Love the annual "Bun Run", in which local neurologist and ultra endurance athlete, Jim, bakes up his notorious sticky buns for his favorite scandalous running group. I swear, these people will take any excuse to talk about "buns" and other body parts. ;) I told Jim he is the ultra Renaissance Man- how many people do you know capable of diagnosing brain maladies and whipping up some serious pastries in a day, all while training for yet another crazy endurance race? Yep. He's a winner. A great time was had by all- pictures posted on FB spell it out.
Tomorrow is my least favorite holiday. I can think of few things I like less than the smell of turkey cooking in the oven all day, or a day dedicated to all things food. Thankful to be in the kitchen for hours? I think not. Thank goodness I have the best husband around who cares nothing about tradition and allows for the boycott, despite his love for food (that's love). He trains and races (and wins) so much, he continues to eat anything- and everything- imaginable. Actually, we don't totally hang the holiday up- the apple pie is in the oven right now (the only thing he really cares about are the desserts) and we will do select items to preserve some of the holiday feel for the sake of the little people who live here.
On that note, Owen runs a 5K in the morning, and we have family swim relays right around the corner. The sober day has come in which the entries reveal her interval, at eight years old, has surpassed mine. It is bittersweet to fill in the blanks, but wow, my girl is fast. She gets those webbed feet from dad, certainly, as my days of hanging on the side of the pool, sipping coffee, and chatting it up have not helped my times. My justification is there was never any speed there to begin with, so why push too hard? Life is short- I would rather drink my latte and enjoy the people. Coach Gene has all but given up on me, yet he still yells if I talk too long on the wall during a set- something about being a bad influence. Barry tells me he swims at least an extra 500 yards when I am not there to distract him. I am going to take that as a compliment.
All in all, in taking inventory of my life, so very many blessings. As much as I whine and complain here at my computer, I try not to be this extremely negative on the outside. Everyone needs an outlet to vent, and this is mine, I suppose. There really is so very much to be Thankful for, starting with tomorrow's early pre-race run with great, fit, funny people. How do hermits survive? Vagabonds, recluses, gypsies on the go without relationships- how do they manage? I need a network and I am elated to have that, no doubt.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
What's "fair" about an Affair?
I think it should be an affarce.
I don't believe that old adage "Time heals all wounds" anymore. I think we are all a bunch injured people, walking around with seeping wounds that we have slapped some bandages on in order to try to function in a dysfunctional world. I think we forgive, but we never forget. I think we always have residual pain from wounds inflicted by others that are so deep, they cannot ever truly heal even into an ugly scar. And yet, we soldier on for the sake of those around us.
I have met so many people in the last two years who have had affairs or been afflicted by one. I have witnessed the destruction to the individuals the families involved with infidelity. I have seen the women waste away to nothing on the scale, starving themselves for some control after their husbands step out on them. I have been witness to men stuffing the emptiness of the wives who left them with alcohol, random women, and worse. Just like I don't get camping, I don't understand why we think we are going to find something better on the outside of our relationships. Why sleep on the ground when there is a delicious and comfortable, albeit predictable, bed back at home?
It is fine to explore the great outdoors- to hike and run and mountain bike-and then to return to the comforts of home. Why sleep with it? Why do we want to mix it up? What is it we're searching for when we try something else on for size? Why the adventure and excitement of the great outside? Are we all really that savage and prehistoric? I despise the discomfort that comes with the morning after- sleeping on the rocky earth with only a thin layer of nylon between me and all that dirt. I hate the film of dirt that comes with waking up with it. Everything aches.
My mind is consumed with this as it is on my doorstep- again. My heart is restless trying to make sense of it.
I don't believe that old adage "Time heals all wounds" anymore. I think we are all a bunch injured people, walking around with seeping wounds that we have slapped some bandages on in order to try to function in a dysfunctional world. I think we forgive, but we never forget. I think we always have residual pain from wounds inflicted by others that are so deep, they cannot ever truly heal even into an ugly scar. And yet, we soldier on for the sake of those around us.
I have met so many people in the last two years who have had affairs or been afflicted by one. I have witnessed the destruction to the individuals the families involved with infidelity. I have seen the women waste away to nothing on the scale, starving themselves for some control after their husbands step out on them. I have been witness to men stuffing the emptiness of the wives who left them with alcohol, random women, and worse. Just like I don't get camping, I don't understand why we think we are going to find something better on the outside of our relationships. Why sleep on the ground when there is a delicious and comfortable, albeit predictable, bed back at home?
It is fine to explore the great outdoors- to hike and run and mountain bike-and then to return to the comforts of home. Why sleep with it? Why do we want to mix it up? What is it we're searching for when we try something else on for size? Why the adventure and excitement of the great outside? Are we all really that savage and prehistoric? I despise the discomfort that comes with the morning after- sleeping on the rocky earth with only a thin layer of nylon between me and all that dirt. I hate the film of dirt that comes with waking up with it. Everything aches.
My mind is consumed with this as it is on my doorstep- again. My heart is restless trying to make sense of it.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Reluctant Redneck
This past week a whirlwind after hitting the routine in full swing and trying to get back on East Coast time. I swear, it gets harder to get caught up every time we make the trip and come back to what I will never call home. With a renewed sense of myself after spending a brief nine days in the Promised Land, I come back here indifferent. I didn't want the 4:30 am Welcome Back Committee. I feel guilty for their warmth and unconditional love for me when all I can think about is my former life. I abhor the same six or ten mile loop we run like mice on the wheel day after day, after running much varied terrain all last week. At least I take solace in the idea that upon our return here, the morning temperatures are now in the 70's at the start. Will tights weather ever be upon us?
This got me thinking about how running just isn’t for the faint of heart. When summer temperatures here climb to the obscene, sweating takes on new meaning. Even at 4:30 in the morning, until just recently, we were uncontrollably dripping wet. Despite the fact that we wear so little clothing (we may as well all be running naked), we are seriously hot. My shorts have never been so non-existent, and let's just say that if a sports bra wasn't necessary, it would not be worn. I joke with most of the guys how "redneck" they really are ("Whatever, Malibu Barbie."), but truth be told, I really like most everyone and we are a tight-knit group. With perspiration flinging off pumping limbs, spit flying, and noses farm-blowing, I’ve shared more bodily fluids with these running partners than I have in some intimate relationships. The running here doesn’t afford the luxury of cooling off in shade or catching a breeze; it forces us to visit putrid portable potties and put thirsty lips to slimy water spigots (never before did I even know what this word was).
So why can I not look my running friends in the eye when they ask me how the trip home was? Why do I simply blow it off as "fine" and tell everyone, "Oh yes! It's wonderful to be back here." Getting on the plane to return to this coast is still a deliberate act of sheer will and they all know it. They know I'm full of it to wear the mask and smile politely. I'm like a fish out of water and everyone knows I'm suffocating, but they kindly offer to help pick me up and throw me back into a puddle. My friends coax and caudal me, shuttle me back into the routine with this dinner and that party, and then I'm okay.
Running with Barry and Gary every Friday is therapy, too. They always give me some perspective (as well as much laughter)and here it is this week: I have great friends here. People even like me. We have many, many, many activities in which our family always participates and our social calendar is usually booked solid. My friends are my life here. But when I think about returning to work, or where I would like my kids in school, where I would like them to grow up, the answer is always the same. It is not that I am above the people or routine here. It simply still feels- even after more than two years- like I am parting my hair on the wrong side when I get out of bed every morning. I still have to correct myself when talking about heading away from the ocean- it is West and not East to head to the mainland. I still draw comparisons and feel like there is so much life I am missing out on back home.
I am not sad or resentful or upset anymore. I am resigned to the idea of this for now and I will appreciate my friends every step of the way. Then I am going to hope that they all decide to move to the West Coast to continue to be part of my world because I cannot seem to adapt to life here. I already asked Barry to take the Barr in CA and his response was, "Never again" so prospects are not good. I sure will miss these people, if not their climate.
Driving down the grade and heading into Hollywood to meet a friend for dinner last week still feels comfortable. Driving the 101 is home. Sitting in traffic on the 405 is a non-issue because it is a small price to pay to live in paradise. Fighting for a parking spot in a crowded lot brings me back to days of driving as a teenager and learning how to be defensive. Standing in an endless line for a cup of coffee is business as usual. Smog is a way of life. I miss it every single day.
This got me thinking about how running just isn’t for the faint of heart. When summer temperatures here climb to the obscene, sweating takes on new meaning. Even at 4:30 in the morning, until just recently, we were uncontrollably dripping wet. Despite the fact that we wear so little clothing (we may as well all be running naked), we are seriously hot. My shorts have never been so non-existent, and let's just say that if a sports bra wasn't necessary, it would not be worn. I joke with most of the guys how "redneck" they really are ("Whatever, Malibu Barbie."), but truth be told, I really like most everyone and we are a tight-knit group. With perspiration flinging off pumping limbs, spit flying, and noses farm-blowing, I’ve shared more bodily fluids with these running partners than I have in some intimate relationships. The running here doesn’t afford the luxury of cooling off in shade or catching a breeze; it forces us to visit putrid portable potties and put thirsty lips to slimy water spigots (never before did I even know what this word was).
So why can I not look my running friends in the eye when they ask me how the trip home was? Why do I simply blow it off as "fine" and tell everyone, "Oh yes! It's wonderful to be back here." Getting on the plane to return to this coast is still a deliberate act of sheer will and they all know it. They know I'm full of it to wear the mask and smile politely. I'm like a fish out of water and everyone knows I'm suffocating, but they kindly offer to help pick me up and throw me back into a puddle. My friends coax and caudal me, shuttle me back into the routine with this dinner and that party, and then I'm okay.
Running with Barry and Gary every Friday is therapy, too. They always give me some perspective (as well as much laughter)and here it is this week: I have great friends here. People even like me. We have many, many, many activities in which our family always participates and our social calendar is usually booked solid. My friends are my life here. But when I think about returning to work, or where I would like my kids in school, where I would like them to grow up, the answer is always the same. It is not that I am above the people or routine here. It simply still feels- even after more than two years- like I am parting my hair on the wrong side when I get out of bed every morning. I still have to correct myself when talking about heading away from the ocean- it is West and not East to head to the mainland. I still draw comparisons and feel like there is so much life I am missing out on back home.
I am not sad or resentful or upset anymore. I am resigned to the idea of this for now and I will appreciate my friends every step of the way. Then I am going to hope that they all decide to move to the West Coast to continue to be part of my world because I cannot seem to adapt to life here. I already asked Barry to take the Barr in CA and his response was, "Never again" so prospects are not good. I sure will miss these people, if not their climate.
Driving down the grade and heading into Hollywood to meet a friend for dinner last week still feels comfortable. Driving the 101 is home. Sitting in traffic on the 405 is a non-issue because it is a small price to pay to live in paradise. Fighting for a parking spot in a crowded lot brings me back to days of driving as a teenager and learning how to be defensive. Standing in an endless line for a cup of coffee is business as usual. Smog is a way of life. I miss it every single day.
A Run Down Memory Lane
I found an old writing sample about Long Beach Marathon. I may have already blogged it, but it is fun to read about the horrors of the past. This still stands as one of my all-time worst marathons, as far as how horrible *horrible* I felt when it was over, but I learned so much about myself along the way.
Defying Logic to Find Heart
Running to me is all about courage. It is about how much heart each of us has and how we choose to direct the fire in our soul. It is the story we write with our shoes along the asphalt and the expression of our personalities. How do we travel those 26 miles and how do we finish? How much courage does it take and just how much heart is involved? What is my story? I found out in October of 2005 at the Long Beach Marathon.
My training had been perfectly on par. My nutrition plan was flawless and my legs were race-ready. The autumn weather in Southern California left me with nothing to want, perfectly clear skies and high fifties at the start, as we lined up in our appropriate corrals. My only goal was to run a 3:40 so I might qualify for the coveted Boston Marathon spot again. I figured I had it in the bag. So confident was I in my training and overall shape, that at mile three, I jumped behind two guys about my late twenty-something age. Both were extremely fit with bronzed, shaved legs (surely a sign of triathletes), and each ran with music plugged into his ears (perfect- I wanted to zone out in my own head and simply chase some nice gams in front of me). The guy on the left wore a sign on his back that read, “3:30” and his friend to the right wore the matching partner sign, “Or Bust”. I liked their style immediately.
The three of us exchanged nods, sharing that knowing look with the silent understanding that there was work to be done here and talking this day was not an option for any of us. Here in the early morning hours along a beautiful coast just after sunrise, two perfect strangers to me befriended me for the sake of a common goal: to run a respectable marathon. We began the race under gray skies with several hundred spectators already lining the course. The first three miles seemed to breeze by with the one that blew stray strands of hair off my face. I felt comfortable, at ease, jovial in the moment. Mile four and I checked my watch that boldly read 30 minutes even. Interesting. Team Ipod appeared to be a little ahead of pace, but no matter, this was time in the bank, right? Surely these 3:30 guys knew what they were doing- they had the matching outfits and all the right gear that told me they were marathon veterans. This was the day I was going to prove to myself that two small children at home couldn't’t cramp my style of sub 3:30 marathon pace from my former life. 3:40 was for the weak. After all, I had endured child labor, certainly I could withstand a little bit of self-inflicted pain of another kind? I was being generous with myself, giving far too much slack with the initial 3:40 finish time.
The miles clicked away and away and away. Somehow the line between 3:30 and 3:20 became completely blurred as we continued to slap our feet along that boardwalk. By mile 16, I could feel a faint sense of worry growing in my chest (or perhaps that was my labored breathing?). I took inventory of the body to get comfortable with what was ailing me, and by this time, most everything was uncomfortable. I talked myself into thinking that my hair felt wonderfully amazing and without any sort of pain whatsoever. So did my fingernails- perfect, all ten. I forged forward with that thought, chasing the boys, whose names I didn’t even care to know, just ahead of my stride. I watched that “3:30 Or Bust” begin to bleed from the sweat that soaked their shirts, betraying their carefree and haphazard attitudes, as they pranced along, as though this were just another day, no different from any other training run in the weeks leading to this moment. Business as usual out on the road. Mile 17 and I couldn’t deny the fact that I was now dropping off the pace, which still would have given us better than the 3:30 we were chasing. “3:30” guy looked over his shoulder and with a brilliant smile, used his hand to motion for me to keep up, but all I could muster was a pathetic head shake no. I dismissed him by looking down at my unhappy and throbbing feet, now feeling like stuffed sausages in my size seven and a half Triax.
By mile 19, now alone and running considerably slower, my mind was in a very dark place. The open course lead me to serious delusional thoughts, “If I step out of this shoulder, even just a little bit over the line, I can get hit by a car and I will be able to stop running…they will have to pick me up and I can stop running....i can ride with medical help and I can STOP running....” My stomach lurched and cramped, refusing to settle the GU I had choked down only minutes earlier. My legs were strangers to me; they felt like nothing I had ever known before, and definitely not extensions of my body. These were not my trusted friends who had carried me through all the miles of perfect training for sixteen weeks, they became the traitors I had now come to call them, “Judas” and “Benedict”.
I stumbled through the water station at mile 22 and had to relegate myself to walking. The clock here revealed the ugly truth of my time slipping away from me- not even 3:30 anymore, because I had given up on that long ago. Now, the clock glared at me, scolding me for even letting go of the initial goal of 3:40. I knew my error- I had tried to run with the Big Dogs and I had been eaten alive. My legs and stomach were pulverized as a result and my ego was bruised. Just as I was chastising myself for being so utterly stupid, I caught a glimpse of an ambulance in my periphery. While shamefully shuffling the runners cat walk now littered with Dixie cups, my mouth was agape in disbelief- there was “Or Bust” lying on the side of the road! He was on his back, digging his fingers into his forehead as though the pain were splitting his head in half, chest heaving, while EMTs frantically worked over him. “Bust” had busted! My chest hurt from his certain pending disappointment (once he was convinced death was not eminent), and I decided my suffering clearly was not as bad as I initially considered it to be. I soldiered on, trying to catch his eye for reassurance, but elbowed out by medical personnel.
I remember not miles 23 to the finish. I simply remember feeling grateful for the cloud cover that graciously offered those of us racing the reprieve from any sort of bright light, my own head screaming at me from dehydration. The moment I crossed the finish line, it began to rain, ever so softly, and I was thankful for the wet that wasn’t my own sweat. It was as if the sky had courteously waited for my death march to end and now it began to cry for me- the clock read 3:51 high. Before I could allow the lump in my throat to grow with this poetic injustice, my boy “3:30” appeared from out of the masses and in my face, clutching my upper arms, now trembling from exhaustion.
“Good job!” he said, far too enthusiastically for me to appreciate. “How are you?”
Though I was ecstatic to be reunited with a warm, familiar face, the blood leaving my legs now shunted back to my stomach prevented me from answering his question. I held up a shaky index finger and weaved over to the closest trash can. Linking my aching fingers through the chain link fence, I effectively emptied my tummy of all that was in it, making a convincing case for medical attention for myself.
“Are you okay?” He inquired, with a hand on my sweat-soaked back.
“Never better,” was my response this time, and though the accompanying smile was weak, I meant it.
The urge to cry had subsided, perhaps due in part to the distraction of the vomiting issue and the pain in my stomach muscles from the uncontrollable lurching. But moreover, I forced the lump of disappointment in my throat down because even though my qualifying time had run away from me that day, so had the inhibition. I didn’t care that I was throwing up the contents of my gut in front of thousands of people. I was losing my lunch, but gaining a whole new perspective on what it means to be a passionate runner. I didn’t simply go through the motions that day- I ran with emotion and found my true identity in being a runner.
While I used to always be so concerned with the outfit and the shoes and the matching hair tie, today it didn’t matter that I threw up all over my Nikes. I didn't care about the photos along the course; I was too busy being the real McCoy. I didn’t leave anything on the table to regret later because I knew even though I didn’t run a smart race, I was able to still drag myself to the finish line despite the stomach pain and the heartache. My heart was broken, but I had heart.
Brian was waiting at the end of that race. He had ridden his bike to the finish line and was all smiles to see me come in. I didn't know him at all, only stories of him from Marc and their many days of swimming in younger years. Marc reintroduced us and told me I did great, regardless of the time.
"How far is the car from here?" I asked Marc.
"About six blocks," his reply.
My heart sank. My head throbbed. My stomach hated me. I knew I would never make it. I considered kicking the kids out of the jogging stroller and asking Marc to push me. Then I looked at Brian and his means of transport.
"Get off your bike." I barked at him.
"I beg your pardon?" Brian had the nerve to challenge me in my fragile state.
"I said, I need your bike. Please let me ride it. My legs just don't work anymore right now. Get off." The stomach pain was making me cranky and I was growing increasingly impatient.
"Oh, of course, of course," as he threw a leg over and climbed off. "All yours."
Thank goodness. Now I liked him. I always like a Yes Man. I climbed on and we rode/ walked back to the car. Six blocks later, Marc and I said goodbye to Brian and I reclined our car's passenger seat as far back as it would go. Marc had to pull over at least twice for me to lean out of the car and vomit in the gutter on our way out of Long Beach, but my memory is a little hazy of those events now. What matters now is this day forward.
I'm still grateful to Brian for his bike that day. He will always be a Yes Man to me.
Defying Logic to Find Heart
Running to me is all about courage. It is about how much heart each of us has and how we choose to direct the fire in our soul. It is the story we write with our shoes along the asphalt and the expression of our personalities. How do we travel those 26 miles and how do we finish? How much courage does it take and just how much heart is involved? What is my story? I found out in October of 2005 at the Long Beach Marathon.
My training had been perfectly on par. My nutrition plan was flawless and my legs were race-ready. The autumn weather in Southern California left me with nothing to want, perfectly clear skies and high fifties at the start, as we lined up in our appropriate corrals. My only goal was to run a 3:40 so I might qualify for the coveted Boston Marathon spot again. I figured I had it in the bag. So confident was I in my training and overall shape, that at mile three, I jumped behind two guys about my late twenty-something age. Both were extremely fit with bronzed, shaved legs (surely a sign of triathletes), and each ran with music plugged into his ears (perfect- I wanted to zone out in my own head and simply chase some nice gams in front of me). The guy on the left wore a sign on his back that read, “3:30” and his friend to the right wore the matching partner sign, “Or Bust”. I liked their style immediately.
The three of us exchanged nods, sharing that knowing look with the silent understanding that there was work to be done here and talking this day was not an option for any of us. Here in the early morning hours along a beautiful coast just after sunrise, two perfect strangers to me befriended me for the sake of a common goal: to run a respectable marathon. We began the race under gray skies with several hundred spectators already lining the course. The first three miles seemed to breeze by with the one that blew stray strands of hair off my face. I felt comfortable, at ease, jovial in the moment. Mile four and I checked my watch that boldly read 30 minutes even. Interesting. Team Ipod appeared to be a little ahead of pace, but no matter, this was time in the bank, right? Surely these 3:30 guys knew what they were doing- they had the matching outfits and all the right gear that told me they were marathon veterans. This was the day I was going to prove to myself that two small children at home couldn't’t cramp my style of sub 3:30 marathon pace from my former life. 3:40 was for the weak. After all, I had endured child labor, certainly I could withstand a little bit of self-inflicted pain of another kind? I was being generous with myself, giving far too much slack with the initial 3:40 finish time.
The miles clicked away and away and away. Somehow the line between 3:30 and 3:20 became completely blurred as we continued to slap our feet along that boardwalk. By mile 16, I could feel a faint sense of worry growing in my chest (or perhaps that was my labored breathing?). I took inventory of the body to get comfortable with what was ailing me, and by this time, most everything was uncomfortable. I talked myself into thinking that my hair felt wonderfully amazing and without any sort of pain whatsoever. So did my fingernails- perfect, all ten. I forged forward with that thought, chasing the boys, whose names I didn’t even care to know, just ahead of my stride. I watched that “3:30 Or Bust” begin to bleed from the sweat that soaked their shirts, betraying their carefree and haphazard attitudes, as they pranced along, as though this were just another day, no different from any other training run in the weeks leading to this moment. Business as usual out on the road. Mile 17 and I couldn’t deny the fact that I was now dropping off the pace, which still would have given us better than the 3:30 we were chasing. “3:30” guy looked over his shoulder and with a brilliant smile, used his hand to motion for me to keep up, but all I could muster was a pathetic head shake no. I dismissed him by looking down at my unhappy and throbbing feet, now feeling like stuffed sausages in my size seven and a half Triax.
By mile 19, now alone and running considerably slower, my mind was in a very dark place. The open course lead me to serious delusional thoughts, “If I step out of this shoulder, even just a little bit over the line, I can get hit by a car and I will be able to stop running…they will have to pick me up and I can stop running....i can ride with medical help and I can STOP running....” My stomach lurched and cramped, refusing to settle the GU I had choked down only minutes earlier. My legs were strangers to me; they felt like nothing I had ever known before, and definitely not extensions of my body. These were not my trusted friends who had carried me through all the miles of perfect training for sixteen weeks, they became the traitors I had now come to call them, “Judas” and “Benedict”.
I stumbled through the water station at mile 22 and had to relegate myself to walking. The clock here revealed the ugly truth of my time slipping away from me- not even 3:30 anymore, because I had given up on that long ago. Now, the clock glared at me, scolding me for even letting go of the initial goal of 3:40. I knew my error- I had tried to run with the Big Dogs and I had been eaten alive. My legs and stomach were pulverized as a result and my ego was bruised. Just as I was chastising myself for being so utterly stupid, I caught a glimpse of an ambulance in my periphery. While shamefully shuffling the runners cat walk now littered with Dixie cups, my mouth was agape in disbelief- there was “Or Bust” lying on the side of the road! He was on his back, digging his fingers into his forehead as though the pain were splitting his head in half, chest heaving, while EMTs frantically worked over him. “Bust” had busted! My chest hurt from his certain pending disappointment (once he was convinced death was not eminent), and I decided my suffering clearly was not as bad as I initially considered it to be. I soldiered on, trying to catch his eye for reassurance, but elbowed out by medical personnel.
I remember not miles 23 to the finish. I simply remember feeling grateful for the cloud cover that graciously offered those of us racing the reprieve from any sort of bright light, my own head screaming at me from dehydration. The moment I crossed the finish line, it began to rain, ever so softly, and I was thankful for the wet that wasn’t my own sweat. It was as if the sky had courteously waited for my death march to end and now it began to cry for me- the clock read 3:51 high. Before I could allow the lump in my throat to grow with this poetic injustice, my boy “3:30” appeared from out of the masses and in my face, clutching my upper arms, now trembling from exhaustion.
“Good job!” he said, far too enthusiastically for me to appreciate. “How are you?”
Though I was ecstatic to be reunited with a warm, familiar face, the blood leaving my legs now shunted back to my stomach prevented me from answering his question. I held up a shaky index finger and weaved over to the closest trash can. Linking my aching fingers through the chain link fence, I effectively emptied my tummy of all that was in it, making a convincing case for medical attention for myself.
“Are you okay?” He inquired, with a hand on my sweat-soaked back.
“Never better,” was my response this time, and though the accompanying smile was weak, I meant it.
The urge to cry had subsided, perhaps due in part to the distraction of the vomiting issue and the pain in my stomach muscles from the uncontrollable lurching. But moreover, I forced the lump of disappointment in my throat down because even though my qualifying time had run away from me that day, so had the inhibition. I didn’t care that I was throwing up the contents of my gut in front of thousands of people. I was losing my lunch, but gaining a whole new perspective on what it means to be a passionate runner. I didn’t simply go through the motions that day- I ran with emotion and found my true identity in being a runner.
While I used to always be so concerned with the outfit and the shoes and the matching hair tie, today it didn’t matter that I threw up all over my Nikes. I didn't care about the photos along the course; I was too busy being the real McCoy. I didn’t leave anything on the table to regret later because I knew even though I didn’t run a smart race, I was able to still drag myself to the finish line despite the stomach pain and the heartache. My heart was broken, but I had heart.
Brian was waiting at the end of that race. He had ridden his bike to the finish line and was all smiles to see me come in. I didn't know him at all, only stories of him from Marc and their many days of swimming in younger years. Marc reintroduced us and told me I did great, regardless of the time.
"How far is the car from here?" I asked Marc.
"About six blocks," his reply.
My heart sank. My head throbbed. My stomach hated me. I knew I would never make it. I considered kicking the kids out of the jogging stroller and asking Marc to push me. Then I looked at Brian and his means of transport.
"Get off your bike." I barked at him.
"I beg your pardon?" Brian had the nerve to challenge me in my fragile state.
"I said, I need your bike. Please let me ride it. My legs just don't work anymore right now. Get off." The stomach pain was making me cranky and I was growing increasingly impatient.
"Oh, of course, of course," as he threw a leg over and climbed off. "All yours."
Thank goodness. Now I liked him. I always like a Yes Man. I climbed on and we rode/ walked back to the car. Six blocks later, Marc and I said goodbye to Brian and I reclined our car's passenger seat as far back as it would go. Marc had to pull over at least twice for me to lean out of the car and vomit in the gutter on our way out of Long Beach, but my memory is a little hazy of those events now. What matters now is this day forward.
I'm still grateful to Brian for his bike that day. He will always be a Yes Man to me.
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