Running Hat

Almost two years ago I ran my first ever 5K race, at age 42.  I’ve written before about how and why I began running, so I’ll only give the short version here.  My daughter began running cross country for her junior high team, and I found myself moved to tears at each meet by these young runners as I watched them push themselves at a sport that was at once both team-oriented and highly individualized.  At the same time, I desperately needed to find some kind of physical activity to get my mind and body in shape as I dealt with the increasing stress of caring for a husband with early-onset Alzheimer’s.  So after 42 years of not being an athlete, of never playing an organized sport, I decided to see if I could become a runner. 

          

It has not been an easy transformation.  Although I loved running sprints in PE classes, I am not naturally a distance runner.  Those early runs were so horrible, I almost gave up.  However, I persevered, and it soon became clear that, besides good running shoes, I needed appropriate clothing for this new endeavor.  Now, I don’t know about you, but I am all for any activity which requires the purchase of some new outfits.  I got some cheap running tights and capris and polyester/spandex T-shirts that wicked away sweat (of which there was a disturbingly copious amount), exercise bras, and cushioned running socks.  I wear glasses and I quickly realized that I needed something to block the glare of the sun.  Feeling that I would rather shade my eyes with a brim than with sunglasses, I looked around for a suitable hat.  I finally found the perfect hat, at my local Goodwill store.  After our first (and hopefully only) bout with head lice this past year (thanks, junior high children!), I’m not sure I would ever again purchase a secondhand hat, but I bought one that day, a hat that looked like it had never even been worn.  The thing about it that appealed to me, besides the light, nylon fabric and extra-long brim, was the logo:  Kauai Marathon 2009. 

           

A marathon in Hawaii.  I would never be a marathon runner, I told myself.  Those people are crazy.  On my very first run, I barely made it a quarter mile before I had to stop and walk.  26.2 miles?  No way.  And traveling to Hawaii was also not in my immediate future, for a whole slew of reasons.  Still, the hat called to something in me, and so I bought it.  I wore it frequently that first year of learning how to run.  It made me feel legit.  I felt a little guilty wearing it, like I might be giving onlookers a false and inflated impression of my capabilities, but I wore it anyway.  When I wore it, I felt…possibility.  Maybe—maybe—someday I could be the kind of person who traveled to Hawaii to run in a marathon. Maybe I could reinvent myself, after 42 years, into a stronger, pared-down version of the person I had become.  Maybe my life would not always be as difficult as it was at that moment in time.  Running was definitely teaching me things about myself:  how to persevere at something I wasn’t naturally good at, how connected mind and body are to each other, how to be more disciplined.  The hat was a tangible symbol of that learning and of that potential for more.

        

The hat not only represented what I could (maybe, possibly, someday) be, it also felt like my own personal cheerleader (think a peppier, more encouraging version of the Sorting Hat in Harry Potter).  I thought of the person to whom the hat had previously belonged, of all the people at the 2009 Kauai Marathon who must have been given or purchased such hats.  There was a whole community of people out there waiting for me to find them, running people.  Even though I was (and am still) a solo runner most of the time, I could feel them out there, the other runners.  One of the things that drew me into running, during those weeks spent watching junior high kids running their hearts out at cross country meets, was the way runners and fans supported all those who ran, from the fastest to the slowest and everyone in between.  Whether I consciously knew it or not, I wanted that—I needed it.  Caregiving is lonely and scary and sad, and running provided me with a membership into a network of people who, though competitive, know how to lift each other up.

So.  This hat has protected my eyes from bright sun, shielded my glasses from falling rain, and carried me through the past two-plus years of my running education.  It reminds me that whatever is now, whatever I am at this moment, is not the end of the story.  That there is always more—maybe 26.2 miles more—waiting for me to discover and to do.  Some of it, possibly, in Hawaii.

Ten Things You See at a Junior High Cross Country Meet

1.  Dogs

I’m not sure why, but there are always dogs on leashes at cross country meets.  Is it because it’s outdoors?  Possibly.  But, then, why don’t you see dogs at football games or soccer games?  I don’t know.  But someone always brings a dog.  I am not opposed to this, as long as the dog in question is well-behaved.  Getting to pet the dogs of total strangers is one of the many perks of attending a cross country meet.

2.  A group of little kids chasing each other

Their big brothers/sisters/cousins are running at the meet.  They don’t care.  They don’t particularly want to be there.  They are bored.  There are broad, open, grassy spaces.  So they chase each other and laugh and fall down and get grass-stained knees.  They pick up handfuls of mown grass and throw it at each other and laugh like maniacs.  At the end of the meet they are convinced that they have just experienced the best outdoor playdate ever.

3.  Boys trying to hit each other with sticks

What is it with boys and sticks?  Where do they even find sticks on a flat, grass course?  Who knows, but find them they do.  First, they just swing the sticks around aimlessly.  Parents warn them to “be careful with that stick!”  They ignore said parents, who then resume their conversations with other adults.  Aimless stick-swinging evolves into swordplay accompanied by kung-fu-like kicking.  Another level of parental warning occurs.  This delightful game ends with one child in tears while another protests, “But I didn’t mean to hit Joey in the eye!”

4.  A kid messing with the flags/rope that edge the course

There is a lot of waiting in a cross country race—at least it seems like a lot if you are five.  You have to stand around next to this rope waiting for something to happen.  If you’re lucky, there are colorful plastic flags attached to the rope.  Lean on the rope—it holds you up!  Continue leaning until the pressure of your body starts to pull the stakes, to which the rope is attached, out of the ground.  A parent tells you to “let go of that rope.”  Comply, until parent looks away and starts talking to his/her neighbor.  Repeat process until the stakes are pulled free or until you are removed from the scene, whichever comes first.

5.  A toddler trying to escape from its minder and bowlegged-sprint onto the course

Everyone is running!  Running is fun!  Especially when you have just learned how to do it!  The moment that no one is holding her is the moment a toddler decides to scoot her drunkenly-staggering but amazingly speedy little body out onto the course.  The parent dodges under/over the rope and grabs the escapee, who howls in protest.  Eventually tiring of trying to contain a tiny Tasmanian-devil-like tornado of fury, the adult sets down the child, who gleefully makes another run for it.

6.  Runners of every shape and size

Junior high kids come in an astounding array of sizes and shapes, from the most petite sixth grader to the eighth-grader who looks like he’s ready for the NBA tryouts.  The unique nature of this sport, in which you compete against yourself as much as you compete against others, and in which you are both an individual and part of a team, and in which everyone—coaches, fans, and your teammates—seems united in encouraging you, means that it attracts both naturally talented runners and kids who wouldn’t otherwise be athletes.  This is amazing and wonderful.  Everyone is welcome, as long as you are trying.  If only all of life were the same.

7.  Someone crying

Running is a surprisingly emotional sport.  Runners cry from pain or exhaustion or elation.  Parents get weepy at the sometimes Herculean efforts being made by these young people who are testing the boundaries of their endurance.  

8.  Fans and runners cheering on runners from other schools

There is a parent (or maybe she’s a coach, I really don’t know) from Edison Middle School who I’ve seen at several meets.  She claps for and cheers on every runner who passes by her.  She eyeballs their uniform and then yells out encouragement:  “Keep it up, Mahomet!”  “Good job, Unity!”  At the last meet of the season, I witnessed a thin boy in a Knights uniform with a wrapped ankle doing the same:  “Keep your pace, you’ve got plenty of time!”  “If you want that medal, you’re going to have to sprint for it—you can do it!”  I can literally count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen a parent yell in a nasty way, and then it was at their own child (not that that makes it OK).  Yes, people encourage their kids to “Catch her!  Pass him up!” but we clap and cheer in admiration for the first runner through, whether they’re ours or not, and for the last runners who are breathlessly straggling in.  It’s competitive, but good sportsmanship reigns.

9.  Two runners who suddenly decide within the last stretch that they are not going to let the other one beat them

This can happen with the leaders, but it also happens with kids in the middle of the pack and even with those trailing towards the end.  They see the finish line and that competitive drive kicks in, and they BRING.  IT.  Those are some of the best moments, even when—or maybe especially when—the winning of the race is not on the line.  

10. Kids trying their hardest and pushing themselves to their limits

This is why I am often the crying person from number 7 (see above).  It is powerful, it is moving to see eleven-, twelve-, and thirteen-year-olds with their junior high bodies, and all the insecurities and confidence issues that go along with that stage, pushing themselves mentally and physically.  It is a beautiful and humbling thing to witness the determination and struggle written across their faces as they propel themselves towards the finish line with every ounce of their heart and soul, with every muscle.  There is something primal and deep about running as hard as you can possibly run that speaks to the cores of those of us watching.  It’s hard not to see a metaphor, sharp and poignant and breath-taking, in the image of an adolescent running full tilt towards her future with everything she’s got.

Hump-Day Haiku: Scarlet Macaws

Inspired by the "Jungle Animal Hospital" episode of the PBS show, Nature:

Scarlet macaws sail
Bright wings snap like flags unfurled
Streamer tails ripple

Watch the episode here: http://www.pbs.org/wnet/nature/jungle-animal-hospital-scarlet-macaws-released-wild/14294/

 

I'm (Not) in Control

True confession time:  I have never been drunk.  I have never taken a drug that wasn’t over-the-counter or prescribed by a doctor.  (Unless you count dark chocolate and the occasional Starbucks Mocha Frappucino—I do appreciate a good caffeine jolt now and again.  Anyone else think they can actually feel the exact moment when that mocha coffee goodness hits their bloodstream?  Just me?)

This is because I am a control FREAK.  I am not, however, a neat freak.  A visit to my house on any given day will confirm this.  While I’m confessing, we have had carpeting in our living room for thirteen years.  I have never shampooed or steam-cleaned it.  I know, I know, it’s disgusting.  My approach to housecleaning is basically a denial that it needs to take place.

But I hate to be out of control.  It’s scary.  It’s unpredictable.  And even though I consider myself creative and fairly spontaneous, I also love routine and predictability.  When I am able to eat lunch at home, I eat the same thing day after day (a quesadilla with refried beans, spinach, and cheese and a side of plain Greek yogurt, preferably served with an iced tea, in case you were wondering.  It’s easy to fix, I really like it—why change?)

Well, news flash to self—I am NOT in control, not now, not ever.  There is nothing like the potent combination of a husband with a progressive, incurable disease, a teenager, and a job search that continually hits dead ends to make me painfully aware of this.

Ironically, I gave a lovely and earnest speech at my high school graduation about control.  I said, in my seventeen years of wisdom and pretty much zero years of actual life experience, that even if we didn’t have control over everything in our lives we did have control over our responses to the things that happened to us.  OK, I’m actually a little proud of young me for having such a mature outlook, but it’s one thing to say this at seventeen and another thing entirely to do it when you’re forty-three and taking much too seriously your Facebook friend’s question, “If you could run away, where would you go?” because, honestly, you can think of lots of places you’d rather be than in your bathroom cleaning up the pee on the floor again and you’re in a hurry (again) because you can’t freaking REMEMBER that daily life now means allotting extra time in your routine to clean up pee or [insert activity related to caregiving here].

So, lack of control.  It sucks.  I’m American and I’m a feminist.  I like to be independent.  Not being in control often translates into (ARGH) relying on other people to help you.  I am beyond grateful that there are people I can call upon to mow my lawn when my mower is broken, fix lunch for my husband and make sure he’s OK during the day, take my kid to or from some school event, etc., etc.  But I don’t LIKE having to ask for help.  And I’m embarrassed for people to see my messy house and my messy life.

But here’s the thing.  I’ve been on the giving end of the help spectrum and it feels amazing to be able to step in for someone when they need a hand.  I like that feeling.  But I’ve come to think that it’s equally important to, at least sometimes, be on the other side of that equation.  Accepting help gracefully means being humble and feeling grateful.  It chafes, but those are skills I need to practice.  And other people appreciate getting to be the hero, too. 

It reminds me of church work.  For a long time, I did a lot of work on multiple church committees.  I tried not to ask too much of other people.  I just tried to take care of everything on my own as much as possible.  I told myself that I was sparing other people the work but really it was about (Surprise!) me getting to have more control over the activities so they could happen the way I wanted them to happen.  I can’t do that now, and guess what?  People step up when they have to.  Things get done without me being in charge all the time.  Letting other people share the burden prevents you from burning out to a hollow shell of a person who mutters resentfully about others’ lack of involvement while simultaneously patting yourself on the back for your own achievement.  Not that I speak from experience.  Yes, I have been that person, and I’m not proud of her.  She is the opposite of humble, plus, she’s super crabby.  Not fun.

Did you ever do that “getting to know you” activity in school or scouts or camp where everyone sits in a circle and passes a ball of yarn around until you have a big messy web?  And the message is that we are all connected?  It’s true.  We are.  And I think we work best when we take turns being in control—or at least as in control as we human beings are able to be.

I could do a whole, other post about control and God and us and how I think that all works.  Short answer:  I have no clue, honestly.  I believe that God is somehow ultimately in control and we’re not, but I don’t understand how or why things happen the way they do if that’s true.  I have trust in God but, really, a little more clarity would be helpful.  (Hint, hint, God.)

If you're my age, you're probably feeling an urge to go watch some Janet Jackson videos after all this talk of control, so I won't keep you any longer.  I guess I'm not sure what the takeaway is today, friends, other than to say that I’m learning how to accept my lack of control over my life.  It’s a process and a work in progress.  I’m learning.

Hump-Day Haiku

Baby corn plants spring

Up, hover with small, green wings

Above fresh-turned earth.

A Good Night's Sleep

Your specifics may be different, but perhaps some of you can relate…

Last night:

Between midnight and 1:00 a.m.:  After spending too long looking at Pinterest, head to bed.

Between 1:00 a.m. and 2:00 a.m.:  Quit reading book review book, turn out light, and go to sleep.

Approximately 2:50 a.m.:  Become aware that there is some sort of repetitive, scuffling noise in the hallway. Investigate.  Rosie (one of our cats), is engaged in what appears to be a hunting mission involving some small, unseen creature who is apparently behind or beneath an unsteady stack of file folders, pocket folders, binders, and notebook paper that has been sitting ”temporarily” on a cart in the hallway for the last thirteen years.  Blinking owlishly at overhead light, stand in hallway for several minutes debating what to do.  Try to flush out the critter?  (Probably a mouse—probably, in fact, the source of a rustling that I heard in a nearby closet earlier in the day and which I tried to convince myself was just the floor creaking as I stepped on it.)  Arm myself with a flashlight, proper shoes (the thought of a mouse running across my bare toes is too horrible to imagine), and a broom?  Ignore the whole spectacle and return to bed, hoping that it will all go away?

3:00 a.m.:  Ignore it is.  Return to bed, latching door for good measure.  Que sera, sera.  Comfort self that at least any rodent bloodshed will occur out of sight and earshot.  Hopefully.

3:15 a.m.:  Sniffly, germ-laden child materializes in disconcerting way beside bed and informs me that she can’t sleep and in fact has not really been asleep AT ALL in the several hours since I left her.   Ply her with snacks and allow her to get into bed with me.  Cats, who have been shut out of bedroom due to vermin situation, now eagerly converge onto the bed, pinning our splayed limbs in various uncomfortable positions.  Tippy in particular makes it clear, through repeated and imploring vocalizations, that his exile from the bedroom has been most unwelcome.  Push Tippy off the bed.

3:30 a.m.:  Drifting off into a pleasantly anxiety-free slumber, am awakened once more by child announcing that she has decided to return to her own bed.   Agree that this is best and roll over, enjoying the luxurious feeling of now having plenty of leg room.  Two cats fall to the floor in the process.

3:45 a.m.:   Finally get to sleep.

4:38 a.m.:  Awake to puzzling silence to discover that power has gone off, thus rendering both white noise machine and alarm clock ineffective.  Muttering incoherently, get up and scrabble for flashlight, knocking an empty sticky roller to the floor with an echoing clatter.  Step on empty sticky roller.   Find flashlight, turn it on, stumble out to living room to retrieve phone in order to not be late for work in the morning.  Wait.  It IS morning.  Sigh loudly.  Phone light flashes annoyingly.  Shove phone halfway under pillow.

4:45 a.m.:  Power returns.  White noise machine whirs to life.  Now clock blinks annoyingly.  Reset clock and alarm.  Use light from phone to make sure that clock is being set to “a.m.” and not “p.m.”  Shove phone back under pillow.  Go.  To.  Sleep.

7:15 a.m.:  Alarm goes off.  Rise and shine!