Maybe I'm the only one who thinks I'll enjoy a race based on the director's pre-race email message signed, "See ya on the backroads of Marlborough in God's blessing!" That, and the fact that the price of registration was 10 canned goods for the local food pantry...oh yeah, and it's the Sunday after Thanksgiving, so I have what we might diplomatically refer to as a "calorie surplus".
The past three days of holiday eating, celebrating and reunion-ing might have been partly responsible for making me sleep right through my alarm, so I was awakened at 7:20 when my friend from work buzzed at my door. Fortunately, my running clothes were laid out the night before (old habits die hard...or not at all), and because fashion takes a back seat to climate control, I look like a homeless urchin when I run anyhow. I threw on my clothes, put on a pot of coffee, and answered the door. We were ahead of schedule anyhow, so we had time for a little bit of chit-chat over toast and coffee. Then we hit the road for the drive out to Marlboro.
Once we arrived, I found my friend Diane and her cousin. Diane and I know each other from our last job, and she unabashedly refers to herself as “the 50 year old cheerleader”. She has more energy than most people half her age, and she churns out 8 - 10 milers like a walk around the block. Diane encouraged me to do this race (and many others), reminding me that it would be the first Sunday of Advent, and what better way to prepare for this season than by donating food to a community food pantry. Running 10 miles through hilly Marlboro was just the bonus...
This race was defintely what we might call "no frills", and that is perhaps one of the things I liked most about it. Our race numbers were handwritten sticky labels with our name, age, and hometown. "Registration" consisted of pinning on our labels and loading our canned goods onto the back of a pickup truck. The crowd was small, friendly, and relatively quiet; some volunteers headed out to staff waterstops, while others prepped plates of homemade coffee cake, doughnuts, caramel popcorn and cookies to be enjoyed post-race.
We shivered in the sunless morning, waiting for the race to begin. The race director led us to the start, reviewed the course, and offered a blessing and moment of silence for those who go hungry and those who serve our country. He shared with us that the food pantry to which our canned goods would be donated has already experienced a dramatic depletion of resources; we are indeed in difficult times, and it’s really a blessing in itself that we can go out and enjoy this run and the munchkins and hot cocoa that await us at the finish line. The national Anthem was sung (chokes me up every time) and off we went.
Marlboro is quiet and suburban. We ran through sleepy neighborhoods with firewood piled next to the houses and smoke curling out of the chimneys. My friend from work and Diane’s cousin were way ahead of us, and Diane and I settled into a comfortable pace. After a little chit chat, we drifted into silence, each running our own race and offering the other quiet support. I knew that as long as I could see Diane’s flourescent yellow jacket near me, I was doing okay. The course was hilly and, to be honest, unremarkable. We plodded along, mile by mile. Eventually I turned on my ipod and my faithful running buddies - Jimi Hendrix, George Michael, Herbie Hancock, and Erasure - kept me company. Mile 8 - 9.5 was a brutal hill that forced me to walk. Even a few gummi bears didn’t help much.
The timing of this race - right after Thanksgiving and on the first day of Advent - held a quiet serendipity. It felt like a meaningful time to reflect on the preceding days of giving thanks, and to look ahead to the coming weeks of waiting and preparation. I have always loved Thanksgiving because, despite its historical baggage, it seems like such a universal and simple concept. Giving thanks - what an idea! I am thankful for so many things I can barely begin to list them - my family and friends, my health, my job, my community, the food on my table, the clothes in my closet, the roof over my head, the car I drive, the warmth, happiness, and plentitude of the life I am so priveleged and blessed to live. I'm grateful for the friends I run with - they encourage me, make me laugh, and more often than not are willing to indulge in massive amounts of coffee with me after a race. Despite my occasional whining about aches, pains, and strains, I am grateful that I can run. It wasn't long ago that I couldn't, and I'm reminded every single day that my ability to run could just as quickly and easily disappear. Food, friends, warm clothes, health, freedom - running honors all of these gifts at once and feels like a celebration of these many blessings.
The solitude and grey skies of this race prompt a lot of contemplation on my part. Thinking about Advent, I meditate on what it means. In its simplest form, "advent" means "coming" or "arrival", and the season of Advent is a time of expectation, anticipation and preparation, as Christians prepare for the birth of Jesus. Thinking about these concepts and how they might relate to my own life, one word keeps coming back to me: patience. There is a distinct parallel between this season of anticipation and my own striving for patience. It is a challenge - anyone who knows me knows that patience is not my forte. I pray for it and try to cultivate it, but am continually given a run for my money. But just as Advent comes every year and gives us the chance to wait and experience that act of waiting and that feeling of waiting, so too does the opportunity for patience present itself to me over and over again. Just as Christians can experience the season of Advent as the season of anticipation and preparation, so too can I think of this as a time to be mindful and patient, to think about how and when my patience is tested, and to remind myself to just wait. Because just as Christmas will eventually and undoubtedly arrive, so will all that I am waiting for.
The last half-mile or so I ran with a woman who told me about her daughter, a fiesty 5-year old named Tory who suffered from “Failure to Thrive” since she was just a few months old. As she recounted her young daughter’s treatments and medical interventions, I could barely imagine enduring so much at such a young age, and I was reminded once more what a blessing it is to get up and run ten miles. Despite my aching hamstrings, this made the last half-mile pass pretty quickly, and before I knew it we were running up a final hill and into the parking lot where we started. We turned in our stickers and claimed numbered popsicle sticks indicating what place we finished. I found Diane and my friend from work (who placed third in the women’s group!) and we enjoyed some hot cocoa and popcorn before saying our goodbyes. It was freezing cold, and as we got in the car a bit of snow began to fall. After a quick stop at Dunkin’ Donuts we were en route to Boston, tired and happy, and feeling very blessed by this run.
I run, hike, pray, meditate, daydream and drink lots of coffee. And I spend extraordinary amounts of time doing all of these things (but not at once). Here are a few of my thoughts.
30 November 2008
23 November 2008
Hurley Rail Trail, Hudson River Valley, NY
I drove out to Rhinebeck, NY yesterday afternoon to hang out with my sister Christine, plan our upcoming trip to Costa Rica, and make a long-overdue trip to the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, NY. The meal at the CIA was sublime...hard to even describe. Suffice it to say, it definitely beat the leftovers I had at home on Friday night...
The drive to my sister's was peaceful and gave me a chance to run through an ever-growing list of things on my mind, listen to some good music, and make the most of a few quiet hours of driving through hills and valleys and watching the sun set.
I packed light for this trip but made sure to throw all my cold weather running gear into my overnight bag. As on my previous visit back in August, Christine and I planned to start Sunday morning with a run on the Town of Hurley Rail Trail, a paved and re-purposed segment of the Hudson Valley Railway.
After the three hour drive and the meal at the CIA, I slept like the dead in the comfy little guest room and awoke to the sound of birds outside my window and the smell of coffee drifting in from the kitchen. There was also the vague and comforting smell of something baking...is it any wonder I like visiting my sister? After a few cups of coffee and the NY Times, we drove out to the rail trail, which is just over the Hudson River and about 20 minutes away from Rhinebeck.
We made a brief stop at Caffe Aurora in Poughkeepsie for espressos and some homemade Italian pastries. To be honest, I was still full from last night, but Aurora came so highly recommended by my friend whose family owns it that my sister and I had to share sfogliatelle (flaky pastry filled with sweetened ricotta) and mostacciaoli (chocolate-covered spice cookie). We lingered over our coffees for a little while, watching the after-church crowd filter in and listening to the old men chiaccherando in italiano while they waited for their wives to pick up cannolli. It reminded me so much of my two years in Italy that I almost had to fight back tears of nostalgia.
Fueled up on espresso and dolci, we drove to the Rail Trail parking lot, piled on our fleeces and gloves and hats and took off running. After last week’s 7.5 miles, and in preparation for next week’s 10, I figured 8 miles or so would be a comfy distance. Christine agreed and off we went. The sun was shining brilliantly and there was no wind. It was cold but not freezing, and I knew we’d warm up quickly.
After my usual concerns that I’m going to have to walk or drop dead, we settled into a comfortable cruising speed, admired the scenery, and chatted. The rail trail is pancake-flat, surrounded by rolling hills dotted with little white farmhouses and churches. We made our way along the paved portion of the path, with a residential neighborhood on our left and the highway on our right. Despite the occasional cars passing by, it was very peaceful. Before long we dipped into the woods, running on crunchy gravel, frozen dirt, and papery leaves. Surrounded by mature pines and rocks, we continued on, enjoying the fresh air and nature and greeting the occasional runner or walker who passed by.
I should mention that Christine is my oldest sister and she began running just one year ago at the age of 37. She was more surprised than anyone else by how much she liked it and how quickly she took to it. Since then, we’ve run two half marathons and a bunch of shorter races together. A month ago, Christine signed up to run the Boston Marathon, which has been a compelling enough reason for me to keep running despite the cold weather.
Because Christine went from college to grad school to vet school to residency, each in different states, she and I have not lived in the same state since I was 16. Not only have our paths of education and career been fairly different, but our paths in life have been dissimilar, too. Though we've always shared the bond of sisterhood, it sometimes felt like we lived in completely different worlds.
Christine has always been the quintessential ‘big sister’, looking out for me, providing rational advice, and letting me crash on her floor while she was getting her Ph.D. in California and I was doing community service. She can be the epitome of a scientist, balancing my emotionality (is that even a word?) with her level headed intellect and logic. As we’ve grown into adulthood and created lives for ourselves, our sisterhood has evolved into friendship. The fact that now - in all our glorious diversity - we share this hobby of running is something that brings me great happiness.
We continue on the trail talking about everything and nothing, enjoying the fresh air, crunching pinecones beneath our feet, planning our upcoming trip to Costa Rica and talking politics, religion, science, finances and life (nothing too heavy…). I felt tired when we started but am happily re-energized and warmed up, especially once we reach the turnaround point. I ask Christine if this is four miles and she responds devilishly, “welll….not really. I kind of tricked you…”. We turn around and keep running, and I don't push for an answer. Sometimes it's better to just not know.
We maintain a steady pace and conversation and the final miles fly by. It’s brilliantly sunny and just cold enough to be refreshing, not numbing. The rolling hills around us are tranquil and the path ahead is completely flat. Two hawks circle above us. Christine and I both turn on our ipods and sprint the last mile. By the time we return to the car, we have run 11 miles, not 8. Maybe surprisingly and maybe not, I’m more than okay with that.
The drive to my sister's was peaceful and gave me a chance to run through an ever-growing list of things on my mind, listen to some good music, and make the most of a few quiet hours of driving through hills and valleys and watching the sun set.
I packed light for this trip but made sure to throw all my cold weather running gear into my overnight bag. As on my previous visit back in August, Christine and I planned to start Sunday morning with a run on the Town of Hurley Rail Trail, a paved and re-purposed segment of the Hudson Valley Railway.
After the three hour drive and the meal at the CIA, I slept like the dead in the comfy little guest room and awoke to the sound of birds outside my window and the smell of coffee drifting in from the kitchen. There was also the vague and comforting smell of something baking...is it any wonder I like visiting my sister? After a few cups of coffee and the NY Times, we drove out to the rail trail, which is just over the Hudson River and about 20 minutes away from Rhinebeck.
We made a brief stop at Caffe Aurora in Poughkeepsie for espressos and some homemade Italian pastries. To be honest, I was still full from last night, but Aurora came so highly recommended by my friend whose family owns it that my sister and I had to share sfogliatelle (flaky pastry filled with sweetened ricotta) and mostacciaoli (chocolate-covered spice cookie). We lingered over our coffees for a little while, watching the after-church crowd filter in and listening to the old men chiaccherando in italiano while they waited for their wives to pick up cannolli. It reminded me so much of my two years in Italy that I almost had to fight back tears of nostalgia.
Fueled up on espresso and dolci, we drove to the Rail Trail parking lot, piled on our fleeces and gloves and hats and took off running. After last week’s 7.5 miles, and in preparation for next week’s 10, I figured 8 miles or so would be a comfy distance. Christine agreed and off we went. The sun was shining brilliantly and there was no wind. It was cold but not freezing, and I knew we’d warm up quickly.
After my usual concerns that I’m going to have to walk or drop dead, we settled into a comfortable cruising speed, admired the scenery, and chatted. The rail trail is pancake-flat, surrounded by rolling hills dotted with little white farmhouses and churches. We made our way along the paved portion of the path, with a residential neighborhood on our left and the highway on our right. Despite the occasional cars passing by, it was very peaceful. Before long we dipped into the woods, running on crunchy gravel, frozen dirt, and papery leaves. Surrounded by mature pines and rocks, we continued on, enjoying the fresh air and nature and greeting the occasional runner or walker who passed by.
I should mention that Christine is my oldest sister and she began running just one year ago at the age of 37. She was more surprised than anyone else by how much she liked it and how quickly she took to it. Since then, we’ve run two half marathons and a bunch of shorter races together. A month ago, Christine signed up to run the Boston Marathon, which has been a compelling enough reason for me to keep running despite the cold weather.
Because Christine went from college to grad school to vet school to residency, each in different states, she and I have not lived in the same state since I was 16. Not only have our paths of education and career been fairly different, but our paths in life have been dissimilar, too. Though we've always shared the bond of sisterhood, it sometimes felt like we lived in completely different worlds.
Christine has always been the quintessential ‘big sister’, looking out for me, providing rational advice, and letting me crash on her floor while she was getting her Ph.D. in California and I was doing community service. She can be the epitome of a scientist, balancing my emotionality (is that even a word?) with her level headed intellect and logic. As we’ve grown into adulthood and created lives for ourselves, our sisterhood has evolved into friendship. The fact that now - in all our glorious diversity - we share this hobby of running is something that brings me great happiness.
We continue on the trail talking about everything and nothing, enjoying the fresh air, crunching pinecones beneath our feet, planning our upcoming trip to Costa Rica and talking politics, religion, science, finances and life (nothing too heavy…). I felt tired when we started but am happily re-energized and warmed up, especially once we reach the turnaround point. I ask Christine if this is four miles and she responds devilishly, “welll….not really. I kind of tricked you…”. We turn around and keep running, and I don't push for an answer. Sometimes it's better to just not know.
We maintain a steady pace and conversation and the final miles fly by. It’s brilliantly sunny and just cold enough to be refreshing, not numbing. The rolling hills around us are tranquil and the path ahead is completely flat. Two hawks circle above us. Christine and I both turn on our ipods and sprint the last mile. By the time we return to the car, we have run 11 miles, not 8. Maybe surprisingly and maybe not, I’m more than okay with that.
16 November 2008
What is spiritual?
As I continue on my life’s spiritual path, I keep talking to God, I keep praying. I keep asking for guidance and getting impatient when I don’t get it. I keep seeking answers and feeling bewildered when I can’t find them. I keep talking to God and straining to hear answers, and I’ve started thinking that it might be because I’m not listening, or that I don’t know what to listen for.
I’ve often thought about and commented that for me, running is not only a physical experience but a spiritual one. As I finished my warmup and headed up a hill to Newton Center this morning - a perfectly clear and cool fall morning - my mind began to wrap itself around the question, what is spiritual? I intended to run three miles, but the fact the I wound up doing 7.5 is probably an indicator of how intently I was pondering this question.
What is the spirit? What does it mean to be spiritual? Is it something simply beyond our physical world and beyond our sensual world, something that can be felt but hardly described? How do our spiritual and religious experiences intertwine, or perhaps diverge? Thinking about those questions, I realize I throw the term ‘ spiritual’ around quite frequently and freely, and though I think about it often, I have a hard time clearly and concisely defining it.
What is it about running that is spiritual to me? Is it the act of not only challenging my physical self but also my mental and emotional self? Is it because when I run, a certain space is created and it is in this space that I allow myself to fully experience some of my deepest emotions, contemplate some of life’s most mundane and most massive topics, and find some previously-elusive answers?
I find myself thinking so intently about this that I trip and go flying across someone’s front lawn. It makes me cringe and laugh at the same time, and I’m not so subtly reminded of the critical role of mindfullness in spiritual practice.
I think about occasions when I’ve felt what I could only describe as being spiritually moved - hiking Mt. Monadnock with a group of friends, working with a nun in the slums of Kingston, Jamaica, listening to a Jesuit priest speak about his experiences of nonviolent protest as a path to peace, or even sharing a good meal with my close friends in the warmth of my home. I’ve also felt a sense of being spiritually alive during more challenging times - at the funeral service for my teacher and mentor, during a particularly trying time at work, and when my car broke down on the Mass Pike. Perhaps it is these occasions that inspire, allow, or force me to stop and acknowledge or rely on the presence of God. Is spirituality simply the awareness of God or a higher power?
I continue my run, breathing in the clean air, feeling the autumn wind in my face, listening to birds and rustling branches and a few cars. I notice the shapes of brown and orange leaves crunching beneath my feet, the Boston skyline in the distance, and the houses and gardens along my route. Where is God in this moment? Perhaps, everywhere.
I run by BC and turn onto Lake Street, savoring my favorite part of a run in my neighborhood - a long, easy downhill. Physically, I feel renewed and strong. I’m happy to have had this time alone with my thoughts and my prayers and questions, and thought I haven’t found any answers, I wonder if that’s part of my answer right there: just questioning, thinking, and contemplating spirituality is a spiritual act in itself.
I’ve often thought about and commented that for me, running is not only a physical experience but a spiritual one. As I finished my warmup and headed up a hill to Newton Center this morning - a perfectly clear and cool fall morning - my mind began to wrap itself around the question, what is spiritual? I intended to run three miles, but the fact the I wound up doing 7.5 is probably an indicator of how intently I was pondering this question.
What is the spirit? What does it mean to be spiritual? Is it something simply beyond our physical world and beyond our sensual world, something that can be felt but hardly described? How do our spiritual and religious experiences intertwine, or perhaps diverge? Thinking about those questions, I realize I throw the term ‘ spiritual’ around quite frequently and freely, and though I think about it often, I have a hard time clearly and concisely defining it.
What is it about running that is spiritual to me? Is it the act of not only challenging my physical self but also my mental and emotional self? Is it because when I run, a certain space is created and it is in this space that I allow myself to fully experience some of my deepest emotions, contemplate some of life’s most mundane and most massive topics, and find some previously-elusive answers?
I find myself thinking so intently about this that I trip and go flying across someone’s front lawn. It makes me cringe and laugh at the same time, and I’m not so subtly reminded of the critical role of mindfullness in spiritual practice.
I think about occasions when I’ve felt what I could only describe as being spiritually moved - hiking Mt. Monadnock with a group of friends, working with a nun in the slums of Kingston, Jamaica, listening to a Jesuit priest speak about his experiences of nonviolent protest as a path to peace, or even sharing a good meal with my close friends in the warmth of my home. I’ve also felt a sense of being spiritually alive during more challenging times - at the funeral service for my teacher and mentor, during a particularly trying time at work, and when my car broke down on the Mass Pike. Perhaps it is these occasions that inspire, allow, or force me to stop and acknowledge or rely on the presence of God. Is spirituality simply the awareness of God or a higher power?
I continue my run, breathing in the clean air, feeling the autumn wind in my face, listening to birds and rustling branches and a few cars. I notice the shapes of brown and orange leaves crunching beneath my feet, the Boston skyline in the distance, and the houses and gardens along my route. Where is God in this moment? Perhaps, everywhere.
I run by BC and turn onto Lake Street, savoring my favorite part of a run in my neighborhood - a long, easy downhill. Physically, I feel renewed and strong. I’m happy to have had this time alone with my thoughts and my prayers and questions, and thought I haven’t found any answers, I wonder if that’s part of my answer right there: just questioning, thinking, and contemplating spirituality is a spiritual act in itself.
03 November 2008
Busa Bushwhack Trail Race, Framingham, MA
Sunday, 2 November, 2008 - 5 miles
Sometimes a good run makes everything all right, or at least gives one the space - mental, physical and emotional - to sort it all out, think it over, and leave it behind among the branches, roots, and pine needles. As I ran today, I was so deeply reminded of this. Last week’s race put me to the test, and though I didn’t fail, I was firmly tested. And despite the satisfaction of simply finishing, I hurt. Today was my comeback - an enjoyable, much less hilly local trail run with a bunch of friends, a free registration, and the promise of huge amounts of Dunkin Donuts coffee afterwards.
So many things were rolling around in my mind, and I was eager to spend an hour in nature, letting it all float away. The beginning of the race frustrated me a little bit because the trail was narrow and backed up, people were pushing and passing without warning, and there seemed to be a lot of loud mouthy show off-y guys trying to one-up each other. If there’s one thing that bugs me at a run, it’s loud mouthy, show off-y guys trying to one up each other....
In any case, off we went. Once the bottleneck dissipated we made our way further into the woods, along a peaceful trail of gently rolling hills covered with pine needles and a few roots. Compared to last week’s gauntlet, it was a walk in the park. We splashed through a few mud puddles and scurried over a few rocks and roots, but all in all it was a gentle and forgiving course. I found my pace and my breath and my 'zone' and cruised along. It was challenging, but it felt good, and I felt good. Just breathing, just running, just being.
I kept a steady pace for the course and had a good time. Sometimes I ran with others near me, and we exchanged hellos. Other stretches of the run I was completely alone. I have to admit that today, especially knowing I’d get to hang out with my friends after the race, I was particularly grateful for those quiet, thoughtful, serene stretches of alone time. During those stretches, my mind wandered.
For some reason, in the last mile or so, I found myself thinking over the past few weeks. In the course of ten days, I had gone to two funeral services - one for a 100 year old great aunt, and one for a 65 year old former teacher, mentor, and friend. Both hit me profoundly, though for different reasons, and I’ve been surprised to find myself thinking about them almost daily. Not in a melancholy way, but perhaps with an acute sense of mortality, family, and purpose.
My 100 year old aunt I barely knew - she was one of my paternal grandfather's man, many siblings - but her passing reminded me that my family is aging. Our history is fading as the older folks pass away and the younger generation becomes more and more removed from where we came from.
I also thought about Linda, one of my teachers and mentors in high school, and a good friend of my parents. She passed away at the age of 65, having just become a grandmother and a mother in law. When I went to her home for the service last week with my parents, we saw a photo of her and her husband dressed up for her son's wedding just a month ago. She looked healthy and full of joy, and it struck me as terribly sad that she would not enjoy years of carefree retirement with her husband, would not see her grandchildren grow up, and would no longer be around to share her colorful, wise, compassionate personality with all those who knew her. Linda's wisdom and guidance had a profound impact on my personal and professional life, my career choices and my decisions to travel and teach. When I was 16 and in high school, I don't think I had a full appreciation for just how much knowledge and experience Linda had, but now that I'm a little older I definitely recognize just how special and incredible she was, and I hope I can live my life in a way that would make her smile, that would make her nod her fiery red bob in approval, and that would make her proud of me.
Is it any wonder the last mile passed by quickly? I kept my pace up and even passed a few burly firefighters. I chatted with a 14-year-old high school kid whose energy seemed to be flagging and assured him that he could kick my 33 year old butt (and he did). We ran through a small glen of pine trees, down a hill, and right into a residential neighborhood. Around the block, up a small hill, down the street...I imagined what the people in these homes were doing on a cool, clear Sunday morning...reading the paper? drinking coffee? sleeping? I knew that soon I'd cross the finish line, see my parents, and drink my own coffee. The thought of all three was encouraging.
The home stretch was fun, and as I ran around the final corner and through a small cluster of bushes, I reminded myself to smile for the finish line. I picked up my pace and breathed deeply, ran the final few paces, saw my Dad and finished the race. My Mom appeared and congratulated me, and it felt great to share a trail race with them for the first time. Trail running has become a meaningful part of my life over the past year or so, and it was nice to have my parents experience this element with me. Not to mention, they are the #1 cheerleaders/support staff...
My friends soon finished and we all headed to Dunkin Donuts, where we feasted on bagels and toasted our victory (finishing!) and health with huge cups of coffee. A great run, beautiful weather, my friends & family, and a seemingly endless flow of coffee....what more could I ask for? (Well...a new car, but I'm not gonna get too picky here....)
Sunday, 2 November, 2008 - 5 miles
Sometimes a good run makes everything all right, or at least gives one the space - mental, physical and emotional - to sort it all out, think it over, and leave it behind among the branches, roots, and pine needles. As I ran today, I was so deeply reminded of this. Last week’s race put me to the test, and though I didn’t fail, I was firmly tested. And despite the satisfaction of simply finishing, I hurt. Today was my comeback - an enjoyable, much less hilly local trail run with a bunch of friends, a free registration, and the promise of huge amounts of Dunkin Donuts coffee afterwards.
So many things were rolling around in my mind, and I was eager to spend an hour in nature, letting it all float away. The beginning of the race frustrated me a little bit because the trail was narrow and backed up, people were pushing and passing without warning, and there seemed to be a lot of loud mouthy show off-y guys trying to one-up each other. If there’s one thing that bugs me at a run, it’s loud mouthy, show off-y guys trying to one up each other....
In any case, off we went. Once the bottleneck dissipated we made our way further into the woods, along a peaceful trail of gently rolling hills covered with pine needles and a few roots. Compared to last week’s gauntlet, it was a walk in the park. We splashed through a few mud puddles and scurried over a few rocks and roots, but all in all it was a gentle and forgiving course. I found my pace and my breath and my 'zone' and cruised along. It was challenging, but it felt good, and I felt good. Just breathing, just running, just being.
I kept a steady pace for the course and had a good time. Sometimes I ran with others near me, and we exchanged hellos. Other stretches of the run I was completely alone. I have to admit that today, especially knowing I’d get to hang out with my friends after the race, I was particularly grateful for those quiet, thoughtful, serene stretches of alone time. During those stretches, my mind wandered.
For some reason, in the last mile or so, I found myself thinking over the past few weeks. In the course of ten days, I had gone to two funeral services - one for a 100 year old great aunt, and one for a 65 year old former teacher, mentor, and friend. Both hit me profoundly, though for different reasons, and I’ve been surprised to find myself thinking about them almost daily. Not in a melancholy way, but perhaps with an acute sense of mortality, family, and purpose.
My 100 year old aunt I barely knew - she was one of my paternal grandfather's man, many siblings - but her passing reminded me that my family is aging. Our history is fading as the older folks pass away and the younger generation becomes more and more removed from where we came from.
I also thought about Linda, one of my teachers and mentors in high school, and a good friend of my parents. She passed away at the age of 65, having just become a grandmother and a mother in law. When I went to her home for the service last week with my parents, we saw a photo of her and her husband dressed up for her son's wedding just a month ago. She looked healthy and full of joy, and it struck me as terribly sad that she would not enjoy years of carefree retirement with her husband, would not see her grandchildren grow up, and would no longer be around to share her colorful, wise, compassionate personality with all those who knew her. Linda's wisdom and guidance had a profound impact on my personal and professional life, my career choices and my decisions to travel and teach. When I was 16 and in high school, I don't think I had a full appreciation for just how much knowledge and experience Linda had, but now that I'm a little older I definitely recognize just how special and incredible she was, and I hope I can live my life in a way that would make her smile, that would make her nod her fiery red bob in approval, and that would make her proud of me.
Is it any wonder the last mile passed by quickly? I kept my pace up and even passed a few burly firefighters. I chatted with a 14-year-old high school kid whose energy seemed to be flagging and assured him that he could kick my 33 year old butt (and he did). We ran through a small glen of pine trees, down a hill, and right into a residential neighborhood. Around the block, up a small hill, down the street...I imagined what the people in these homes were doing on a cool, clear Sunday morning...reading the paper? drinking coffee? sleeping? I knew that soon I'd cross the finish line, see my parents, and drink my own coffee. The thought of all three was encouraging.
The home stretch was fun, and as I ran around the final corner and through a small cluster of bushes, I reminded myself to smile for the finish line. I picked up my pace and breathed deeply, ran the final few paces, saw my Dad and finished the race. My Mom appeared and congratulated me, and it felt great to share a trail race with them for the first time. Trail running has become a meaningful part of my life over the past year or so, and it was nice to have my parents experience this element with me. Not to mention, they are the #1 cheerleaders/support staff...
My friends soon finished and we all headed to Dunkin Donuts, where we feasted on bagels and toasted our victory (finishing!) and health with huge cups of coffee. A great run, beautiful weather, my friends & family, and a seemingly endless flow of coffee....what more could I ask for? (Well...a new car, but I'm not gonna get too picky here....)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)