight of Shining Rock from Flower Gap, then turning back on the Ivestor Gap Trail for a challenging 8 mile loop. It was a glorious day, and they loved it as much as I hoped they would.
I’d had several recommendations for an out-and-back run on the wide and relatively easy Ivestor Gap Trail, but after trying to construct an elaborate route to meet Andrew and the boys at Graveyard Fields, I decided to simplify things and have Andrew drop me off at the NC Arboretum to run point-to-point on the Shut-In Trail. I’ve been intrigued by Shut-In for some time. It originated in the late 1800s as a path George Vanderbilt took from his Biltmore mansion up to his hunting lodge on Mt. Pisgah. In addition, there’s a wicked race there each November that I’d love to do sometime.
I knew it would be tough, even without running the full 16.3 miles. The trail gains a net 3200 ft. I figured 14.7 mi was as much as I could do—matching the distance I’d done in Charleston the weekend before but adding hills and terrain. My coach enabler best pal, Andrew, dropped me off at the Arboretum and we made plans to rendezvous at the 151 junction in three hours.
The run was as difficult as it was wonderful, and took me through some beautiful and varied stretches of forest. There were many not-runnable steep stretches, but also sections with a reasonable climb, including a few downhill breaks and flats that gave me the sinking feeling that I was going to pay for them later. [Which I did.]
I took my mind off the burning in my lungs during climbs by inventing a Tolkeinian forest classification. Either the oxygen was too limited or the connection was too tenuous, because I didn’t get very far.
Shut-In has few views, though it does pop out on the Parkway now and then, usually at overlooks. Since it was either steady rain or mist, I didn’t miss much, though the elevation markers that I only glanced at from the car now took on new significance. However, fog makes the colors in the forest more vibrant anyway, and the wildflowers I saw were a good distraction.
For some reason, I was reluctant to pull out my map, even as I ran by several Parkway checkpoints. I didn’t look because I was afraid of how far behind I’d be. Finally, at 2 hrs. 45 min., I looked to see where I was. Sure enough, I was even farther behind than I’d thought. I’d never make the 3 hour meeting point.
That’s when I realized that I should have had a back-up plan—at 3 hours, I should go to the closest Parkway overlook and wait for Andrew to find me if I wasn’t at the meeting point. As luck would have it, we were able to text, so after I emerged from the woods again, I asked Andrew to come south and pick me up at Big Ridge Overlook, at 12.3 mi. He and the boys showed up with a towel, Fritos, a sandwich and a chocolate bar. Best. Pit. Crew. Ever.
Lessons from Shut-In:
Gear: Water in my 70 oz. Nathan pack, 2 Justine’s nut butter packages (peanut butter/honey and maple/almond butter, delicious but sticky), a Luna bar, a Cliff bar that I didn’t eat, and a package of Fritos. Should have brought Nuun. I had a map (no compass—the trail follows the Parkway, so getting lost would be quite a feat), phone, small first aid kit, camera, and a page from my NC hiking guide with trail distances. I carried a long-sleeved shirt and a wool pullover in a plastic grocery bag, stuffed into the shock cords on the outside of my pack. I wore shorts, a t-shirt, a hat, and my Brooks Trail Adrenalines.
Train for distance, but account for time. When will I learn this? I can’t get my head around time-training for long runs, though I know many people like it. My mistake, though, is that I chose a distance but miscalculated my time. A 12 min. pace seemed generous, covering snack time, photos, and navigation. I might have been close had I not gained ~2000 ft. in elevation. Instead, I was closer to a 15 min. pace. Moreover, I knew I was behind and ran hard whenever I could. Fine for a race, dumb for a training run.
Plan smarter. I knew I couldn’t run the whole distance, so I should have had Andrew drop me off higher up, on the Parkway, so I could have run 14+ back to the campground. That way he and the boys would not have had to meet me, and I wouldn’t have worried that I was behind schedule.
Angles count. Shut-In was great training for my trail 50K, with long stretches of climbing. I can run, seemingly forever, on a gentle climb. But the tipping point comes eventually, where the steepness becomes not runnable, which turns suddenly into barely walkable without gasping for breath. I need to work on running steeper angles while breathing easy. Hill repeats!
Walk when you need to. Another great lesson to remember. Sometimes I pushed myself to run steep sections to the point of breathlessness. Then the trail would level out, but I was so out of breath by that point that I couldn’t run.
Mental focus matters. Shut-In was my second birthday trail run for Suzie (last year it was in Acadia). This year it was hard, and I felt it. Toward the end, I was so discouraged by the climbing that I had to stop, and I took a few pictures to re-group. I had a hard time pulling out of the downward spiral. Food did not seem to help. And then there were beautiful stretches where the running was easy and fast and I whooped aloud for the joy of flying, and of having known my amazing friend. Such is the strange nature of grief.
[“Bedshaped,” by Keane, has been playing in my head]
Reflections from my run/hike on the Sycamore Trail at Umstead State Park. It’s been a long day of missing a dear friend.
Friends and readers of my blog know that I lost a lifelong friend, my best friend from childhood, Suzie Wetzel Seemann, last September. She was killed by a man who murdered a woman in her home, stole her car, then ran down my friend and her two running partners. Suzie died at the scene. Her friends Terri and Jessie survived, with grave injuries from which they are still recovering. I don’t know that I will ever get past the senselessness of this random, malicious act.
If you didn’t know Suzie, you missed out. Here are her husband Hank’s beautiful words describing her life: http://www.seemann.com/suzie/
This past Saturday, I helped co-lead the memorial part of her service in New Jersey, with Suzie’s sister-in-law Caroline. It was the hardest thing I have ever done. In the days leading up to Saturday, I felt overwhelming sadness, and I worried about how I would handle my emotions during the service. I didn’t want to just get through the service–I wanted it to be personal, warm, and welcoming, reflecting those traits in my friend.
Sometime last week, I wrote that I felt crushed by the weight of a thousand mountains–when I knew that I needed to BE the mountain.
But that introspective time somehow helped me prepare to do what was needed. The memories shared brought together snippets of Suzie’s life in a way that showed the depth of her character, and the richness of her too-short life. And I was grateful to have the opportunity to honor my friend and help her family.
I’ve been asked to share the words I spoke at the service, so they are posted below, along with some photos of us. I kept the tone light, so I could read them at the service. I hope they bring a smile, and convey how important our friendship was to me, from the time that we met all the way into adulthood. We were friends for more than thirty years.
I think this kind of friendship is rare, and I treasured it.
Memorial Service for Suzie Wetzel Seemann
Church of the Nativity, Fair Haven, NJ
April 13, 2013
The most memorable part of Suzie and Hank’s wedding for me was their inclusion of stories. So I wanted to share a few stories with you today, from different points in our lives. Each story says something important about Suzie and our lifelong friendship.
The first story surprises even me in its clarity, because it happened so long ago. We met around the age Simon and Malcolm are today, so this story is for Stephen, Simon, Malcolm, Evelyn and Belle. My parents kept our sailboat at the Atlantic Highlands boat yard over the winter. Bill’s friend Steve Schoggen also had his boat there, and Bill would come on weekends, bringing Suzie and Becky with him to play while he helped Steve.
My mom and dad encouraged me and my brother Alec to introduce ourselves when we saw the girls one weekend. I wanted to, but I was terribly shy and could not bring myself to even say hi. Instead, I spied on them, peeking around boats propped up on land. The day ended, and I left feeling bad that I was too shy to say anything.
The following Saturday just one of the girls was there. My dad told me not to come back until I had introduced myself. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “She looks like a nice little girl about your age.” Again, I was tongue-tied as I followed her around. And because I was so afraid that she wouldn’t like me, I decided that, most certainly, I was not going to like her. I studied her deep brown Dorothy Hamil haircut, green eyes, blue jeans and sneakers, and convinced myself that she looked like a pretty tough customer. I’m not exactly sure how I reached that conclusion, because she saw me spying and hid behind her dad. If there was anyone shyer than me as a kid, it was Suzie (or possibly Becky).
Luckily for both of us, Bill finally broke the ice. “My little girl’s name is Suzie. What’s your name?” I don’t actually remember the rest of that day. Memories of roller-skating, playing at the playground and the beach, and pizza parties at Steve’s house have blurred together. But I learned that it’s important to take risks, and to find the courage to keep your mind and your heart open. Because you just never know when you might meet a lifelong friend.
The next set of memories is for our gang of high school friends. We were good kids—kids who would ride bikes before dawn to the 7-11 in Sea Bright to get bagels, then watch the sunrise over the ocean. But then we’d actually go to school, and make sure we got there on time.
Suzie and I were partners in crime and rarely could you find one of us without the other. Together, we negotiated the sometimes bewildering social melee of high school—sometimes we did this well, more often we did it poorly. And we spent many weekends choosing a park as a destination and then relishing the adventure of getting there, sometimes riding 30 or more miles on our 10 speed bikes. The longer the ride, the better we liked it. Sometimes friends joined us, but more often it was just the two of us. By the end of my junior year, we had ridden to every park within a 25 mile radius of Little Silver, including Allaire State Park. [An aside to all our friends who now have kids of their own, remember: we were 14 and 15, and there were no cell phones. But we always carried a few dimes in case we needed to use a pay phone.]
Our opposite personalities meshed well on these adventures. Suzie was the planner and mastermind of our rides, figuring out the details and making sure we had everything we needed. I happily went along for each ride, which was usually longer and much more difficult than I’d bargained for. If things went awry and Suzie’s worry gene kicked in, my seat-of-the-pants intuition about what to do often helped us form Plan B. Once, I talked us out of being arrested when we decided to take a shortcut on the off-limits military road to Earle Pier.
We became passionate about ocean pollution, and volunteered for what was then a small grassroots organization called Clean Ocean Action. It was the height of the ocean pollution crisis in the 1980s on the Jersey Shore, back when it was perfectly legal to dump trash and sewage 12 miles offshore. Beach cleanups were organized by t-shirt color to designate which type of trash you would be picking up, as COA tried to quantify the types and sources of pollution. My friends and I all knew not to get the pink shirts, because that meant you would spend the day picking up plastic tampon applicators.
Suzie and I spent a summer canvassing beaches with petitions and helping organize clean-up events and rallies. And one Halloween Suzie dressed as a hypodermic needle, with a sign that read “Jersey Shore Hospital Supply Company: From our beaches to your bedside.”
Just last summer we rode bikes out to Sandy Hook like we had so many times. The Sandy Hook of today is noticeably cleaner than it was when we were in high school. The 12 mile dumpsite was closed in the early 90s. And the water is clear, attesting to nature’s resilience. But what floored me more than anything was that I saw a type of boat I’d never seen before—they were clam boats, with their short little sails, all over Sandy Hook Bay. In all my life, I’d never seen these boats, because shell-fishing was illegal when we grew up. Although there is still work to be done, the transformation truly amazed me.
Suzie and I were so different, yet we shared so many of the same passions. She was unwavering in her convictions. And together we learned that some things are worth the time you put into them.
After high school, Suzie and I only saw each other sporadically. We rarely talked on the phone or exchanged email. We were too busy doing things that mattered to us. But when we did talk or get together, it never mattered how long it had been since the last time. When you have a connection this deep, and you don’t see each other often, you don’t have time for idle chitchat.
I visited Suzie at Woods Hole when she started there, and we shared a passion for science—for her, it was oceanography, then meteorology, with its data-driven models of storm prediction; for me, it was ecology, with its big-picture understanding of organisms and their environments. Last summer I told her I finally understood the Coriolis Effect. She listened to my explanation, then told me that it was totally wrong but that she would help me understand it. Alas, we didn’t have time, and I still don’t get it.
Suzie was my maid of honor at my wedding, and she flew to NC to help when both my boys were born. One summer, before we had kids, we did a camping/canoe trip up in Wisconsin. We plotted way more adventures than we ever had time to do. We talked about gathering all our favorite girlfriends together one day to do the Title 9K in Boulder, but didn’t get the chance.
While we lived in Phoenix in 2005, we made the trip to Yosemite National Park, where Suzie and Hank were working as seasonal park rangers at Tuolomne Meadows. Simon and Malcolm were toddlers, so they rode in backpacks for short hikes and filled toy dump trucks with stones at the lake’s edge. While we were there, Suzie planned a “mom hike” for just the two of us. She wanted to show me her favorite flower, the sky pilot. And I couldn’t wait for our next adventure.
We started early, because she needed to be back by mid-morning, since Hank had a ranger program scheduled. Six miles, round-trip, seemed reasonable to do in a few hours. As usual, I didn’t really pay attention to the details.
I remember emerging from a forest of lodgepole pine and crossing a lush drainage, filled with beautiful wildflowers. As a forest ecologist, I could have spent a happy hour botanizing there and catching up. But Suzie urged me not to linger, because we had some ground to cover to see the sky pilots. And she insisted that I simply HAD to see them.
The trail started switch-backing up a steep slope strewn with boulders. Trees disappeared altogether as we marched up the mountain’s flanks, covered with nothing but barely stable scree. I was gasping trying to keep up. Just before we hit a big patch of snow, we found our first clumps of the flowers we sought. Clusters of clearest blue flowers perched on upright stalks, so fragile, and growing in the harshest of environments. They were perfect.
We reached the summit and signed the logbook. I was ready to kick back and take in the views, but Suzie said we needed to hurry. She wasn’t kidding—we had less than an hour to get back. We started running down the steep trail. I did my first glissading that day and managed not to break my leg. We made it, just barely, and laughed about it later. It was another one of Suzie’s overly ambitious adventures, and I had walked right into it yet again, just like old times.
It wasn’t until afterwards that I discovered that the mountain we had climbed was Mount Dana. Mt. Dana is the second-highest peak in Yosemite National Park at 13,067 ft, and the 3 mile climb to the top had an elevation gain of over 3000 feet.
Suzie was never one to shrink from a challenge, and she didn’t waste time on unimportant things. She embraced life fully—a life filled with her family, her friends, her work and her passions.
Suzie and I always ran a deficit of time. Even when we were in high school, we wrote pages-long letters to each other every week, sometimes nightly, with lists of additional topics we had to discuss. Suzie was the first person I trusted completely with my feelings, and there are things about me that only she knew. I am so grateful for the time we shared last summer, especially for the 10 mile run we did one morning, just the two of us, where we talked about running, our families, our work, and our lives. Our friendship weathered time as well as distance, and in some ways, we led parallel lives on opposite coasts. I had always imagined that we would celebrate life’s mile markers together. Hers was a life too short, and yet, so well-lived.