Living Lessons

I'm a goal person.  Single-minded when it comes to accomplishing something I set my sights on.  Self-serving and selfish, really.  When I buckled down and decided to finish school and sit for my exam -- well, my kids only saw the back of my head for months as I poured through books, studied online, ran out the door, just one more time, to pull another  marathon 'well woman' clinic day.  I got tired of hearing myself say, "Just one second.  I'm almost done with this question."  I told all my boys we were taking time off sports and extracurriculars -- there wasn't time for their interests and mine.  I remember amid that chaos, when I decided to take a weekend off, one of my boys baked a cake in celebration.  

For what it's worth, my boys seem to have not acquired this trait of mine.  Perhaps it's best they haven't.  I can't imagine a house where everyone (or even more than one) is focused to the point of exclusion and delay.  We'd never eat dinner, I guess.  We'd all be hunched over whatever the object of the day was ignoring each other and perseverating.  
  
And so it is with this in mind that I'm happy to announce the come-full-circle, cross-the-finish-line moment of my latest running odyssey:  The 50K.   

Every run -- training or race -- is chock full of lessons for me.  I think that's why I love being out there...my body is busy enough and my mind is quiet enough that I can see, hear, experience the lesson life lays out before me.  And almost without fail, what my MIND tells me the lesson will be before I start -- well, it hardly ever ends up being the lesson.  My mind does not know all apparently.  It is not a crystal ball.  

So this run, it didn't disappoint.  Lessons were everywhere.  

I think I asked no fewer than five people if they had any interest in running part of the race with me.  I'm NOT that way.  I'm a lone runner.  I don't run with people for a reason:  I like quiet.  So for me to ask was odd.  For me to find NOT ONE PERSON available or willing?  Well, it seemed harsh.  I've always had boys at the end of a race or people I knew in the race or something to keep me tethered.  This race had none of those things.  It was far from home.  I was anonymous.  And alone.  More alone than I was thinking I'd like or could stand.  50K...that's a long time to be by oneself.  Even for me. 

I stayed with a friend the night before the race, and as I was walking out the door that morning I was expressing my fear about being alone with my thoughts all day.  Her response?  "You're going to be running 31 miles.  I'd think your only thought will be, 'Please, don't let me die.'"  I had to laugh.  

And so I left the house, traveled to the race, believing my lesson would be how to endure 50K alone.  How to endure my mind for hours and survive.  How to travel 31 miles, up hills and down, and not quit -- in spite of wanting to.  And doing it all alone.  A lesson in meditation, solitude, aloneness.  

But as luck would have it, or maybe because the Universe is Kinder than I expect, I wasn't alone.  And at times -- hey, lady in the bright orange shorts, I'm talking to you! -- there just wasn't ENOUGH quiet.  

Races can mess with my head.  I've said this before.  And I'll say it again.  It is like a high school reunion or one of those alumni magazines where people parade their accomplishments and greatness.  Running is no different.  I purposely showed up just in time to grab my number, trying to avoid those horrible conversations.  But, alas, I couldn't avoid them altogether.  I heard people all around me -- men and women -- comparing previous race results, listing races they'd run in, speaking casually in pseudo-humility about their challenging training schedules or their rugged racing line-ups.  It's enough to make you want to vomit really.  Trust me.  

But it gives me a priceless opportunity to refine and fine-tune my focus and my mindset.  You see, I'm just there for me.  To be.  To be in the minute.  To put minutes together to make hours.  To put steps together to make miles (or kilometers in this case).  I'm not there for glory or greatness or cash or prizes.  And so these minutes, enduring people's egos and grandiosity, it gives me a moment to re-group.  To remind me to be right-sized and right-minded.  

I have to pare down all the arguments in my head about my lack of...lack of training, lack of experience, lack of endurance.  I have to carve away the weight of your greatness, because I'm only strong enough to carry me, my body, my doubts, my mind across the miles (or kilometers in this case).  I don't have enough nutrition or hydration, strength training, or mental fortitude to carry the onus of your accomplishments along for my day.  

In the first few miles, as all the runners filed through the singletrack, overhearing people's nauseating conversations was unavoidable.  I wished desperately for loud music and earbuds to drown out the lunacy.  I couldn't decide if I should fall back or push harder to get away from all the talking.  And yet, as Universal Kindness Rules, the talkers disappeared.  And what was left behind was just a lone woman.  A lone, quiet woman.  And she wasn't me.  

We introduced ourselves somewhere before the 4-mile mark (or 6.4-kilometer mark in this case).  I asked her up front how long it would take her to complete the race.  Her response?  She had NO IDEA.  She was just out to have a good day, have some quiet time, do some running.

Sole-mate.

I learned a fair bit about her over the miles.  We jockeyed back and forth, sometimes even moving along together.  Other times, one of us ran ahead while the other fell back.  She was casual.  Humble.  Quiet.  We ran along with each other for miles (or kilometers in this case) hardly saying anything.  She was graceful and rugged and common-sensical.  She barreled through water-crossings -- knee-high, frigid water-crossings -- without batting an eyelash.  She hiked up hills with incredible speed.  She jogged along, sipping water, eating salt tablets.  

We separated for good around the 20-something mile mark (yes, or the 32-something kilometer mark in this case).  And while I ran along this thought occurred to me:  The Universe is Kind.  If I'd had my pre-arranged running mates, I'd have missed this angel on the trail.  I had to have the missing to have the finding.  And so it is...and is often...the thing that looks like loss is actually the open space for gain.  The thing that looks like emptiness is really full of living...overflowing life.

Life is good.

And PS...if you are a blogger and you leave an unpublished post on your desktop on Valentine's Day, you might find this from one of the loves of your life:

mom, i love you no matter what. thank you for being my mom.

I say again...Life. Is. Good.