“To climb steep hills requires slow pace at first.” - Shakespeare

I am on the brink of finishing my first full year of school. As I look back over the past ten months, I can hardly imagine what it was like to inhabit the world in which I previously lived and worked. It seems like another life, someone else's life. I remember writing last summer about how different it was to get up, throw on some jeans, and bike up to campus. Now, that's my life. That's my reality. And I love it. Had I known how happy school would make me, maybe I would have done it sooner. But no, there was a lot of learning that had to happen before I was actually ready to be in school.

I head out to run early on Sunday morning, letting the previous week filter through my mind and making room for the coming week to seep in. In preparation for an upcoming trail run, I set out towards the hills and it is less than a mile before I'm tackling one. It's early but it's already muggy and humid; as I take on the incline, I am sweating profusely. Soon enough I am rewarded with a sweet decline, a gentle reprieve. I coast a little bit and let gravity carry me, feeling the cooling breeze.

So many times this year have felt like the incline - demanding, exhausting, and challenging me to put in more than I think I have. How many times did the list of things to read and write and do seem endless? How many times did I let my worries get the better of me? How many times did I simply feel beaten down by the hill before me? Probably more than a few. I will admit that there were things I worried about that, in retrospect, I needn't have. And there were things I didn't think I had the strength to do but somehow found it, deep within a reservoir of something yet undiscovered.

Now is the downhill. There were a few of them during the year - moments of triumph, relief, comfort, or coasting. Moments when I exhaled and let gravity carry me. Moments when I inhaled the fresh air, felt the breeze, and enjoyed the moment with every fiber of my being. This is where I am, this is what I'm doing, this is who I am now. And I am happy.

It's hard to begin to quantify what I've learned this year, both inside the classroom and out. It's almost impossible to put into words how amazing, life-giving, eye-opening, challenging, exciting and rewarding this year has been. It has pushed me and pulled me into a new world. I have learned to listen, to pray, to be present. To push myself and to also let myself rest. To think in a new way. To challenge and be challenged, and to not simply hear, memorize, and accept without question.

As I finish my run, having tackled 7.5 miles of hills, I feel full of energy. I am excited about the upcoming run with my classmates, partly because I'm looking forward to spending time with them and running, but also because by then I'll be done with the semester. And what better way to celebrate it than by running through the woods and getting muddy with friends. Amen!

...Above all, trust in the slow work of God.

So many, many things to think about. Finishing classes in less than four months (and then??). My friend’s best friend passed away a few weeks ago, after a six month wrestling match with leukemia. I went to El Salvador; it changed me for life. Fr. Greg came to BC to read from his new book. I continue to wonder if I want to be a Catholic, if I want to be a chaplain, and if I want to be a Catholic chaplain. Highs and lows. Lots to think about. Run it out, girlfriend. Run it out.

And so that’s what I do, because when all else fails, when I am certain of absolutely nothing, when those feelings of confusion, impatience, faithlessness, and loneliness creep up on me, the one thing I know I can count on to lift me up is running.

I wake up early on Sunday morning and am having breakfast and reading the paper by 6:30 a.m. I have always loved this time of day. It’s my time. Though I spend a significant amount of time on my own, there is something very different about the solitude of the early morning. It is solitude by choice. It is peace. It is the feeling of knowing that while much of the city slumbers, I delight in the pristine morning light, cool air, stillness, and quiet.

Seven miles should do the trick and as I set out I mentally plot a tentative route, knowing I’ll abandon it in favor of hidden sidestreets, hills, and detours. Knowing that today the mileage doesn’t matter enough for me to surrender the luxury of losing myself in the reverie of feet pounding pavement, taking me where they will, leading me up hills, carrying me mile after mile. The sky is clear and almost technicolor. Crocuses have peeped out overnight. After the deluge of last week’s rain storm, the metaphor of new life is more than noticeable. I think about that for a while and it brings me new life. I have felt so jaded and spent the past few weeks; knowing that life will rise again from between sidewalk cracks and walkways, under shrubs and trees, and in small gardens…this is life-giving to me. The winter ice that has clouded my heart and soul begins to melt.

I haven’t run for almost two weeks and settling into a rhythm is like finding my way into the embrace of an old friend. It’s comfortable and reassuring; I feel at home in my own body, peaceful and happy.

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin was right.

Great Stew Chase - Lynn, MA

Running for stew? Beef stew, no less? Oh what the heck, why not.

When my phone rang at 11 p.m. last night, I knew I'd be running alone. Sure enough, my friend was calling to tell me she couldn't make it to the run. As I've previously written, going to a race alone is, for me, like walking into happy hour on Friday night alone. It's more fun when your friends are there! So I had a little pity party, got over it, and went to sleep. Running races alone is not my favorite thing, but sometimes it's just the thing I need.

Driving up to Lynn on my own, I called a friend who I know wakes up early. We caught up on each other's lives and chit-chatted a little. Then I called my sister and caught up with her. By the time I got to the race I'd had two really nice conversations. It was freezing, but the sun was shining brilliantly and the sky was crystal clear blue.

I checked in and got my number before spotting a few people from the team I used to run with. I caught up with them until it was time to head out. And then, out into the freezing cold weather we went. We lined up at the start, wind whipping through our hair and rustling our jackets. After a quick "ready, go!" we were off.

Hills. More hills. Cold wind. Two waterstops in 9.3 miles. Icy gusts of air. I reach back to pull my hair into a ponytail but feel something like twigs on my neck. It is my hair...frozen into icicles.

Today, I don't know where my thoughts are. I listen to my music and zone out, not really wanting to think about anything, not really needing to. The miles fly by. And then we're done.

Grab a water, stretch, and go. Nothing particularly memorable about this one. Not even an ugly t-shirt.

I killed the hill(s): Part II

Just. Keep. Going. That was my mantra last Sunday, as hill after hill after big, f-ing hill rose up before me, waited around the corner for me, and lured me forward with the promise of flaming quads on the way up and screaming hamstrings on the way down. After enough of those hills, I knew what I was in for. I knew what was coming, and I knew I could do it. I just had to tell myself over and over again: Just. Keep. Going. Don't stop. Don't slow down. Don't get sidetracked or slowed into inertia or overwhelmed at the prospect of what's ahead. It's there, it's ahead of you, and you can do it. I repeated this over and over in my head and somehow made myself believe it. At long last, after 16 miles of hills, I reached the finish line. For the record, it was at the top of a hill.

It's a good thing I did that run last week, because this week I don't know if I could even drag my sorry ass out of bed, never mind up to New Hampshire and through the middle of nowhere. Since I started school six months ago, this has been the busiest and probably most stressful seven days. Books. Papers. Residency applications. A two-day-a-week internship that seems to think I should answer emails and get projects done the other five days a week, too. A meeting with my advisor to discuss a synthesis project. A meeting with a colleague to work out details for a fundraising event in two weeks. (Wait a sec, didn't I run kicking and screaming from fundraising? Yeah, I thought so.) The realization that I might finish classes in six months. A meeting with my spiritual director in which I discuss my free-fall of faith and wonder aloud and tearful whether I should or even want to remain Catholic. An alarm that jolted me awake at 5:30 a.m. every day and found me, book in hand, moments later. On several occasions during the week, I literally had to stop and force myself to take a deep breath to release the knot in my stomach. Breathe, I told myself. Breathe.

How many times have I told myself that during a race? Breathe. Breathe. No seriously, breathe. Keep going, keep putting one foot in front of the other, keep looking ahead and just keep going. This week felt like a race to me, minus the gummy bears and sports bra. Several times this week I actually broke into a jog to make sure I got wherever I was going on time. Several times this week I kinda wished I had a cheerleading crowd or a bunch of drunk college students by the side of the road, cheering and screaming things like, "Lookin' good!! Almost there!! You can do it!!" Because really, several times this week I wasn't so sure. I wasn't feelin' so good, probably wasn't lookin' so good, didn't feel like I was anywhere near 'there', and definitely wasn't convinced I could do it.

When I felt like I needed those cheerleaders and words of encouragement, somehow they appeared. A call from my friend to tell me she's pregnant. A call from my Dad to see how I'm doing. A dirty joke from one friend and a funny post card from another. A cute email, a good workout, a strong espressso, a fun song on the radio, a moment of silence in the chapel. These little moments joined together to be my cheerleaders, my Gatorade, and my gummy bears. They sustained me during the race, propelled me up the hills and guided me safely back down.

Each time I felt like I was on the verge of slowing down, giving up, throwing in the towel and calling it a day, I reminded myself: Just. Keep. Going. Keep reading that book, keep writing that paper, keep working on that application. Don't quit yet. Keep at it. Keep going. No one says I'm gonna win the race, and no one says that getting to the finish is gonna be pretty, easy, or necessarily fun, but I will get there.

Derry NH, 16 Miler - I killed the hill(s)

Up at 6:30. Coffee. Clothing. Check email. My door buzzes at 7:10; Sarah is early. Soon enough we're heading North in the warmth of my car, catching up on talk of work and school and life and everything else that can be shared between two people who have commiserated over chafing, cramps, and porta potties.

The drive to NH is easy; it's early enough on a Sunday morning and no one's really out. The sun is breaking through the clouds, giving the sky an almost mosaic look. Blue patches push their way through the morning sky, illuminating the snowy fields on either side of the road. We cruise up 93 and reach Derry around 8:30, park the car and head to the gym. It's crowded and busy, buzzing with energy and excitement. We pick up our race numbers and t-shirts (a hideous cayenne-pepper red, seriously?!) and find a spot on the floor in the crowded gym.

I have been feeling apprehensive about this run since the minute I clicked 'register' on the website. It's the longest distance I've done in a while and I haven't been feeling particularly focused on training. Over the past few weeks my mind and my energy have been on a number of different things, running not being one of them. I've gotten in my normal workouts and a few good weekend runs, but have been almost lackadaisical about it. No training plan on the fridge, no countdown to race day, no protein shakes. Okay, I never really did the protein shakes to begin with, but I always meant to start! I hadn't even mentioned the run to anyone until yesterday at dinner when a few friends asked what I was doing for the rest of the weekend.

We have almost an hour and a half before the race starts and I know it's not in my best interest to get sidetracked by and sucked into the nervous energy around me. Though the room is full of loud chatter, laughter, and back-slapping guys who feel compelled to grunt, I do see a few wise folks chilling out in quiet corners, reading a magazine or book or just relaxing. I follow suit and sit comfortably with my ipod. Surrounded by hundreds of runners, I retreat to my quiet place, to my inner solitude. I remind myself to enjoy this day and this run, as so many people do not have the freedom, the resources, or the opportunity to get up and do the same. I remind myself to run my own race - it's not about the skinny chick in hot pink running tights next to me or the lanky guy in an Army shirt who passes me - they have their own race, and I have mine. I relax, I breathe and I pray.

After a short while it's time to go. I have somehow lost Sarah to the bathroom lines, so I head to the start, knowing we'll reunite at the finish. We gather at the start line and without so much as a megafone or whistle or horn, we begin. And we're off, just like that. The voices and sounds of the crowd buoy me along for the first half mile or so, then I put on my ipod and retreat to that inner place of prayer, affirmation, serenity, strength, and rockin' tunes. I keep the positive monologue going and remind myself to take it one mile at a time and to just. keep. going.

I pray, dedicating each mile to a person or a cause, remembering them, asking God's blessing on them, and, when I feel tired, just repeating the words or phrases in my head, reminding myself that whatever mile I'm running is for them. It gives me focus and perspective, and it makes my "job" of running a race seem a lot easier and more fun.

The hills are unlike anything I have seen before - constant, massive, and relentless. I wonder if my energy will run out, if my legs will be done before I am. I see people walking up one of the first hills and remind myself that walking is always an option. There is no shame in taking it a little easy on yourself when the road is tough. Metaphor for life? Perhaps.

There are mile markers every mile, a few water stops, a good cadre of volunteers, and that's it. I mean THAT'S IT. No timing clocks (woohoo!), no banners, and few people cheering. There was an older couple in lawn chairs, drinking coffee from a thermos and reading the Sunday paper and there were a few little kids throwing snowballs at us - I guess that could count as 'cheering'. In a weird way...

Miles 8 through 10, I don't even know what's happening to me. I keep going faster, passing people left and right. This never happens to me, and I'm sort of freaked out by it. Did someone spike my water? Did I OD on coffee this morning? I am actually picking up speed and enjoying it. I feel good. I pray that it will last.

The miles tick by, one by one. Every time I pass a mile marker I pop a few gummy bears, take a deep breath, and look around. Damn, New Hampshire is beautiful. Horse farms, rolling hills, winding roads. The fact that I cannot see what's around the corner (or, that I cannot see how big the hill is around the next corner) helps a lot. I just keep moving, moving, moving. I pass mile 13 and can't believe I've just run a half marathon. Just a few more miles. Keep praying, keep moving, keep breathing. Mile 14. Mile 15. I turn on my favorite song and let it propel me up and down the final hills. We are coming back the way we ran out, and the start/finish is just ahead. I can see the finish line timing clock and I feel really good. Sprint the final few hundred meters up the school driveway and I'm done. Just like that. Just like we started. It's over. Someone leans down and takes off my ankle timer. My hamstrings are screaming. But I feel good. It's done, and I did it.

Middlesex Fells 8 Mile Trail Run

Now this was a trail run. No dogs, no strollers, no maps, no aid stations. No race tshirts, goody bags, flyers, coupons, sports drinks, or finishers medals. Just several dozen people and w whole bunch of dirt, rocks, mud, branches, pine cones, rocks, incline, incline, incline, switchbacks, scrambling, and what some might call "technical footwork". And it was awesome.

Left early to pick up two friends in South Boston. Got kind of lost on the way there. We finally hit 93N and headed to Stoneham. Got there with plenty of time to spare, picked up our numbers (computer-printed cards with our name, age, and a funny quote about trail running), congregated in a scrubby looking parking lot by the trail head, and at precisely 8:00 a.m., off we went.

Today was a hard but awesome run. Perfect temp - I didn't feel over or underdressed. The crisp air felt just right, and the dark clouds held out long enough that we barely felt a breeze rustle through the trees, though snow and rain were forecasted. Last week's run hurt, plain and simple. I was finished running about three miles before the race actually ended. But today -today!! - what a difference a week makes. I felt good. I felt strong and I settled into a rhythm pretty quickly. Not a fast pace, but a comfortable speed that would get me to the finish line.

Two things helped.

One: a nice pace group. A few loudmouths who felt compelled to yap the entire run, but otherwise a nice crew around me. I didn't get passed by a ton of people, so that felt great. I have found that in races past, as soon as I start getting passed by hordes of runners, I am mentally finished. I spiral down the "I'm so slow, a guy with a babyjogger is passing me!" course, and my running confidence suffers the consequences. I know, I know. Run my own race. And that is my mantra, but getting passed by scores of people does make a person feel a little on the pokey side.

Two: No mileage markers! This was freakin' awesome! Not knowing where I was or how far I'd run was fantastic. None of those "oo, I must have done seven miles by now! What?? Only two?" moments. None of that "three down, five to go!". Not paying attention to mile markers allowed me a freedom I don't think I have felt before in a trail run. It was glorious. All I had to do this morning was go out there and enjoy my run. As far as trail running goes, ignorance really is bliss.

The no mile markers thing got me to thinking. As much as I need, value and retrospectively depend on milestones in my life, there is something to be said for not always seeing them along the way. Awareness of transitions or turning points can be helpful as we move through life, make decisions and choices, and go where we need to go, but there is something to be said for just focusing on the scenery, breathing in and out, and trying not to trip. There is something to be said for running through the woods without a map, without a distance gage, and really, without a clue. Sometime I am so hung up on taking stock of where I am and what I'm doing and how far I have come and how far I have to go that I miss the beauty of where I am. I am thinking about the finish line when there's a whole lotta pretty scenery before I get there. There's a start, and there'll be a finish. The territory in between is simply there for the running, some of it hard, some of it harder, none of it easy, but all of it pretty darn sweet. Such is life, no?

There were moments during the run this morning when I could feel blisters forming on my feet or when I felt a little winded, but all in all this run really rocked. Why? 'Cause I enjoyed it. And such should be life.

Sometimes You Run Alone

Sunday, 29 November 2009 - Tough Ten Mile Turkey Trot, Marlborough, MA

For the record, they were not kidding about the course when they termed it "tough". Actually, that's a bit of an understatement.

Also for the record, race participants donated ~1500 canned goods for a local food pantry. The warm fuzzies from that took the sting out of my finishing wayyyy near the back of the pack.

And one final one for the record: do men just generate more pee than women or something? I must have seen at least a half dozen men run off course to "water the trees" in the first mile alone. Ten miles later and I didn't see one woman cop a squat the whole time!

I did this race last year with two friends and have very fond memories of running along the streets of Marlborough, burning off some Thanksgiving calories, taking on the massive hill at Mile 9, and finishing quite tired but happy. So when Thanksgiving approached this year, I checked to confirm this race and started spreading the word. The few "maybes" I managed to drum up quickly turned to "nos" due to injuries, Thanksgiving travel, or other commitments. For all of 20 seconds I thought about skipping the race this year and running on my own, much closer to home. Why trek out to Marlborough when I could roll out of bed, hit the Newton hills and be at my kitchen counter with the Sunday paper before 9 a.m.? But something stubborn in my mind wanted to do this run, solo status be damned.

One of the reasons why I love this run is because the registration fee is ten canned goods for a local food pantry. Before the start of the race, the race director announced that over 500 families visited the food pantry last week. So this run is, for me, something of a gratitude run. I think of people who do not have enough to eat and I know that I'm called to do more than show up for a run on a gorgeous Sunday morning. I am grateful - and keenly aware - that I am blessed with having enough food to eat and terrific people to share it with.

I drove out to Marlborough alone, leaving my house before 7 a.m. and traveling west on the Pike with few other cars. A feeling of lonesomeness nagged at me, as it did last night when I was getting my running clothes ready. It's rare for me to drive to a race alone, and even rarer for me not to be meeting someone there. Usually the car ride out is enlivened with music and chit chat, as my running pals or my sister and I catch up with each other. But this time I was alone, it was quiet, and I was very aware of that. Despite the fact that my friends and I have a tacit agreement to run our own races (i.e., run our own pace and no slower or faster than we'd go on our own), the start and finish line are usually places of smiles, jokes, and brief conversations. Running with my friends is my social life, and driving to and running a race by myself felt like going to Friday night happy hour alone.

I arrived early to the race start, dropped off my canned goods, picked up my race number and returned to my car to read the Sunday paper and listen to country music. One of the perks of driving alone? No one will make fun of my love for Willie Nelson. It was soon time to start and I, along with 100 or so other runners, lined up near the start line at the edge of the park. A course description was given, the national anthem was sung, and off we went. It was early morning and the air was still and quiet. Few people were out and as we ran through the quiet suburban streets, we did not make much noise at all. This wasn't a "rah rah" kind of race or crowd; we just hit the road and ran. Not much conversation, not much interaction. Just a whole lotta uphill running.

I ran alone, breathing the fresh air and enjoying the tall pine trees and rolling hills to my left and to my right. The streets were hilly but manageable and the clear blue sky and crisp air provided ideal running conditions. With the exception of a few brief hellos or nods, I didn't talk with anyone at all. The first several miles passed quickly as I thought over the past few days, the days ahead, and a million other things. Running usually opens the doorway of my heart and my mind and allows me the chance to process feelings, experiences, and thoughts. Today that door was wide open, and the things that crossed my mind seemed all too heavy and too serious for a Sunday morning run. But I let those thoughts come up, and I tried to make sense of the ones I could and let go of the ones I couldn't. I thought about my future career, and how I am on the way from something to something else, yet, at present, wondering how to identify myself. I'm not a fundraiser anymore, and I'm not a chaplain yet. I'm hovering between the two worlds, rejecting one and not yet fully part of the other. I thought about the paper I worked on all day and the ones I have yet to write in the weeks ahead. I thought about a relationship in my life and the reality that it may soon end, despite how much I wish it were otherwise. Running along, tackling the hills of the race course, pondering my own existence and future, I did feel quite alone. Normally I love solitude, but today it saddened me somewhat. Coming off of four days of nonstop family time, I felt quite suddenly and acutely the sharp pang of being alone, of driving to this race alone, running it alone, and having no one waiting for me at the finish line. But I realized that we all run alone sometimes. We do. Sometimes we do because we want to and sometimes we do because we have to. No one else can plan my future or make decisions about my relationships anymore than they can run my race for me today. And though I ran alone today, I am never really alone. There'll be someone at the next race, and the one after that. I'll carpool with friends, and we'll talk at the start line, and give each other sweaty hugs at the finish line. And the same will happen with life, because even when we feel alone, even when we feel like it's us vs. the world, there is a quiet, sometimes invisible army of friends and loved ones, people who care for us, and they are always there. Sometimes you run alone, and sometimes that's just what you need to do.

Right in Front of Me, Part II

Chilliman 1/2 Marathon, Newton, MA

Haven't done a 1/2 marathon in a while and so was rather easily talked into this one. For the record: BEST race swag ever. The "goody bag" was actually one of those reusable canvas shopping totes. I am all about the practical swag.

I did the usual in prep for this 1/2. Maybe a little less freaking out, for some reason, but my training somehow survived without it. Woke up at 5:30 a.m. this morning, which I loved. I love waking up early, even more so if it's actually still dark out. It gives me this feeling of ownership of my day as I physically witness it begin in nature. And the peace, the solitude, the tranquility of the city at that hour. It is something I have loved for a long, long time. Alarm went off and I allowed myself one press on the snooze button before throwing off the covers and launching myself out of bed. I prayed for a minute, then got up and threw on the running clothes I set out last night. Picked up my newspaper from right outside my door (the best luxury $2.50 can buy is home delivery of the Sunday paper), made some coffee, and skimmed the front page section while eating my customary race morning bagel. Just after 6:00 a.m. I gathered my things and headed out. I love that feeling of purpose that comes with leaving my house so early on a weekend morning. Call me crazy, but leaving that early reminds me that I'm gonna accomplish something, whether it's a run, a trip, or something much more mundane. 

It is still drizzling when I arrive at the race start. After accidentally waving frantically at someone who I thought was Ben, I finally find him in the parking lot and we hang out in his truck. We shoot the breeze and talk about everything from country music to gang violence to best races t-shirts. That's what makes Ben the person you wanna hang out with before a race!

Soon it's time to get to the start line. It's lightly misting, but actually kind of pleasant. Ben & I chat and make jokes. I notice that the majority of the crowd is half my age and twice my speed. And then we are off. The crowd very quickly thins out as we run through quiet residential streets of Newton. The houses are breathtaking, and I spend mile after mile gazing at huge, old Victorians, sprawling moderns, and classic colonials. The stained glass windows and ornate porches and dormers and spires hold my attention. We pass the reservoir as fog lifts from its surface. It is quiet, damp and peaceful this Sunday morning. A few people have come out to cheer, but in general it's a serene morning in Newton.

It's a very challenging course. Hill after hill after hill. We run through neighborhoods I'm very familiar with - they are less than a mile from my house, and they are the streets I often run on Sunday mornings. But usually, I am alone. Today, I am surrounded by a sea of spandex.

Race highlights include a little kid playing the drum in his front window as we pass by, a runner wearing spandex bike shorts meant to look like acid-washed jeans, and a bright yellow toilet in the middle of someone's front lawn. Seriously, it is not everyday you see a multi-million dollar Newton  house with a crapper in the garden. It made me laugh out loud.

The race is hard. I walk for several short segments, and my legs hurt. My back hurts. I have a cramp. I am not miserable, but I've had better runs. I talk briefly with a guy who looks familiar, but we discover we don't know each other. Nonetheless, I appreciate the company. Later on, .5 miles from the finish, this very same guy cheers me on when I slow to a walk. "C'mon, keep it going, keep it going, you can do it", he calls out to me. I pick up my pace, running again, counting the tenths of a mile til the end. It is this anonymous man's encouragement that pushes me to the finish line. 

I see the end and give it my all, crossing the finish line with my heart pounding. Tired. Done.

Right in Front of Me

It has been a busy week. What the hell, it's been a busy EIGHT weeks. Fall semester is more than halfway over; I am working out a schedule for the next 18 months and trying to fit together the many, many pieces of this jigsaw puzzle journey.

Last week's trail run was fun, though a little disappointing because the trail was mismarked, causing many of us to get lost and lose a few miles. Instead of running 10 I did 8.

This week has been so full. Full of emotions, experiences, people, intensity and calm. There has been a lot to process and, by the grace of God, the right people have been there at the right times to walk with me. When I headed out for my run this morning I was mentally reviewing everything that's occupied my mind this week - trying to work out my class schedule, thinking about a job and an internship, worrying about a friend's health, beginning spiritual direction, spending time with a few very dear friends, contemplating a relationship, planning a trip, getting involved with school activities, and what to do with all the vegetables in my fridge. I have also not maintained the best eating and sleeping habits this week, so when I headed out I felt a little physically heavy too.

But it was a beautiful morning, and soon all of those things began to float away. I listened to my music and ran up the hills of Newton, inhaling the fresh, clear fall air. It felt so good to pound the pavement and sweat; I found myself smiling. As all of those things on my mind gently lifted, I felt serenity and energy.

I have a friend who gets a huge rush from discovering new streets in neighborhoods he's already familiar with. The amount of joy he gets from this is awesome. It's something so small and seemingly mundane, yet when he's driving around and discovers a shortcut or side street leading to a main road he already knows, seeing the smile on his face is priceless. 

Although I've lived in my neighborhood for almost six years, I've adopted his enthusiasm and excitement at discovering new streets and lately I've challenged myself to change my running route and incorporate new streets. Doing this forces me to abandon my rigid out-and-back route with a set time; it allows me to meander, discover, and see things I wouldn't otherwise see. It liberates me from the drill of running up one side of a main street and back on the other side, til my miles are done, and opens my eyes to newness.

This morning I turned off Comm. Ave. and let the side streets carry me forward. The fall sunshine, fresh air and crunchy leaves felt so good. The hills energized me and I found myself tackling more of them than usual, and liking it. I gazed at the houses around me as I passed by. I'd never seen them before and many of them were breathtaking - contemporary, colonial, Victorian, Georgian, Modern. Although I wasn't familiar with the neighborhood where I was running, I knew I was close enough to find my way back. I let myself keep going, exploring new streets and taking in the beautiful architecture. Soon enough, a tiny side street dumped me out onto a main street near the high school and knew exactly where I was. 

As I ran back on the main street where I normally run I found myself wondering, if I hadn't let myself wander down those side streets, what would I have missed? I wouldn't have seen all of those beautiful houses, so close to where I live and run and yet, til now, undiscovered. I began thinking about all of the things that had occupied my mind this week - things to be understood, planned, worked out, figured out, and taken care of. At many points during the week I found myself wondering how to figure things out, how to make things fit together, how to find solutions and keep moving forward. Thinking about those side streets and gorgeous houses I wondered, what else is right in front of me, yet I am failing to see? What else is right there, right around the corner, but I haven't gone there yet? Maybe it's time to see what's there.

What the hell am I doing?

What the hell am I doing?? The thought has passed through my mind more than a few times over the course of fourteen years of running - before my first marathon in 1999, the morning of my first triathlon (running isn't enough?! biking and swimming, too??), the night before running Boston in 2007, at the beginning of my very first trail race, and as my feet crossed the start line for my most recent and longest, hardest trail run. 

What the hell am I doing? I often supplemented the initial question with how on earth did I get here? How am I going to finish this? What if it's too hard? Did I train enough? Do I know what I'm doing? How will I keep myself going? Why are so many people so much faster/fitter/better than I am? Why is that man wearing such short shorts? So many questions, and so few answers.

And now, as I prepare to step across the threshold of another Start Line, I am asking myself that very first question again. But this time it's a different kind of run, a different kind of pace, and a different course all together. After ten years - ten years! - of contemplation, I'm going back to school to become a chaplain. In three days, I'll be at the "starting line" of a two year Master's program.

Most of the races and runs I've done were somewhat spontaneous decisions. I never had "run a marathon" or "run a 25 KM trail run" on my List of Things to Do Before I Die. 

Consider:

First marathon: My mom and I went to an information meeting for a charity training program, listened to their talk for five minutes, looked at each other and simultaneously said, "Let's do it!!" We signed up, we trained, we carbo loaded, and we did it. Upon crossing the finish line I had one thought: Marathons? Yeah, one and done.

Boston Marathon: Second day at my new job and my boss tells me that the university has a team that trains for the marathon. She casually adds that no one from our department has ever participated. Before I know what's happening, words tumble from my mouth: "I'll do it!" I walk out of her office and promptly feel like kicking myself, but soon enough I'm excited about it. Excited and terrified, but for the most part excited. It turns out to be an amazing and unforgettable experience. 

First trail run: "Hey, what are you guys doing next weekend? Want to do this run? It's called a trail run. I guess that means you run on trails?" We pile into my '96 Corolla early the next Saturday morning and drive to a State Park in Central Massachusetts. Most of the runners there are wearing race t-shirts dating back to before I was born. They look like they know what they're doing. We go along with the very small crowd and when we reach the start, the race director says, "Uh, okay everyone. I guess you can go ahead and start. Have a good run." We're off, through the woods, over the branches, and up and down the hills. We have a blast, cross the finish line drenched in sweat, and my friend takes first place. Trail running? I'm down with that.

Hardest trail run: There comes a point in the lives of many runners when they say, what else is there? What more can I do? How else can I beat up my body, challenge myself, and get an ugly t-shirt? A longer trail run! I happen to find one in Maine. It coincides with a long weekend and within an hour I recruit two friends who are interested in running it. We fax in registration forms and that's it - we're in. What seems like a few days later, we drive North, we run for miles and miles through the woods and over the hills, and we come home with wearable shirts, pint glasses, and serious bragging rights.

So there's a theme here...I have never really overthought registering for a race, or thought a whole lot about it at all. The process usually involves happening upon a race listing, feeling my interest spike, getting a few friends on board, and running. 

I find myself now, at the starting line of a few years of school before embarking on an entirely new career, feeling a little bit like I feel at the start of a race, especially those races the likes of which I have not yet known. I've thought about chaplaincy for a long, long time. In ten years, it has never been nudged off of my List of Things to Do Before I Die. And so now, at long last, I'm doing it. And I am feeling a lot like I've felt at the start of those marathons and trail runs. What if I fall? What if it's too hard? What if I burn out? What if everyone else is more prepared or better than me? And what the hell am I doing?

I think I know what I'm doing. I think I know what I've signed up for and what I'm jumping into. And I think I might have a clue as to what awaits on the road ahead. I've read about it, talked about it, looked it up online and learned about it. I've even daydreamed about it and visualized it. I've trained for it. But just like I never really knew what I was in for when I signed up for a new distance or new kind of run, I don't really know what I'm in for on this path that lies ahead. Smooth, rolling hills? Grueling dirt paths and muddy trails? Breathtaking vistas? Will the route be clearly marked? Will I get lost? Will I stumble? Will I fall? Will I surprise myself with my own strength and grit? Will I smile at those near me and be cheered along by the quiet kindness of strangers and companions along the way? 

I don't know, and the mystery of what will be is both nerve-racking and exciting. I try not to let myself think about stumbling and falling, feeling tired or bruised or simply unable to keep going. Instead I try concentrating on the beauty that can be found within the mystery of the unknown, the possibilities that await, and the story that is mine to write as I begin this new journey.

When I ran that first trail run a few years ago I was naively unaware of how hard it would be. Had I known the limits to which I'd have to push myself, I probably would have spent a very boring hour on a Stairmaster at the gym instead. But I would have missed out, and I would have missed out immensely - on the cameraderie, the exhiliration, the fun and the beauty of simply running through the woods on a beautiful Saturday morning. I'd have missed out on the adventure, the excitement, and the challenge of doing something new, something different and something unknown. I'd have missed out on the chance to open a new door in my life and discover a new passion, one that would bring me tremendous joy and happiness. Oh yeah, and I would have missed out on the free snacks and ugly race shirts, too. ;)