The Fifth

This week marked the beginning of training for my fifth marathon.  On Tuesday, shortly before a 4 mile run, I thought, for the fifth time, how exciting it is to embark on these attempts.  I'm always excited in the beginning, always energized by narrowing my focus, building my days around when/where I'm putting in miles. It provides a structure for all those heartbeats, and I appreciate that. As I kick things off, I thought this would be a good time to reflect on marathon #4, which I never really detailed for posterity.

Marathon #4 was the Twin Cities Marathon, for the third time.  I ran it in support of World Vision, the first time I've run for that organization and probably not the last.  I ran in my World Vision jersey, the route peppered with supporters of the cause who cheerfully clapped when I came into view.  I appreciated those added voices, especially in the later miles.

But the World Vision experience was not the defining characteristic of the race for me.

I was a bit weak going into the race.  I trained well but I'd screwed up my ankle (again) and that injury had led to some achy screams on occasion from my knee. Seemed manageable but on top of those pains I'd been down and out with a bad chest cold for a couple of the weeks leading up to the race, too.  So while I was healthy by race day, I was not 100%.  I don't think I've ever been 100% on marathon race day, honestly.  I'm always nursing some end-of-training injury, never so bad that I worry about needing to sit out the race, but bad enough to worry me as I line up at the start.

This was the first marathon where neither of my parents were there to cheer me on. And the reason for that, in part, specifically impacted my experience.  My dad was in North Carolina visiting my uncle, who'd recently begun chemo for an angry cancer to which people tend to attach poor expectations.  One of the more-bad-than-your-average-bad ones, understand. My uncle and dad kept track of me via the miracles of technology, even watching my eventual crossing of the finish line.  They've tracked me before, but this time I felt that presence more keenly, especially in the last miles.

It's cliche, I realize, to compare difficult life seasons to the running of marathons. Conserve your energy, prepare for that last kick across the line, pace yourself, enjoy the journey, take in the support, dig deep. All of that jazz. Not sure how the hell a person would "enjoy the journey" as it relates to cancer.  Not sure how you'd "pace yourself" either. Rather ridiculous comparison, in the grand scheme of things. So at no point did I mentally compare the pain of those last miles to something my loved one was experiencing.  But there was something about his fight that pressed into miles twenty-two to twenty-six.

By mile twenty-two I was on track to mirror my previous times.  No improvement, but reliably stable in my pacing.  And by mile twenty-two I really didn't care that I wasn't going to beat prior times, I was just content with knowing I'd finish, get my t-shirt and medal, eat my well-deserved burger and fries. But around that point I started picturing my uncle, flashes of him at various points in my life, and my desire to walk through water stops diminished.  More than that, I started running a bit faster. I won't say my legs stopped hurting, but the pain dulled, the exhaustion lost a bit of its power.

The images that popped into my head were of my uncle bending his head over crossword puzzles, of his hand as he handed the paper to me to battle through the bookish clues that an English major might be able to tackle, of his back as he closed the trunk after helping me haul collegiate crap into a college apartment, of his burned fingertips as he flipped steaks on a grill on our mountain, of the way all the men of our family walk and stand the same, easy and strong. And I won't say that the increase in my kick as I neared the finish line had much to do with a misplaced hope that such effort could somehow be added to whatever great cancerous scale decides whether someone wins or loses their battle.  I would have kicked harder, had that been the case.

But my feeling in those last few miles was that strength is sometimes communal. Without getting overly metaphysical, I do believe that there is a power, immeasurable and infinite, in shared effort.  Personal battles are just that, requiring the individual to face whatever has to be faced on their own terms and with only the comfort of God to guide them.  But when you know you are loved, know that your effort (whether it is understood or not) is recognized, that knowledge does provide some added momentum, an extra kick where the leg feels dead, a pick up in speed when the gut says, "quit."

So I credit my uncle with those last four miles.  I credit him for my personal record, shaving five minutes off my previous best time. And I credit him with showing me that there is often more in the tank than one would guess.  And the vast majority of what is left in the tank can be credited to a strength that is communal and mysterious. I pushed harder not because I thought doing so would change anything.  I pushed harder because I hoped, someday, when my uncle needed it, I might be able to return that favor, show him strength or joy in some quiet way that would make a rough day easier.

So as I start training for my fifth marathon, that reservoir of strength is well-fed, and I recognize that power is not fully my own.  It belongs to God, and to years of love from my family, and to whatever mysterious force pushes anyone to keep going in the face of challenge. Sometimes miles are small matters, and sometimes they feel impossible. But every one of my miles is lighter, knowing that certain people, very specific people, love me.

Quiet

This blog has been gathering dust recently, but not for want of things to write. And not for a lack of desire to sum up my world in neat little packages of blog posts and creative pieces.  After some difficult family news in early autumn, I thought often about things I wanted to write here, or somewhere.  I drafted a few posts that will never see the light of blog day.  I wrote some weepy prose that only I and God should have to suffer through reading (sorry, God).

After a wonderful friend-filled trip to England and Scotland I struggled again with the right moment to encapsulate, the day I wanted to enshrine for posterity.  I sketched a shaky poem on the back of an Edinburgh postcard while sitting alone on a rock, staring across town, and I thought perhaps I'd work on it when I got home.  The postcard is tucked away on my bookshelf, likely to get stuck between the pages of a book I won't crack open for years.

My blogging has been mostly experiential, housed on The Minneapolite, detailing restaurants and things. The more creative exercises have felt tired, and even when inspired, my posts to this particular blog (old and dear though it is) have felt like a chore.  To add insult to injury, my poetry muscle is weak these days, and teenage in its tendencies. I used to draft poems for no reason at all, just to capture something.  But now I've reverted to my teenage poetic self, scratching out verses only when I'm hurting, the only element missing is the Tori Amos soundtrack wailing in the background.  I at least have the decency now to let Bon Iver provide my depressive ambiance.

This isn't to say that I've been unhappy, only that for some reason my creative writing has been limited to poetry and that poetry has only flowed on the days he has chemo, or the days work bores and exhausts me, or the days I'm just tired of this specific moment in my life.  I rebound quickly and maybe the poetry helps, even if it is melancholy and not worth sharing. Maybe everyone has creative seasons where the creation is a means of comfort, not expression. I'm also going to take a moment here to blame the damn Minnesotan cold.

It seemed for awhile that my creative writing was moving in some sort of publishable direction. Stories. Poems. Essays. Fits and starts of interesting things, most of which I abandoned. I even sent a couple stories to a small press and their rejection didn't bother me, at least not much. I was writing often and well, excited by my own ideas and toying with the idea that maybe I should share them.  Maybe others would read this stuff. Maybe I could be a writer.

But sometime this fall that all just stopped and I cannot pinpoint the hurdle.

I remember in college I said something to a dear professor and friend, something about wanting to be a poet. He is a poet himself, and I know that he was kind in his encouragement, even though I shudder at the thought of the poems I shared with him. I penned them in a tiny journal with a tough, almost wooden, exterior that was secured with ribbon. There were little Shakespearean quotes on the corners of each page. He picked out phrases he liked, descriptions I'd made, or rhymes he thought particularly smooth or lovely. He was specific in his praise and gentle in his comment that time and practice would be beneficial.

So I'm chalking up these last few months of dull-as-dirt, self-indulgent poetic drivel to a season of "practice" that will yield something noisy and fruitful someday. My creative pen has never been silent for this long. But I like to think that exciting things may be developed in the quiet spaces, maybe there's a shy story in there somewhere that needs a bit of coaxing before she starts making her own tap-tap-tap on the keyboard. Maybe she likes Bon Iver.