running new orleans

One of my favorite ways to see new city is to run it. Running takes you further than walking does. The terrain gives you a feel for the city - how dirty or broken the sidewalks are, the hills or lack of them, the kinds of trees and flowers that grow there. I'm usually doing it when the sun's still rising, which means that streets aren't too crowded - and, just like with people, watching it wake up can tell you a lot about a place.

I got two morning runs in during a quick trip to New Orleans this week. New Orleans is a complex town, both rick in its celebration - food, partying, colors - and disturbing in its desperation - age, disrepair, neglect. I took some photos during my running tours, below. There's a lot that these photos don't capture - the French street names and how they were marked in tile letters on street corners; the strip clubs next to the coffee shops and breakfast joints; the faces of tired men walking to the bus stop for work; the blankets covering people who had slept on streets. But I think they show some of its beauty, some bestowed and other hard-won.

The first day, I found a bit of a path along the Mississippi, then ran through the French Quarter and a sketchy neighborhood, then back to Canal Street, a main thoroughfare (where I had plotted a coffee stop at the end of my run). The second day, I wanted to make it over to the Garden District. On my way, I found myself on Magazine Street (boutiques! cafes!) completely by accident, then saw a coffee shop I'd heard about. I might have had a donut and coffee in the middle of my run. It felt like the right thing to do in a place like New Orleans.

Day 1:

Morning, Mississppi!

Sky and water

French Quarter

Louis Armstrong Park

Day 2:

Sunrise over the Mississippi

Shops on Magazine Street

Lower Garden District (I think?)

Coffee stop!

morning run

My morning runs are dark again, thanks to the time change. I used to hate running in the dark - it just made everything feel a little more tricky and a lot more lonely. But now I like how still the darkness feels. Only a few cars are on the streets and only a few people walk the mostly-empty sidewalks.

This morning, I chose a route that took me into a nice neighborhood, then down a hill that's lined with dirt and trees. That's the closest to nature I can get in a 5 mile loop in my neighborhood. A bunny rabbit hopped out of the trees just ahead of me, then made a mad dash across the street and back into the woods.

At an intersection a mile away from my apartment - closer to city blocks and traffic lights - I stopped and hit the walk button, then waited, hands on waist, breathing heavy. A man I had just passed as he walked by the trash can and bench at the corner came up behind me and said, "I thought you'd stopped running, I never see you out here any more!" His face was all smile. I explained that I moved a while back and don't run over this way as much as I used to. He laughed and said he was glad to know I'm still running as he turned the corner to keep walking up the street. Then he turned around and said, "I'm Jerry, by the way."

I told him my name and smiled back. A few seconds later, my light turned green and I ran across the street. It was still dark and quiet for my last mile, but also a little brighter after meeting Jerry.

a little bit homeless (if there is such a thing)

I've got the routine down now, so that when my fellow runners ask me, "Do you shower at work?" I know how to answer them. The question comes up every time I tell another non-res member (i.e. not a resident in a transitional living facility, i.e. not a person who is homeless) that my office isn't too far from skid row, and that I go straight to work after our early morning runs. They usually relate stories of cleaning up somewhere after a run, using baby wipes or something. One person said something about febreeze, but I think she was being facetious. I couldn't tell.

So here it is: after I stop for coffee, I pull into my parking garage, park my car, and gather all of my things: purse, food bag (breakfast and lunch), getting ready bag (deoderant, change of undergarments, shoes, makeup, etc.), and my clothes on a hanger. I take the elevator to my floor and walk fast to the bathroom, hoping that nobody sees me in running clothes and quickly-caking sweat. I open the door to the bathroom and find it empty, since only a few colleagues are crazy enough to start work at this hour (about 6:45am). I unpack my getting ready bag, plug my curling iron in, and get to it. Washing my face, rinsing my whole body, putting on clean clothes, blow-drying the sweat out of my hair (gross, I know), putting on lotion and makeup, then putting the finishing touches on my hair (usually hair up, bangs fixed with the curling iron).

The routine doesn't end there. I lug all my stuff to my office, and hang my washcloth and sweat-soaked sports bra (yes, it's only 3 miles we run, but I sweat a lot, ok?) on the hook on the back of my office door to dry during the day. The first week I laid them out on my back counter, hoping nobody would look carefully enough to see what was back there. But my boss did, and tactfully suggested the hook idea. Unfortunately, I hadn't planned ahead for the days when someone might come in and close my door, thereby seeing my dirty washcloth and sports bra. The first time this happened, my coworker and I were interviewing a candidate for an open position. I tried to laugh it off, but my cheeks turned red. The second time it was two male coworkers who came into my office with a question, and before I even knew what was happening, they closed the door behind them. Their eyes moved together from the washcloth and sports bra to me, puzzled. Then, as if one queue, we all burst out into laughter. I tried to explain, but they shook their heads like they didn't want to hear it. "Do you live here, Betsy?" one said through his laughter.

The irony isn't lost on me: for that one morning every week, after running with some homeless guys around downtown, I feel a little bit homeless. But I am not. I laugh with my coworkers, pack my bags at the end of the day, and throw the wash cloth and sports bra in my wash basket at home. 

places you will not go

After a Back on My Feet run from Skid Row to the Water and Power Building, where we watched the sun rise over Los Angeles. A quick prose-poem of sorts.

Are there places you will not go? Maybe they are places you believe to be off limits to you. Where your type of person doesn't go. So far you wouldn't even know the way.

And so you don't even think about how much you really want to go, you don't bother to wonder whether the sunrise looks different from there or if the breeze is a little cooler, the stars a little brighter. You have never felt the urge to climb the steps that lead there because you question if your legs could carry you the whole way. You don't want to brave feeling alone or out of place, you are afraid of needing to run out, and fast.

But what is the alternative, the overcrowded streets you live along now, where your home is as small and flimsy as a cardboard box?

picking up the pace in the second half

I had been running for a few years before I paid any attention to things like "progressive runs" or "negative splits." These training objectives are based on the idea that finishing faster than you started improves your fitness. So with each mile, you run a little faster. Sometimes the goal can be even simpler: just run the second half of your route faster than the first half.

I don't do these kinds of runs often, because, like I've said before, I'm stronger at starting than finishing. This is true in running, and it's true in a lot of other areas of my life. I start fast and strong but then lose energy and focus, and poop out.

BUT! I am on a quest to change this, in running and in life. Today marks the halfway point of 2014. The first half of my year has been pretty good. There are a few areas of life that I'm trying to focus on, and in a few there has been noticeable movement forward (including in writing!). So I'm not really trying to make up for things I've ignored during these first six months. I just want to finish strong, with my purpose in mind.

When I do the "second half faster than the first half" style of progressive run, I usually plan an out-and-back route. So I'm imagining myself doing the little turn around and picking up the pace. It might hurt a little during this second half, but the pain is what tells me something is happening.

Happy half of 2014!

it doesn't count unless you finish

"It doesn't count unless you finish."

I said this to F. while we ran together this morning. The ocean quietly rocked forward and back to our right, and the sun, already done with its own version of warming up, was bright and hot on our backs. We were in the first mile of our 10K race and I was huffing a bit too hard between getting thoughts out. I might need to back off in the second half, I told him. I start strong and fade, this is my problem. We talked about finishing well and how hard it is. In this race, crossing the finish line was the only way the run would count for anything.

I was thinking about running, but I was also thinking about writing. Honestly, the decision to write a blog post every day this month was a spur of the moment decision, and I had plenty of my typical "oh crap what did I get myself into" moments. But with the exception of three days without posts (were you counting?), I finished. And I feel like I finished strong. 

I thought about making a list of the stats from this month: number of words, number of posts, number of page views. But that's not what's important to me. Instead, a short list of things that happened as a result of writing every day this month.

I noticed that my posts can be grouped into a few categories, and writing each type gave me a feel for which I like best, which were the most fun, and some of the things I'd like to work on. Your comments (online and off) gave me a feel for where things were hitting (so thank you).

I actually had something to write about every day. Sometimes I thought of ideas during morning runs or on the drive to work, and other times I just started typing and something formed. This last kind of situation is important practice for me because so often I want to come with clearly formed thoughts and ideas to convey, and that deters me from just starting.

I also made time and energy to write every day, even during a time when work is busy (and taking a fair amount of brain space), while traveling, and while staying fairly busy this month.

Some friends found out about my blog because it was part of my daily routine - they saw me doing it, or I told them about needing to make time for it.

I came up with some new material to explore for publishing. And I realized that I really do want to explore publishing, and that I think I could do it.

Posting quickly and without much editing (and overthinking) helped me to gain both confidence and humility. I'm ok with where I'm at, which is both skilled/practiced and needing practice and feedback.

*   *   *

F. and I reached the end of the bike path in Malibu, touched the bench, and turned around to run back the way we came. Soon after the halfway mark, F. got distracted by water fountains and some other women he wanted to talk to (he is easily distracted, this one). At that point, T. was with us as well, about as quiet and calm and F. is chatty and bouncy. T. and I got into a good rhythm, quiet and steady, checking in with each other every once in a while. I stopped at one point to look for F. but realized he wasn't looking to catch us, so I turned around and kept moving forward. 

T. pulled slightly ahead of me to cross the finish a few steps before. When I crossed, I got some high fives and my finishing number, then looked for some water. 

It felt good to finish and know that it counted.

celebrating five years of running with four hours of torture

Two months ago I completed a marathon. The idea of running the 2014 LA Marathon had been in the back of my mind for over a year, because it would be a way of celebrating five years of running. So in the after glow of my fall half, I signed up.

There were about 4 months between the time I signed up and race day. In that time, I moved to my own apartment, took two and a half weeks off because of an injury, traveled to Seattle for a writers conference, and got ready to host my sister and her family in my new place (they arrived just days before the race; my brother-in-law ran it with me). I also logged around 300 miles (I think??? though that number should have been higher), including both 18 and 20 milers. Those days were pretty great because, aside from spending three hours running, I had the rest of the day to justify every lazy or indulgent desire with, "heck yeah I'm gonna do that, i just ran 20 miles." Mostly that meant eating popcorn and drinking alcohol.

So, race day. Was crazy and awesome and a little disappointing all at the same time. I knew not to expect to hit my original goal time (sub 4:15) because there were so many variables, including the fact that my injury had taken me out during a crucial time in training. I also woke up at 1am the morning of the race trying to figure out what time I really needed to get up. I'd set my alarm for 2:30 (we needed to leave at 3am) but then realized that because it was daylight savings time THERE WAS NO 2:30. Trippy. And only 4 hours of sleep. On my couch. After hearing my nephew barf the night before.

Even if you're not a runner, you probably know that while a marathon requires physical training and endurance, it's equally a mental challenge. That was definitely the case for me. Here's what I remember thinking at each mile:

Mile 1: I saw Ben! Hi Ben! And wow, there are so many people running.

Mile 2: Get out of my way! Oh and there's Mandi! But she doesn't see me! MANDI! (didn't see me.)

Mile 3: Running downtown is fun when there are no cars. But so many people...

Mile 4: I'm tired already.

Mile 5: There are still people in my way!

Mile 6: I hope my 10K time is good because people who are tracking my progress are getting a text right now.

Mile 7: Echo Park is so cool.

Mile 8: I can't wait to cross mile 10.

Mile 9: Am I at mile 10 yet?

Mile 10: Omg there's Lori and Andrew and Natalie! (My sister and her kids, didn't expect to see them here.) I almost start crying because I'm happy and scared and exhilarated.

Mile 11: What does the fox say? I hope this song isn't stuck in my head the rest of the race.

Mile 12: Hollywood is so weird.

Mile 13: I wonder what my half marathon time is? Again, people are tracking. And where's Judy? I need to see Judy!

Mile 14: There's Judy! I need to pee. (Stopped to use porta-potty, which, with the line, took about 6 minutes!)

Mile 15: Downhill, yay! And holy crap, why is the sun out?

Mile 16: I can't believe I still have 10 miles. It's getting really hot.

Miles 17-18: A blur.

Mile 19: I'm so hot. Where's Mirna? I need that gatorade. Mirna, Mirna, Mirna... There's Mirna! Also, I'm really tired of injesting sugar (gatorade, shotblocks).

Mile 20: I swear I see mirages. Long, hot, unshady stretch.

Mile 21: Holy crap.

Mile 22: This is how I felt:

Mile 23: Cramping, running under hoses that spectators are holding out for us, I don't know how I'm gonna finish this thing.

Mile 24: I stop to walk next to an older gentleman who starts encouraging me. But then he won't stop. Decide to start running again so I don't get stuck with this guy.

Mile 25: I don't know if I will ever run again.

Mile 26: Who decided to add that freakin .2 to this race?

Ten minutes after I finished: I want to do another one!

being better than we are

The past few Mondays I've been running with J. He's one of the homeless guys in my running group. J's always a few steps ahead of me, and I would run faster to keep up  with him but I can never be sure that the next traffic light will turn red in time for us to stop and get a breather. So instead I huff and puff just a little bit behind him and hope that we'll talk a little bit at those red traffic lights, and for the thirty seconds after we start again and I'm able to keep pace with him.

This arrangement, and the fact that J. is reserved, means that after a few times running with him, I am just getting to know about his life. This week we talked some about running, and how he ran track in high school, the 100 meters. "I could run fast then. Before I started smoking." He's tried to stop, he said, but stress makes it hard. I agreed - I have my own habits that are hard to kick.

My run this morning was solitary, in the quiet neighborhoods around the Rose Bowl. The sky gradually turned from black to gray to light blue. The air was cool. I heard birds singing, and occasionally passed some runners or walkers, but otherwise I was completely alone. I've been trying to pray during these morning runs, and this morning J. came to mind. I prayed for him and his job interviews and his smoking habit. During prayer, I found myself wanting J. to know that he can be better than he is, and not just in a pull-yourself-up kind of way, but in a deep, life-changing, spirit way. I wanted him to know that God changes things.

As a writer, I love revising pieces. I love seeing where sentences are out of place, or where words can be cut, and then seeing how those changes make the piece completely new, and stronger and more powerful. I think that's why, as I was praying for J., I started thinking of God's process in our lives as revision. A different thought - one from God - during stressful times could help J. kick that smoking habit in a decisive way. A new way of seeing himself and his life is a key to being better than he is.

***
I wanted to share this news spot from Indianapolis, about the local Back on My Feet chapter. One of the guys interviewed says that, before he started the program, he found himself "just doing the same thing." The program was an opportunity to get in on the revising that God wants to do in his life.

a spiritual lesson from my $4 cups of coffee

The new coffee shops that I like (and am slightly ashamed to like) are in LA’s up-and-coming Arts Districts, that strange little industrial area tucked behind Little Tokyo, east of downtown. Like most things hipster, the Arts District likes to be gritty yet new, hidden only to be found out. Sometimes when I need an afternoon pick me up, I go to the hipster places, because let’s face it, the hipsters know about a few things, including coffee. There, bearded men and women wearing messy buns right on top of their heads and bright red lipstick are waiting to charge me $4 for a cup of coffee, and I readily give it to them.

But this isn’t about coffee, it’s about how I get there. I have to drive, since it’s a little over a mile from my office. First I pass through the Financial District, with its tall buildings and fast-moving business people and lawyers. Then, briefly, the Jewelry District where bright signs sell bright wares. Then a sign for Gallery Row, an area where art galleries, artisan restaurants and lofts are giving old theater buildings their second chance at a spotlight. Things change fast, within a block or two. And here is where it changes most — only a block after Gallery Row there is trash littering streets, and makeshift housing, made of boxes and shopping carts and tents, dots the sidewalks just a few hundred feet from the luxury housing that young people are moving into. This is Skid Row, a city unto itself, its own culture and rules and geography. 

This drive to get coffee, this weekly passing through, is a large part of the reason I’m running with my new running group in Skid Row. Over the past year or two, every time I drive by, I’m reminded of a parable from the Bible about a rich man who ate good food and wore nice things. Right outside of where he lived, there was a poor, hungry man with sores all over his body. Later, after they both died, their situations seem to have flipped: the rich man is tormented while the poor man is beside Abraham, the Father of Israel (the implication is that the poor man has it pretty good if he’s next to Abraham). In his agony, the rich man calls out for mercy, but Abraham tells him that he’s already had his good things, and now there is a chasm between the rich and the poor in the afterlife, one that can’t be crossed. Their lots are fixed. 

Intense, I know. Like all of God’s Word, this story has layers to unpack. But one main point I think Jesus is getting at in sharing this parable is that right now, during this life, there isn’t an impossible chasm. Rich people can give to poor people, and vice versa. The story also says something about how and when we choose to seek comfort. It has a lot to say about our hearts. I'm still buying that hipster coffee on occasion, but I hope I'm also seeing things a little more clearly as I reflect on this passage, run with guys from URM and cross boundaries that aren't really there.

running with F

It was early dawn, the sun just beginning to lighten the day and bring people to the downtown streets. Where we had started in skid row, when it was still dark, there were always people on the streets. We had run about a mile or so out of skid row, through Little Tokyo and now to the city center. As we approached City Hall, we stopped and waited for the light to change so we could cross the street and run up the stairs. I stood next to F*, whom the rest of the group thanked during our morning huddle for planning this route.

F looks young and current, with a short beard, nice clothes and an easy smile. And he obviously ran on his own time, enough to scout out new routes for the group. So once we started talking, I asked him without really thinking much about the question, or what the answer might be, "Where do you live?"

"I've been living at Union Rescue Mission since December," F answered cheerfully, if with rehearsed directness.

I should have expected his response, because about half the people in our small running group* are living at URM, a large homeless shelter in L.A.'s skid row. I had just joined the group, intentionally made up of people who are working towards transitioning out of homelessness and people who have homes (and presumably living so-called normal, middle-class lives around Los Angeles). The point is to run together, and also to learn from each other.

It may seem like the people who are homeless are the ones with something to learn, but my surprise at F's answer made it clear that I have something to learn (if I didn't already know that going into this running group).

F graciously offered some more of his background before I had the chance to ask more questions, and in the course of our run together, he told me about living in the Bay Area and DC, and we shared our love for those cities and the difficulty of living on the opposite coast from where you grew up. He asked me about my job and seemed genuinely interested in what I did during the day. I asked about his timed mile at the last meeting and he told his time, which was somewhere under six minutes (in other words, fast). He taught me that homelessness can happen for all sorts of reasons and look all sorts of ways, including a young, good-looking guy who likes to run really fast around downtown LA in his free time.

*I joined a running group through Back On My Feet, in part to run, in part to learn, and in part to write stories, as much as is appropriate, about the people I meet. I hope I'll have more to share soon.

finishing

When it comes to running, training plans are great for me because they play to my rigid, perfectionist personality. Checking a run off the list makes me feel good about myself. (Whether it should or not is another blog post that I may never write.) They also keep me in check towards the end of things, when it's easy for me slack.

So months ahead, I looked for a training plan for this marathon. And then all of a sudden, the time for training snuck up on me. One Sunday night in July I realized that my training should start the next morning. Feeling the need to start on time with a plan, I picked one that was similar to the one I did last time - and had admitted didn't build the kind of fitness I needed to meet my sub-2 hour goal.

Then, two weeks later my sister and brother in law somehow convinced me to try their ambitious plan, which had started two weeks before mine had. Meaning they were on week four and easily running at least 10 more miles a week than I was at that point. The first two weeks adjusting to the higher mileage and amped up paces were pretty rough and it messed with my head.

By then it was August, and hot. And busy. And then there was Hawaii, and who wants to get up at 5:30am to get a long run in when you're on vacation at the beach? Not me. I ran once while I was there. And when I came back I couldn't find my motivation. It got buried somewhere between the sand in the bottom of my suitcase and the troubling fog of confusion and despondency that blurred the weeks after my trip. I tried to run, but I didn't like it much. I remember one morning heading out at 5:30 to run an 8 mile tempo run. A few miles in I realized the tempo part would probably not happen, and then I found myself cutting the run short at 5. I felt horrible, physically and mentally, and I knew I was in trouble.

At that point, with five weeks until the race, I made some changes. To make sure I enjoyed my runs, I stepped it down to four days a week and I moved my runs to the evenings, after it cooled off, instead of getting up to run in the dark mornings. I also made my own plan and created a simple purpose for each run: speed at the track, easy miles on tired legs, long hills (for the hilly race route), and long distance. My first track workout was encouraging, and the faded colors in the late summer sky during the runs that first week of the new plan reminded me that new, good things can spring up when we're headed into the dark. I remember mounting the last hill in a 9 mile hill run during that first week, my last two easy miles left to run, and I just had to stop - not because I was worn out but because the sky was too beautiful not too look for a while. It was the first time I'd felt truly grateful in a few weeks, and that feeling isn't one to pass up on.

All this to tell you that for perhaps the first time in my short span of life thus far, I finished something stronger than I started, and that without a plan prescribed by someone else. It was a lesson in knowing myself and finding what I needed. These last few weeks of running have been some of the best I've ever had, and they even led to a personal best for me in the half marathon. My goal was to enjoy it and finish - I had thrown out a time goal weeks earlier. But it turns out I ran the race in under 2 hours for the first time, and felt powerful (not good, mind you, but strong) the whole run.

listen, watch, read

It seems like every other conversation this week is about the government shutdown. When I logged into the New York Times website on Tuesday morning, the main scrolling photos featured services outside of the capitol that were impacted by the event. One showed a man standing outside the Liberty Bell, another of signs posted at Valley Forge state park turning visitors away. I heard one man on the radio talk about a trip to the Grand Canyon that had been 18 years in the making. He was waiting outside to see if he'd still get part of his vacation.

All of that makes me kinda sad and angry and like I want to scold those politicians for bickering with each other like children. I'm sure there are factors at play that I'm totally unaware of and probably unable to grasp, but still.

So, the bad news is that some of the beauty of our country is off limits for a little while and there are grown men (and women, I suppose?) acting like children. The good news is that there are still plenty of people doing wonderful and surprising things. So in case you got turned away from a museum or monument or park and are twiddling your thumbs or writing death notes to congress, here are a few alternatives for you.

1. listen
My favorite host on NPR's Morning Edition (a Lancaster, PA native!) interviewed a 12-year-old girl with some extraordinary musical talent. At the end of the interview, he gives her a scenario and she makes up a song for it. The tune comes to her so quickly, so naturally it's like a second language. She speaks in key strokes. It had me thinking about what second languages some others of us have - unique abilities that maybe aren't quite so lauded but are extraordinary nonetheless. Apparently it also had my nephew practicing extra hard for his first solo piano performance (he's in second grade).

2. watch
You may not consider comedians high culture, but watch this appearance by Louise C.K. He's onto something and I admire his honesty, and the way he can help us to listen to an uncomfortable truth through his humor. (I've also picked up my phone a lot less.)



3. read
And lastly, this quote from Isabel Wilkerson talking about her process of finding people with the stories that would eventually make up her book The Warmth of Other Suns. (What a great title, right?) I guess the reason it struck me as so beautiful is because I still try to outrun my mistakes, thinking I can somehow reverse them or make up for them. That's a lot of running. If any of you readers are distance runners, you know that the best part of the run is almost always that moment at the end when you can stop. That's what I imagine she's talking about here.

I wanted people who were beautifully imperfect. Perfection is not real, and readers cannot identify with people presented as perfect. I wanted to find people who were at peace with their mistakes and with the things they had done not particularly well. I wanted people who were willing to be who they really, truly were. Via here.

small graces

I woke up on Saturday morning afraid that that was faint light I saw trying to peek through the slats of my blinds. I turned over and opened my eyes just wide enough to read the time on my phone: 4:56. My alarm would go off just a little over an hour later so I could get out the door and to a new running group by 7am. Joining any new running group would give me a few jitters, but my intention was to find a story to write about in this group — an assignment that’s been causing me some worry because I’m afraid I won’t be able to pull it off — so I felt an added pressure to make this group count. When all I really wanted to do was do a long run by myself, on a course that was familiar and that I chose. So instead of falling back to sleep, I spent the next hour fitfully willing morning not to come. Not a good way to begin my weekend. Who starts a Saturday already stressed out?

But I was committed, if not for the writing assignment, then because I’d told my housemates I was going. And I hate not following through on things I say I’m going to do when other people know about it. About ten minutes before I needed to leave, I laced up my shoes and sat on the couch with my warm coffee and thought about my writing assignment. I asked God for a small grace, some easy way into the day that had already started off so rough internally. Outside the sun was bright and gentle, offering a new day to anyone who was ready for it.

At the group, I met a few people but ran alone, which in the end is what I prefer anyway. I didn’t find anyone who was quite my pace (story of my life, eh?). But listening to my own rhythmic breathing and the natural soundtrack that belonged to this new-to-me course was soothing. The first four miles was almost all uphill, and that felt right: a challenge, but one I could meet and that made me feel like I was working.

That small risk — and receiving God’s small graces — set the pace for my weekend. There were other things I didn’t want to face, but like morning, came whether I was ready or not. I guess I could choose to stay in my room with the blinds shut, but I’m finding again and again that the best way is straight through. In the end, I was given precious conversations with two lovely women, a fun movie night with the ladies, dinner with a family from my church, and prayer from someone who could empathize with wounds I’m trying desperately to heal.

During a short nap late Sunday afternoon, I started to wake up and sense the light through my blinds slowly dimming, and I felt that faint, nameless sadness that comes with evening and I thought, I don’t want these graces to end…

oh sh*#

A few months ago, I signed up for a 10K race. It's a small event in a neighboring town, and I'd heard about it for years, but somehow that weekend always filled up. As soon as I saw registration open, I sent in my check and looked up the route. The route was described as having "challenging hills," and I thought to myself that the hills I routinely run up and down from the Rose Bowl have me in great shape for this kind of race.

After signing up, I decided to run the route to see for myself. The first half of the race is the same course as the 5K, a flat and even course around town. No problem. The course takes you past the high school track as you close mile 3, where the 5K runners veer off to end their run, while the 10K runners continue on and turn left. There was a slight incline as you near the so-called "challenging hills," then another turn left into some neighborhoods. On my practice run, I made that second left turn, looked up, stopped and said, "Oh. Shit."

That was the biggest hill I'd ever considered running up.

I've told you before that I'm not one for cursing, but I've found myself saying "Oh Shit" a lot lately. This is the sentiment that has come when, as they say, Shit Got Real. What I mean is that I can talk a lot of talk about writing, dating, running, etc. But then when an opportunity comes up to act on something, ie to run up that hill, reality hits real quick.

That first practice run, I walked up the hill.

Leading up to the race, my running wasn't what I wanted it to be - shorter days, health issues and a writing class meant that intentional training for the race took a back seat. So when race day rolled around, all I could think was, "Oh Shit." I called my sister the night before the race for advice. Should I go all out on the first 5K and just settle for being slow the second half? Or save energy so that I can run the hills - when, even running up them, I'd slow down? My sister didn't tell me exactly how to run, but she did suggest how I think. Don't get it in your mind that you'll be miserable, or you probably will be. Just be open to how you feel and how the race goes.

Under the circumstances, that was the best advice. I felt pretty good and ran the first 5K a little faster than I probably should have, but it was because I wanted to. The high school girls who were stationed along the race gave me a thumbs up for my pink hat, shirt and socks, and some guys that passed me around mile 2 yelled, "nice socks!" about my tiger print neon knee-highs. I had energy going into the first hill, then slowed and kept pace with an older guy. Together we watched a 13 year old boy pass us, then yell, "You're almost at the top!" After the second descent, I slowly walked down a slippery bike path, then ran all out into the stadium for the last loop around the track. My time wasn't great, but I finished, and later found out that I had even placed third in my age group. For the rest of the weekend I made self-deprecating jokes with my housemates about always being "third in my age group." Inwardly, though, it felt good to have gotten over another "Oh Shit" moment, and with a paperweight to prove it.

running in the morning

This morning I woke slowly to the sound of nothing. It was still dark outside, the only light from the porch of a bungalow outside my one open window. I rolled over to check my clock, willing it to show me a time hours from when I needed to wake up. Instead, it read just one minute before my alarm would sound. I lied in bed a few minutes longer, scorning Mondays and suddenly remembering that I’d left my car on the street overnight and may have a parking ticket. Thank goodness for the capacity to remember the sun, to recall it’s steady rising, because on mornings like these that is the only thing that can pull me from my bed before it’s already there. From there it was contacts in, clothes on, shoes laced up, door locked behind me, an empty street before me. I ran across and down and away and I was off. Slowly the sky woke up as I ran, from black to grayish blue like the colors Picasso used. I ran down the hill, blindly ripping through spiders’ webs, all those hours of work gone with one sweeping move. I counted down my steps on the way back up, and as I rounded the corner home something told me to look up. Behind the mountains the sun stirred, splashing orange and yellow against the now bright blue sky. The colors, which we give names in order to distinguish one from the other, blended into each other like they knew a secret we never want to face: that bleeding doesn’t hurt as much as they say, that it’s actually what connects one thing to the other. I ran fast at the end because I could, and I knew that pain as the kind that feels good. After I stopped, I untied my shoes to retrieve my key from the lace and walked through the front door. The house was still, and no one knew the quiet world of things I held and let go of even before the sun roused them awake.

a trip home

In a few hours, I'll hop on a plane and fly home for a few days. The build-up to this trip has been big. First, I haven't been home in more than 8 months, and that trip wasn't really home, it was to the beach town my family went to for vacations when I was growing up. That also means that I haven't seen my nieces and nephews in that long. These kids are growing so fast - I swear it was just yesterday that a nine-month old Amelia was falling asleep on my chest, and now she and her cousin Andrew are readers and writers and bonafide kindergartners! So 8 months is a long time to miss these kids. I'm just hoping they won't leave for college tomorrow (though I know it will feel that way).

Then there's the race. I've been training for 14 weeks, which equals nearly 500 miles. That's a sixth of the way home, and a whole lot of sweat, tears, cursing (well, just a little bit), failing, surviving, overcoming and (sometimes) succeeding. I have a time goal - hence the training - and though I'm not sure I'll meet it, I'm still glad that I took on a training regimen that challenged me.

And of course there's home. There's Dunkin' Donuts coffee and that mid-Atlantic accent. There's more maple instead of palm, and that way that clouds float across the sky and the smell and the feel that's just different. It's difficult to describe a place that's so innate, like trying to tell someone what the back of your hand looks like. It's just yours. There's an ease that comes with this familiarity, but also a slight ache when you realize the home you're looking for isn't actually there because it's not just a place, it's a time and a feeling and it's people who have moved on and changed. But I'll always still be grasping for it, looking for it, while I sit and watch and drink my coffee.

a steady push

A few months back I signed up for a long race. To prepare I’ve been putting in a lot of running — about double the mileage and time I was running before training started. At first the new challenge was fun, and when I say at first I mean the first week. It didn’t take long for my legs to get fatigued, my mind to feel tired and weak, and my heart to second-guess the commitment I’d made to a time goal. The experience has been quite the lesson is sustaining a vision — body, mind and soul — through the long haul.

Yesterday when I started out on my run, my legs were stiff and my stride felt awkward, so I took it slow, expecting to loosen up and gain speed as I went. But I’d planned a route with a steady incline for most of the first half, so the ease never really came, even when I turned the corner and started on a decline. It was a steady push the whole run.

And then towards the end were two longer hills. On the first I felt my pace slow more than I’d have liked, and as I approached the second my mind and legs were both tired. Stopping wasn’t an option. I considered pulling out my ipod to switch songs, but then a new song came on, the same one that’s been queuing during tough parts of my runs a lot lately.

Lord you are good and your mercy endures forever.

I’d spent most of my run feeling the pain of the run, wondering when it would ease up and I’d start to coast. Most of the run I’d spent trying to pass walkers and weave between runners, easily annoyed at people who didn’t move out of my way and critical of people who weren’t doing it right (like I even know…). And then there was the difficulty of life, the pain of attempting that particular run and sustaining a vision in places that seem desolate and not worthy my time or hope. Of how my life feels like my running right now: a concerted effort that’s been consuming and tiring but with little outward progress to show for it. A steady push. A long haul. I’m tired.

I ran up that hill at what felt like a walking pace, but my feet were leaving the ground, my head was down and my arms were swinging. I made slow but steady progress to the top. The repeated reminder of God’s goodness, his enduring mercy, that He’s committed to me forever. Maybe I’d hoped for the ground below to miraculously flatten beneath my feet, or to grow wings that would lift me to the higher ground ahead. Those miracles, of course, didn’t happen. I had to just keep going.

I did reach the top of that hill. Then I kept running.