White Holiday Mixup

One morning this week an anchor on CNN’s “American Morning” had a special request for the meteorologist: he wanted a map showing the areas of the United States and Canada that could expect a white Christmas. The final days before the holiday brought some crazy storms in parts of the country, but on the east coast the precipitation has come as rain, which didn’t seem to be what this anchor was dreaming of. He was headed for Toronto for part of the holiday, but farther south the weather suggests spring. How to take Christmas seriously when it’s 60 degrees outside?

I have some dreams of a white Christmas, too; it’s the kind of holiday I grew up with. I couldn’t get in the mood to buy a Christmas tree or poinsettias when it felt like the dying days of summer. The warmth this year is unusual, but I couldn’t really expect snow for the holiday. I’m far from my childhood home now, and it rarely snows at Christmas here.



Nice but not Christmas

We often get snow, though, before the winter is over. The biggest snowmakers come our way late in the season, after the festive holiday lights are taken down and put away, after the darkness of winter has worn on a bit long and only dreams of spring alleviate the bleakness of the nights. A couple of years ago, two storms walloped the region in quick succession, leading to massive snowball fights, a run on shovels, and extended vacation from work for many.



It looks peaceful enough ...



“Snowmageddon” was sure to be historic, and the storms brought a charge of excitement as the power of nature bore down. The metro region looked beautiful and quiet under the new snow. And then came the digging out. For days, the roads stayed treacherous. A trip to the grocery store a few blocks away felt like a trek through the wilderness. By the end of the week, the whole experience had lost some its poetry. I turned my attention southward with a sense of relief and escape.



Might there be a car under there?



It happened to be February, and I had my first marathon of the season coming up in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. This time, it wasn’t just the kickoff of my racing calendar. It was my first marathon after almost a year, as a series of injuries had kept me out of consistent training for months. I was nervous and excited and glad to be driving south, away from the snow. During the first few hours of my car trip, I watched white-laced forests and fields give way to soft browns and greens unmuted by snow. Both my car and I began to breathe more freely, and my little green Neon picked up speed.

When we reached the outskirts of Myrtle Beach, I scanned through radio stations in search of some new music, but a spoken word caught my attention: “snow.” I stopped scanning and listened incredulously to a weather forecast. I was driving in South Carolina, a few miles now from the coast, and the meteorologist on the radio was predicting snow. But just a little snow, like frosting on a cake.

I drove on to the marathon expo to pick up my number. Signs posted at the entrance informed runners of a change to the schedule: a half-hour delay in the race start time. Good, I thought. The race started too early for February anyway, in my opinion. It’s still dark at 6:30. A 7:00 a.m. start would keep us out of the precipitation and in the daylight.

On the way to my hotel, I stopped at a bookstore and bought a book, something a friend had recommended. I felt so antsy. I was afraid I couldn’t take the waiting. It was almost like being back at the start of my very first marathon, unsure whether I was truly up to the challenge. The certainty of finishing was not there.

I tried to read but couldn’t get interested. I put the TV on and listened to the updates on the weather that came throughout the evening. Yes, it was unusual, yes, it was practically unheard of, and yes, it was going to snow. The city didn’t have snow plows. Why would they? But they were getting prepared with pickups rigged to do the job. The storm would come in late and be out early, before dawn.

As alone as I felt in my hotel room, I wasn’t the only runner watching the updates come in. The Myrtle Beach Marathon is popular, enough to rate coverage on the news. A reporter stationed on location somewhere talked about the decision facing race officials. Would the marathon be disrupted? No, no, no, I thought. Even in the worst case scenario, it’s a thin coating of snow! We can run through that. Look, the pickups with their plows mounted up front are all ready to go!

But sometime after 10 p.m., the official word came in: the marathon was off.

The waiting was over. Except that it wasn’t. I’d waited nearly a year to be in marathon shape again and to prove to myself that I could still go the distance. I’d come all the way to the brink. I’d made the car trip. I’d suffered through the dragging hours of the Day Before. I’d navigated the expo without spending any money or getting lost among the vendors in the cavernous convention center. And now it was over.

I slept fitfully. I was booked at the hotel for two nights. In the morning, I got up and repacked my things. I took my camera outside for historical documentation. I went to the front desk of the hotel and checked out.

Beach vacation

I guess it was obvious why I was leaving a day early, but it bothered me that the hotel staff member didn’t ask, didn’t wonder if my stay had been OK, didn’t commiserate or offer any words of consolation.

I drove as fast as I could go back home. I could drive pretty fast since the roads were clear. I came back to Snowmageddon. I realized somewhere along the way that I’d left my new book behind. And you know, I stayed at that hotel again the next year, and they didn’t give it back to me!

Am I taking a chance writing this? My marathon calendar in 2012 begins in Myrtle Beach. Here I am dreaming of a white Christmas, but for Valentine’s Day … well, you know what I mean.

Chantal's Blue Twin

Everyone has their fantasies, right? I don’t subscribe to Car and Driver, but I like to look around. Sometimes when I’m stuck in backed up traffic on the freeway, I pass the time by noticing the makes and models—and colors and styles—of the vehicles around me. I’ve long considered my dream (read “expensive” and “impractical”) vehicle to be a pickup. Probably a Ford, because that’s how I was raised. But I like smaller cars, too, and behind the wheel of a cherry red compact with music blaring and the speedometer pushing 80, I feel zippy and fast and alive. A few years ago I traveled by air to attend to a family event, and as I sped down the freeway in my rental car, I found a radio station playing a song I liked. I took in the city skyline as it flowed around me, and I started to sing along. The realization hit me with surprise: I am having fun.

Since then, I always look forward to heading out into the airport garage to get my first glimpse of my rental car, my pal, my toy for the next few days. What color will it be, what novel gadgets will it feature (I love, love, love remote controls on key rings). Will it make me feel as though I could swerve back and forth across several lanes while holding an open bottle of soda and never spilling a drop? Not that I’d ever do that … but I can appreciate a smooth ride.

Back home, my own car for the past many years had been a spunky little Plymouth Neon named Gilly. Gilly was awesome; she had been with me through so many life experiences: cross-country moves, my first trip to New England, and of course, marathons. She was waiting for me in the parking lot at the University of Utah stadium when I walked from the finish line of my first marathon. I could climb in through her driver’s side door and feel embraced. Her air-conditioning system was the roll-down-the-windows-and-drive model, she had manual locks and windows, and her little green body sported a few dents and scrapes, some she’d had since I’d known her and a few more inflicted by poles and walls when I failed to steer her precisely enough in and out of my reserved carport and, later, garage parking spots. But I didn’t worry about her. I knew she was tough. I knew she could take it.

And then, finally, I knew it was time to move on. She had lived a good life. Still, I felt a sense of loss surrendering her at the Carmax store. Would she feel abandoned? For months after I got my new Hyundai, which I named Chantal, I had trouble recognizing her in the parking lot. Sometimes I’d take a second look and wonder, “Is that my car? Really? Is that my car?” I’d catch myself thinking about Chantal and calling her Gilly … and since I’ve always shared a mental telepathy connection with my cars, I worried that Chantal might hear me!

But Chantal, who is sleekly silver and has air-conditioning that works with the windows rolled up, has taken her own place in my heart. The proof is in the rental car.

Chantal at a favorite weekend spot

This March, I traveled to Utah for a half-marathon in Moab and was initially excited to try out the blue Nissan the customer service rep offered me. He promised a novel experience: no-key ignition. The car had a start button, he explained, and I would love it. I eyed him skeptically. Would I be able to figure out how to turn the car on? He assured me it was very intuitive. “Very intuitive”—aren’t those code words for something? Aren’t they a sort of euphemism? I don’t know. But I do know I sat in the car in the garage for several minutes trying to get in touch with my intuition. That whole trip, I felt like the car was smarter than I was. I had such a hard time getting it to do what I wanted, and yet I could tell I was barely scratching the surface of its capabilities. If I’d had more time, I could have studied the owner’s manual and at least gotten really, truly sure that I was working the headlights correctly. At least I could see the road, so that was something. But I could almost hear that Nissan sighing at me. “Fine, go and do it the hard way,” it seemed to say. I was used to having to roll down my window by hand; remote controlled locks I liked, but too many automated features offend my control-freak tendencies.

So when I flew to Indianapolis in June for the Carmel Marathon and the service rep gave me the choice between a Grinch-green Ford and what looked like Chantal’s twin painted blue, I practically dove for the Hyundai. The service rep didn’t approve. She thought I’d have a lot more fun with the Ford. I peeked in it’s windows and saw a console that brought back memories of the Nissan in Utah. Uh uh. I wasn’t taking that voluntarily.

Blue Chantal

The service rep and I were still standing around by the two cars when another guy walked up. He asked me which car I had chosen and explained that he was taking whichever was left. I spoke up for the Hyundai. But then I asked if he had a preference. I was more curious than anything. The service rep definitely preferred the Ford, so I wondered what this other guy would go for.

He said he didn’t care; he was in town for a funeral. I think it was his grandmother’s funeral. Ugh. At that point I would have let him have whatever he wanted. If I’d been one of the sales reps, I would have set him up with something higher end. But I didn’t have that power, and he really didn’t seem to care. So he took the Nissan, and I took the Hyundai, Chantal’s blue twin.

And, ah, I loved it. There were no remote controls, to be sure, but I knew how to turn on the headlights, and if I’d wanted to, I could have swerved all over an empty road while holding an open bottle of soda without spilling a drop. In a city that appreciates cars, I appreciated finding the closest thing possible to my own car. So here’s to Chantal and her blue Indianapolis twin.

Forget the marathon medal, I'm just happy I didn't get stuck with the Grinch-mobile!

Did He Say "Sweden"?

“Recovering” from a marathon can be rough, and as many times as I’ve gone through it, it still takes me by surprise. I focus so much on reaching the finish line that my forward thinking doesn’t progress beyond that marker, at least not in a rational way. I may picture a postrace haze of gold, a celebratory atmosphere, a state of bliss in which all my problems will have slipped away.

The problems return though, after about 10 minutes of post-finish line afterglow. The day after a marathon, my postrace haze consists of a headache, a gnawing hunger, and a simmering irritability. During a long drive home from a marathon this summer, my mother, who had accompanied me on the road trip, pulled out some hard candy she’d purchased at an old-fashioned candy store the day before. My mother makes no apologies for the way she eats hard candy: she does not suck it, she bites. I’ve known her long enough to be familiar with this trait. I tried to focus on the road as I listened to the rustling of the candy wrappers. My muscles tensed at the first loud crunch. “I can take this,” I told myself. “It’s not a big deal. It will be over soon.” I tried to breathe evenly. More crunching followed. More crinkling of wrappers. Finally I burst out, “How long is it going to take to crunch that candy?” My mother confessed it was taking longer than she expected to bite through her stash in the otherwise silent car. We both ended up laughing about it. For the rest of the trip, I maintained a thin façade over the growly bear I felt I had become. I don’t think my mother ate any more of her candy.

I was in another one of those funks, puttering about my apartment with a scowl and feeling bleak about the future and the world in general, when a word from the TV that I had on for background noise penetrated the fog and caught my attention: Sweden. Sweden? Did someone say "Sweden"?

I turned toward the TV in earnest. A Rick Steves travel show was coming up, and he was heading to Sweden.

Earlier this year, I’d considered traveling to Stockholm for the June marathon there, but then I realized the event had sold out months before. So I put it on my radar for 2012. Still, at the point when Rick Steves offered me a preview of a Swedish tour, I hadn’t committed one way or the other; I hadn’t registered for the 2012 event, and the prospect floated at the back of my mind, seeming very far away.

Sweden. Suddenly the word had magic. Suddenly a 2012 trip emerged from the realm of the distant future and drew near enough to look alluring. For Sweden, I thought, it might be worth sticking around.

I sometimes think of a particular line from the movie “Steel Magnolias,” which I first saw when I was about junior high age and have watched several times since. The character played by Olympia Dukakis has lost her husband and is trying to cobble together a life without him. She’s a longtime football fan, and at one point she quips, “Well, I really do love football, but it’s hard to parlay that into a reason to live.”

Sometimes I understand just what she means. Sure, I really do love running and traveling, but it can be hard to parlay that into a reason to live.

And yet, somehow, that single reference to a travel show about Sweden was enough to pull me out of my funk.

Looking back, I realize that every trip I’ve taken has become part of me, part of my identity. Right before I went to Norway in 2008, the undertaking seemed like an awful lot of trouble. Now, I can’t imagine not having gone. I love the memory of walking back to the lodging around 1 am under an overcast but fully lit sky, sleeping on a bunk bed in a wooden cabin with the square window next to me never darkening. Traveling to Iceland got put off from 2009 to 2010, but on the trip that almost wasn’t, I fell in love with a new country that reminded me of my native state of Idaho, with its geysers and lava rocks and small, independent population. Dublin drew me back for a second visit, and now I’m wondering how soon I can manage to return.

Geyser in Iceland--or could it be Soda Springs, Idaho?

I’m registered now for the 2012 Stockholm Marathon; my entrance fee is paid, my place is assured. Anticipation comes in waves: at the moment, it all looks far away again. It’s hard to see past the holidays and the crushing darkness of winter. My next scheduled marathon, in Myrtle Beach in February, seems as unreal as daylight in the evening. But if I remember that bleak postrace afternoon when Rick Steves came on TV to talk about Sweden, I can call up that prick of hope, too. Yes, I think Sweden may be worth sticking around for.

Lucky Number 13

When I first moved into a high-rise apartment building, I was amused to discover that it had no 13th floor. It had a 12th floor and a 14th floor, but the elevator buttons and stairwell signs ignored the existence of the number 13. Since I lived on the 9th floor, I couldn’t argue with the apartment manager over whether my unit number should be, say, 1402 or 1302, but seriously, no 13th floor?

Can I please see a unit on level 13?

I scoff, but the fact is I’m superstitious myself. This trait usually manifests in my reluctance to mention something I either hope or fear will happen. Who knows, maybe my stating a preference out loud will bring about the unwanted outcome. In certain situations, for example, you must never say the word “rain.” Shush, just don’t say it!

I’m not generally superstitious about numbers. I therefore find it funny in a painful sort of way that my 13th marathon ended up proving unlucky. It took place in 2009, which was about the worst year I’d ever had (um, maybe I shouldn’t have written that). I started the race on a fine March morning in Washington, DC, intent on demonstrating that my recent vague physical ailments meant nothing, absolutely nothing. My feet pounded the pavement, and wow, it pounded me back. Before long, I was ready to beg for mercy. I longed to quit. Heck, I wanted to die. I faced only one obstacle: I’d ridden to the race with a friend, who planned to watch the race from a few different points along the course, the first being around mile 18. I couldn’t think of any way to find him and tell him I wanted to go home other than running to mile 18. So I made it to mile 18 and there he was, and I informed him I felt horrible and wanted to quit. He seemed a little surprised but told me it was OK. And then I don’t know what happened. Maybe it was his incredulity that I was ready to drop out. Maybe it was marathon autopilot taking over. For whatever reason, I asked what was the next mile marker he could meet me at. He said mile 21. I said I’d see him at mile 21.

By mile 21, I figured I could walk to the finish and at least say I’d completed the race. But it would take a long time to walk 5 miles, a lot longer than it would take to run it, even if I ran slowly. More than anything, I wanted to end this ordeal. So I kept running. And yeah, I made it to the finish and got my medal, and later that day I went furniture shopping with my mom. She was searching for a new recliner.

So it doesn’t seem unlucky, but I blame that marathon for what happened in the following days. I noticed right away that my muscles felt more sore than usual. The Tuesday morning after the race, I went for a routine workout run and developed a shooting pain in my ankle. My first instinct was to run through it, but I changed my mind fast. Suddenly, I could barely even walk.

I went to see an orthopedic specialist, who put me in an ankle brace and ordered an MRI. Then he uttered those dreaded words: “stress fracture.” Or rather, he clarified, “stress reaction.” The upshot was no running for six to eight weeks. And then, as often seems to happen with injuries, the time dragged on. One injury led to another. I borrowed the word first brought up by my last orthopedic specialist the last time I got caught up in this cycle: “saga.” This time it was the Great Saga of Unlucky Marathon 13, or the Tragic Saga of the Unfortunate Year 2009, or something like that. At least I can always remember which marathon was number 13.

Earlier this year, after I finished marathon number 20, I started to lose count of how many marathons I’d run. Still, I can always figure it out by going back to number 13 and counting forward. When someone asked me this weekend how many I’ve done, I realized that the Richmond Marathon was number 25.

Wow, 25. Should I take myself out for a nice dinner? Maybe buy myself some jewelry? Or just be glad that any buildings tall enough to have a 26th floor usually have a 25th floor too?

Here’s to number 25.

Less Than

November 12, 2011, had to be one of the most beautiful days of autumn in Richmond, Virginia. I went out into blackness that smelt of winter, but by the time runners had gathered at the start of the marathon, the sun was there to touch them all with gold.

The predawn chill softened into crispness. The sunlight embraced us, but gently; trees with bronze-colored leaves tempered the glare. I would get so tired, so spent, and then the shadows would fall across me, the breeze would caress me, the river would gleam at me, and it felt like rest.

I noticed the banners advertising loft apartments. I saw the retro buildings of Richmond neighborhoods, and around mile 3, I mouthed a few lyrics of “Kryptonite” as a live band pounded their drum beat into our hearts and feet: “ ... with my superhuman might ...”

But all the time, I was falling into that void of darkness and pain. I wasn’t the same runner I was in Dublin. My ankles had been swollen for days. My head hurt. I couldn’t keep track of the doses of ibuprofen and daytime cold medicine I’d taken.

Mindfulness, I could hear my therapist saying. A marathon has a beginning, a middle, and an end. I called up my old stand-by words of encouragement: time does tend to pass. This is long, but finite.

I tuned in to conversations around me. Two women talking about a friend with a new baby. It was happy and sad. “I might always be baby hungry,” one of them confessed. But she was OK, she added. She was OK with not being at that place in her life. Was her acceptance a goal, a wish, or the truth? It melded with the pain. My feet kept rhythm with hers for a long time, until gradually we floated away from each other.

I saw the skyline of Richmond outlined in azure. I heard my friend call to me from the sidelines. “Moab, Moab!” she shouted. It was our code word. It penetrated finally, in time for me to look and wave. I managed a real smile. I might come alive again.

The thing here, I told myself, is to keep going. Keep moving. And pray.

I prayed without saying "Amen." I didn't want to hang up. I pled for a lifeline, and somehow it came. For a while the course that had seemed so difficult felt easier. I didn’t study the elevation map beforehand. When I needed a rest, it was there.

“I am crawling,” I thought. So, crawl to the finish. The thing here is to finish.

A cop at an intersection cheered us on. “You all look like you haven’t run more than two miles!” he lied.

There was a quote I’d been trying to get hold of. Something from President Hinckley, something about life being like an old-time rail journey, with lots of … with … keep moving, keep moving, keep moving … with … with …

The idea drifted through somewhere between words and impression. But there was one word I wanted; I knew it was in there.

Life is like an old-time rail journey, but sometimes … “thrilling.”

Mile 26. Thrilling, thrilling, thrilling. The course dropped steeply. I put on speed. I could see the finish line. I could see the finish clock. Down, down, down. My feet moved of their own accord.

Almost there, almost there, and then over the timing mats. Volunteers waited with their arms full of medals. I bent my head to let a girl hang a medal around my neck. The gold ribbon caught the orange flare of the trees along the street.

And I tried to remind myself how hard it had been. How the words of Pink had driven me: “Pretty, pretty please, don’t you ever, ever feel, that you’re less than …” I happened to hear her song on the radio when I was driving down to the expo. I never expected to be inspired by Pink. But it was like the Katy Perry song I heard on my way into Myrtle Beach: “Baby, you’re a firework, come on show them what you’re worth.” Right words at the right time.

I collected a Mylar blanket and managed, with my fingers clumsy from cold and exertion, to get it around myself. It felt like a royal robe. The leaves overhead crowned me.

I say I do all this for the T-shirts. I don’t know if that’s true. Maybe for the medals? I don’t know.

Mindfulness, my therapist says, is a suspension of judgment.

In a marathon, I am so vulnerable; I am aware of things I don’t ordinarily notice. I feel my own weakness, but also my strength. Is it the body or the spirit that ultimately pulls through?

Or do those elements suspend their war temporarily, and prove that they are both essential? The memory is there, in the blue of my Richmond Marathon T-shirt: “You almost stopped, but you didn’t stop.” The thing here is to finish, in order to have made the journey.

Weren’t You Wearing That the Last Time I Saw You?

Apparently my aforementioned fashion rut (see The Big Question) extends to marathon wear. Around mile 10 of the Richmond Marathon, a girl asked me, “Did you run the Charlottesville Marathon in March?” Well, actually it was in April, but yes, I did, and yes, I remembered talking to her. I could picture the steep hill in the Charlottesville Marathon course that we had confronted around the time we had a conversation about elevation change and how an elevation map just doesn’t give you the same impression as surging headlong into a climb.

How did she recognize me, though? I wouldn’t have noticed her in particular if she hadn’t spoken to me, and then I thought I remembered her voice and her headband. She must have remembered my bright blue shirt, my prize from the Moab Half-Marathon. Um, yeah, I wore the same shirt in Charlottesville. Usually I like to change things up, but OK, I like the blue shirt, and the pictures from the Charlottesville Marathon didn’t really do it justice. The print I ended up buying is pretty small, and I get to share the foreground with my running pal Elvis, which is cool and all, since Elvis made the last six (hilly) miles of the Charlottesville race way more fun than they would have been if I'd been running alone. But I wore the blue shirt again and hoped for, yes, I admit it, a photo with me, me, me in the center!

Maybe fashion ruts aren’t so bad, though. How else would I have been reunited with my old Charlottesville Marathon buddy-of-the-moment?

Boy with the Lime Green Earring

You know that country song by Travis Tritt, "Well, it's a long way to Richmond / Rollin' north on 95 / With a redhead ridin' shotgun / And a pistol by my side"? I always think of that when I'm driving on I-95, as I was last night to pick up my race number for the Richmond marathon. Of course, I was driving south, not north, and I didn't have a redhead or a pistol. But I'll tell you, it sure felt like a long, long way.

When I made it to the parking lot for the marathon expo, it was dark and raining, which always makes me feel lonely, and it was cold when I got out of the car and I thought I'd never find the way into the sports center, since I passed about four signs with arrows supposedly directing me to the expo entrance ...

And then, you know what? I was handed my race number by a teenage boy wearing a lime green earring. For some reason, that just made it all OK. :)