Wednesday, October 24, 2018

Coach.



The kitchen was a mess.

We had brought the lady of the house home, several bike bags and duffle bags and travel bags were exploded over the semi-clean tile floor, and no one cared because Mama was home. I had not cleaned the bathroom. I had not vacuumed upstairs. I had not even gotten a fraction of the dishes done. Mama was home.

Between my trips up and down the (vacuumed!) stairs to put things away and clear my own accoutrements from the kitchen clutter, she called out to me. She told me she had gotten me an early birthday present, that it was seasonal, that I should have it now.

She reached into one of her bags.

And, like so many times before, her long fingers and immaculate nails produced a casually rolled up bundle of luxurious fabric. There was a rabbit sewn onto the chest of it. The garment was navy blue with gold buttons and a pronounced fold-over collar. It looked like the windbreaker my grandfather wore every day of his life that I knew him. It was a coach's jacket.

She gave it to me, and smiled, and said that it was important because it shows that she believes in what I am trying to do with my Cross Country kids. It always chokes me up when she says she believes in me.

I spend much of my time talking about believing in people and things and actions and movements and hope. I spend much of my time working to make things happen for people who do things and make action through movement to pursue hope. I spend much of my time wondering if anyone else believes.

When my cousin died, I packed my girls and my sister into our tiny car, and we drove south to attend the funeral. I stood there, in the church, crying a waterfall, soaking the lapels of my pin-striped suit somewhere in Pennsylvania. I was useless. Someone told me, though, later on, that sometimes the most useful thing we can do is to be present, and to feel. Maybe even remember. But as long as we are there to do these uniquely human things, to feel, to remember, we are being useful. Presence is important.

So I wore my coach's jacket all day yesterday. I put it on over top of my coach's shirt and underneath one winter jacket. I wore it with my rain pants and my boots and my toque and my gloves and my camera and my course maps and my envelope of chips and safety pins and bibs. And then I stood there, next to the team tent, at the start line, along the course, at the top of the hill, at the start of the finish chute. I stood there, present, hoping, feeling, cheering. I believed in every step my runners took next, remembered every one they took before. I believed.

It was a long day, out in the blustery fall weather. I came home with a headache from so much cheering, so much shouting into the wind, so much bad coffee in non-recyclable paper cups. After the evening was done, with my head pulsing and nothing feeling right after a day on the sidelines, I decided to get myself some medicine. I laced up my shoes, and went for a run, and everything was better after that.

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

unless.



Unless

unless
your response comes
with two lips pressed
against mine
and a side of fingers
intertwined i
don't wanna hear it

unless
you can guess
the pain that wracks me
when your gaze
just
passes me
and your thoughts
are spent
on your media update
i
will fill in
blanks
so that every shot
in the dark
leaves
yet another mark
on that one place
your x
has been missing.

and unless
you can hold
this heart
as it beats
and bleeds
and runs rivers
of love and heat
to your dark cove
i
will give it
a damn,
and sell all my power
to die in sparks
in the name
of love.

Thursday, April 19, 2018

limbs.



it has been such a long and lonely spring
and dark 
and harrowing
and our limbs have stayed dormant
waiting for sunshine 
to send sweetness
up to reaching leaves
and promising 
buds.

but your limbs are slender and graceful
and all the way over there
and cold.

i reach out to you
go out on my limbs
though they are icy and rough
and full of wounds and cracks and memories
not yet scarred over
and i cannot touch you.

i reach out to you
you in your slender grace
all the way over there
all by yourself
and all this wind
between us.

and between us there is so much space
and so many days
and so much blank
and i am not sure that i can reach you
over it all.

but i go.
every day, i crawl along my hurt and 
sorrow
scraping over my broken promises
and cracked memories of sunshine days
i catch my fingers
in knots and dreams
of seasons when i made you happy
and you laughed in the wind
and the world was richer for your joy.

and i go
every night, stealing along my resolve
knowing that my branches will hold
and certain that yours will not
though i may perch
in my longing
and breathe you in
and settle for your sigh.

nevertheless
i go.

Thursday, April 12, 2018

the boat.



on thursday in north york in april of a long and sporadic spring, i sit reading short stories by alistair macleod and wish that i had said so many things so well. there is a blister on the top of my left foot where my new expensive running shoe rubbed me the wrong way, perhaps as a reminder that there is always more to take care of than the simple planting of one foot in front of the other. and nevertheless, i ran. i ran on a tuesday night, round and round a wealthy neighbourhood across from the hospital and tucked in behind an outlying university campus. i ran in front of my reluctant daughter, one so curly and stubborn it is hard to categorize her as some kind of person; she is more wolverine or shark. i goaded her into more steps and more laps, looking down every now and again to check our progress, and i did so guiltily. we had already run more kilometres than i had when i was twice her age, and she had already had a full day of the life of a 10-year-old schoolgirl, and here i was, marching her around a neighbourhood of haves while i tried to suss out my ankle and my stride and my mind. she never complained. so round we went as my thoughts and my motives, and i dropped her off for a rest by the split rail fence in front of an incongruously small house, more fitted to an embankment next to the madawaska, or the petawawa, or somewhere among pine trees and balsam. i caught up to my older daughter, and she grinned and giggled and raced me up the hill, refusing to give in, still genuinely curious as to whether i could keep up, or if it would be the day that i could not. we crested the hill and i urged her on, hurtling smoothly over cracked pavement and all my broken choices, and then i turned into sports announcer, calling her out, sending her to the line. she accelerated then, hair aloft behind her, freckles blurred with the effort, long legs turning her into a horse at full gallop. and then we jogged it off, reminisced the workout, picked up the little sister, and my heart glowed. we returned to the parking lot together. i saved the reveal of their total distance until we were just about done, and their giggling pride could not be suppressed. they raced to the car, collapsed against it to gasp in between laughter, and i knew then that all my broken choices would never undo the shine of what we’ve done right.

Tuesday, April 3, 2018

repetition.



the latest morning shakeout has me reeling.

as usual, fraioli brings us through interesting tidbits and commentary and things to think about while running long, or things to get us out the door to run long, or things to drink before we run. it's good stuff, and i save the reading of it until i'm alone, at work, unrushed, and waiting for a good day. i hope that today is a good day.

but there was a piece that was linked to in this issue, and i read it, and i was struck. this is not a normal tuesday thing. i read bauer's words, totally vulnerable and honest and raw and beautiful, and tears filled my eyes. it's tuesday. nothing to cry about. and everything to cry about.

before, i thought about repetition. you know, that really non-sexy stuff like putting one foot in front of the other, taking tens of thousands of steps in a day or in a race or, usually, in the dark. repetition like laundry cycles semi-cleaning pounds and pounds of sweat-soaked, stinking, synthetic garb, round and round the clicking and banging basin, wearing grooves into the ceramic kitchen floor, wearing grooves into my tolerance, scratching at my patience. repetition like one lace over the other over the other and the other. repetition like breathing in two out one in two out one. repetition like three sets of ten for all the days in a row. repetition like getting up in the dark and going to run in the dark and showering in the dark and going to sleep in the dark and waking up in the dark. repetition like saying goodbye in the morning without a kiss and saying goodnight in the dark without a kiss and going through months at a time without a kiss. repetition like meeting every tuesday night in the rain and snow and rain and rain. repetition like the cracks in the sidewalk or the potholes in the road or the fibonacci fibers of roots wrapt round and round the rutted way, holding up the mountain and my heart.

repetition is a beautiful thing.

and i read bauer's piece about hope, and found myself on both sides of the darkness: the partner wishing for light, the partner in the dark. maybe i am both. and i remembered the importance of fraioli's point: show up, and do the work, every time. it doesn't have to be glorious, every time. it doesn't have to win or take home the prize or look amazing or wonderful; it just has to be done. as AW would say: stay the fuck on it.

amen.

Friday, March 2, 2018

What I learned in running for 59 days straight.




Yesterday was a shambles day. Nothing is broken. Just a streak.

And so I thought about the streak, and what it meant to me, and how it breaks my heart to end a thing that seemed to be going so well for so long, and then I realized that it had to end. I never realized this when I loved beautiful women with big brown eyes and warm, salty tears whetting my favourite shirt.  I always held on too long; I always got dumped. I've never been good at the end. Yesterday was the end.

I ran 59 days into this year, some days only a mile or even a few steps less, some days more than 20k.  A couple of weeks ago, I ran on a trail in hopes of getting some fun running into the routine, and to start getting an idea of the different pace and movement required to run on trails. I loved it. Even after I turned my ankle four times in less than ten minutes, I loved it. Trails are amazing. And they're at the heart of running, running for the sake of it, and running like humans always have: on dirt, wild, free. Weeks later, my ankle still bothers me. I've been to physio. I've changed and re-changed my shoes. I've gone through rolls of tape. The only thing I did not exhaust this whole time was my denial. I ran 59 days, and almost half of them were on a bum ankle. That is stupid.

So I broke my streak yesterday, and it's been weird ever since. I joked that my body would break out in hives and go into some kind of gross physical withdrawal once it realized it had passed a 24-hour period with no run. My body breaks out in grossness of all kinds anyway, particularly when running all the time, so I haven't found anything new to report since breaking the streak. Except my lower body hurts a lot less. And I'm dying to go for a run.. But in order to deal with the mental withdrawal of not running, I figured I could start writing down a few things I learned during the streak, and then, by breaking it.

Lessons from a 59-Day Running Streak:


  1. People will root for you. 
  2. People will question you for doing it.
  3. People will question you for ending it.
  4. Intelligent people will tell you to stop doing it, and you may or may not listen to them, likely to your own demise.
  5. Durability will increase until it does not.
  6. Consistency works both ways - health will persist in a streak; so will an injury.
  7. Changing shoes can be a great idea.
  8. Blisters do not heal effectively or quickly.
  9. Tape is better than blisters - use liberally.
  10. Sugar is an inflammatory food and should be avoided as much as possible.
  11. Fuelling is important, even if it's just for a mental lift or a goal to finish the last few kilometres to work.
  12. Commuting by run is an excellent way to continue a streak.
  13. Doing intervals throughout a streak is really, really hard. And it's impossible on a crap ankle.
  14. Pre-scheduling physio that is easily-accessible (nearby and after work) supports the working body and prevents injury.
  15. No streak is worth continuing if it's also maintaining a chronic injury.
  16. Run slow.
  17. Don't always run slow; it's not fun to always run slow, and a streak has to be fun sometimes because it can be not fun a lot of the time.
  18. Run with friends. Use the streak as an excuse to get together with people for a run - anyone can run with you during a streak run.
  19. You will get passed by other bald guys wearing Boston jackets; do not pursue them.
  20. Your streak is yours, and it exists in comparison with no one else's, just like your entire damn running career and life. 
  21. When you want to the least is when you have to the most.
  22. A run will fix most any attitude problem you get, unless your ankle is part of the problem.
  23. You will not know when to stop. Your body will know. You must listen to your body.
  24. Not everything can be healed with tape and some physio; some things take time, and it's the most expensive thing you have to pay.
  25. People are watching you and what you do and this will inform what they do; be smart about this.

So now the city is covered in wet, clean snow, and I have a birthday girl in the house, and the cake is made and the laundry is going. It is Friday. And today, I will not run.



Monday, January 22, 2018

slipshod.

it was snowing.



large, light-filled flakes swirled through the streetlight beams. they came to rest on the road, covered cracks and tracks and seams, and fell silent.

we stood there, waiting for the others, hoping there would be more than the five of us tonight, running endless circles around a neighbourhood i would never call home. it had a good hill, though, and not too much traffic despite rush-hour and mansions stretching along the street. the repeats would be straightforward. i left the girls to stand and stay warm while i jogged back to look for a dropped light.

and then the whole group came. there were over 25 runners at some point, all in various moods and thoughts, all about the snow or the winter or the miles run and not run. we were so glad to see each other, we had to work to stifle our enthusiastic gabble, and listen to the workout. then we took off, in warm-up drills and a motley group skipping down a downy white hill, laughing with the silliness of all this running in all this snow in all of our eyes and mouths.

it was a flood, of sorts.

and then we started in earnest, slipping up the short steep to crest the hill and careen down the long descent, slipping here and there, jockeying speed against safety, dancing with disaster. they were double loops, so we had a second chance, every time, to push a little harder, to find a better line. the kid took off and we didn't see him again. the beautiful man and i edged against each other and then back away, searching, searching for traction. i was giddy with the pursuit. i had no legs. i had no speed or puff of breath against the torrent of beautiful white snow. and there was nowhere to plant a foot without slipping.

so we went. and i looked back at some point to find my friend, and i yelled, 'PURCHASE!' i could not find any, for the life of me, and i think he replied the same, his words lost in exhalation and swirling snow. we ran on, telling stories, revelling in the night, running slipshod over old ideas and ridiculous worries. we ran on, steaming into snowflakes, slippery and clean.