Wednesday, April 17, 2019

Half of Boston

There was a part of me that believed I could roll and build and the dips would be blips, not steep or distressing; it's nonsensical to believe that everything will always rise, but also when you think you can escape from any one tough situation which is there to tell you a story, and which has no regard for rendering itself sizable. I know there's a call for down. I know the body needs to steep like tea. I just wanted to steer. To call the steep. To be more in tune, wise, ahead of. I was hungry for self-awareness. It was crowded in all this stimulus, a word that fell out of my mouth over and over. Between the sounds trapped in my ears, trapped in my work, my room, building in soundsize like a curtain of cicadas atop a southern swamp, and the way it feels when it feels like for a long time things don't stop happening. As in, so much is happening, that when something doesn't happen is the moment you (I) finally stop and wonder what the silence is for.

When we were traveling in New Zealand in September, I eagerly purchased my spot for Boston '19 alongside Ber. I figured we'd spend the fall, winter and spring training together for marathons and drinking beer on sun-streaked patios like back in the day, moaning about our aching legs and laying the groundwork for when we're old ladies talking about back when's. But pretty little September plans can become complicated spring reconstructions. I lost my training partner to injury.

With a decade's worth of downhill racing, I had daydreams of realizing a sort of potential on that infamously nuanced course. My buildup wasn't the sexiest, it was actually pretty emotional. I was angry a lot, and not that kind of anger that befits over-training, but angry about living or how I was or how others were. An anger that had me close to tossing plates for relief, also purchasing a punching bag, also slamming the receiver into the phone console. The only way I thought to work through it was lazily stewing in my thoughts in bed, on the couch, on my runs, in utter silence. All that stimulus internal and ex left me mute. I thought it was percolation. Steeping. Thinking. But it was just that I was stuck.

I set out to race the First 1/2 in BC in February. It was frigid, and I should have adjusted my goals. Wearing more clothes in a race than I'm used to, I couldn't understand why I couldn't get warm, and how people in less clothing than I were passing by steadily. I felt sorry for myself & panicked and stumbled more cold than I had ever been across the finish line, in a race I really wanted to prove something to myself. I cried, and with a panicked sadness I forced a look of...complete unrest? as we were photographed.

I set out to use the Honeywagon 1/2 in March as a race simulation/LR workout, and though it started out well, I grew pretty fatigued by mile 10 and decided to stop, dip my gu-sticky hands in water and finish at a more comfortable pace. It didn't feel like I had mismanaged pacing, I was just dogged, tired from accumulation. It wasn't emotional. It was an easier thing to understand - the amount of work on my legs. It would have felt empowering to have completed it and felt fit, with a couple more elusive drops in the ego bucket, but I was sensible and I had a story line.

In general I was nervous I was trending down, but had faith that with the taper I'd get some pop back. When I did my last  big workout a few weeks out, I was surprised to find myself rattling off 5:40's in a 2x6 mile. It felt appropriately paced. It was just the drop in the bucket I wanted in order to feel a certain way about who I was or what I possessed heading into Boston. I had last minute body work by the loving hands of an incredible PT (Nikki) and an incredible rolfer (Rad Bones).

Arrived early to BLI, early enough to catch rowdy crowds of ruddy-faced middle-aged men shouting stories at the bar before boarding for Vegas. A first taste of first class, which took an entire milking of a decade's worth of accumulated airline miles. It was a red-eye: BLI > SEA > NYC > BOS. I felt like a subdued queen, sipping champagne, then gulping champagne because they serve you and then take it away before takeoff, watching Queer Eye, which made me feel like I could like people.

Friday, March 12
Ber and her beautiful mother were to meet me in Boston later that night, coming to support, though neither were able to race. We got an airbnb together in Cambridge, off the red line, and I couldn;t check in early, so I hauled my backpack around the city, touring thrift shops. To Mass Ave., wandering, photographing the graffiti in tight, brick-lined alleys, on the sides of buildings. To Elm St. with Mckinnon's Meat Market & a deli I popped into for a thai wrap and a ginger kombucha. With aching feet I plopped into the mid-level apartment with its mini everythings, it's bulk stock of sriracha & its tub of homemade kimchi that gave off a curdled bouquet with each swing of the fridge, and took a good little nap that left me waking with a start to the ladies entering with bags of mexican food and bottles of red wine.

Saturday, March 13
Opting out of watching the B.A.A. 5k to get a little extra sleep, we had a leisurely morning with toasted bagels and coffee before making our way to Boylston to watch the Elite B.A.A. Mile. It was a great source of inspiration, and incredibly fun to sit in the bleachers above the start & finish line, with a mega-tv showing live footage.

After, we made our way through the expo where we devoured free string cheese and 26.2 beer. Walked to the Fairmont Copley with its crystal chandeliers, ornate ironwork and royal blue carpets that smelled like lipstick, to the elite hospitality suite to pick up bottles so I could decorate and fill them up for the race. The man in the room with soft lilac fingernails, how kind he and the others were.

To the narrow Marathon Sports store, it's red timer ticking down on the front window. Back to Cambridge to run, Riverside, a few miles with strides. We saw a turkey on the side of the highway and wondered about its mystical relevancy - a symbol of abundance; an encouragement to celebrate your resources that nourish your physical, emotional and spiritual aspects; speaks about feminine energies that are at work in your life - in retrospect, well fitting.

Saturday night we walked to Shay's, a garden-level pub off John F. Kennedy in Harvard Square for a beer and chips. Then meandered around seeking ramen, but ended up making box dinners at WF, so we could relax & sip wine at home. I fell asleep to the soft murmur of Ber & LaDonna talking garden.

Sunday, March 14
Got our run done early - a couple miles with drills in the Riverside area. LaDonna made us breakfast sandwiches. We took the train to the Fairmont for the elite meeting; connected with friends and ogled. We had to wait a couple hours post meeting to drop our bottles off, then Ber & LaDonna walked Faneuil Hall while I headed back to rest my legs. They brought me back a lucky pair of "Boston" booty shorts. For dinner LaDonna made us homemade pizzas.

Monday, March 15
Woke feeling rested. Made a peanut butter and banana bagel sandwich to go and sipped coffee before uber'ing to the Fairmont to board the buses to the start. Found friends to share the morning with. Sat beside Sophia en route to Hopkinton; the rain plummeted so hard that they delayed departure. The string of elite buses were led by police on motorcycles; police were parked at all on-ramps stopping cars from entering the highway so we could travel without hindrance; it was exotic and fancy.

We were dropped off at the First Korean Presbyterian Church on Main, adjacent to the start line. It was meaningful to me to sit in that church around the pros, to witness routines and expressions of anxiety or zen. The warm up area was a small stretch of road where everyone did small circles and policemen would straddle manhole covers so we wouldn't slip - the thoughtfulness. I did a few minutes of running, drills, strides, then we were lined up in numerical order and walked out to the start. Joan Benoit Samuelson wished us well. It was calm, I was. This would be my course, my day. A communal game plan to go out in 5:50-6 for the first bit, so we wouldn't get ahead of ourselves in pacing & fatigue. The camera swooped the line, Desi waved her hands, and without a countdown - the sudden start.

The first few miles felt so lovely. This feels nice! So effortless. A little faster than the plan, but I don't want to lose contact of this small group. They'll slow down when the excitement wanes. Then, suddenly, like the bad dream before a race where it feels like you're running through sand - a slow creep of fatigue in my legs. A slow decline in the drive of the knee. My feet thudding heavy. I took all my bottles in hopes that it would eradicate the building fatigue. It was way too soon to be feeling this way. The nutrition didn't help alleviate. I lost contact. Maybe I can just hang out right here at 6:00 pace? My feet fell heavier. So many people yelling, Pick it up. An annoying man - You're wearing those fancy shoes, they'll help you finish. It felt like I was trying to muscle my way through. Slowly absorbed by groups of women. The positivity I had left - for them - cheering for them, encouraging them. I had none left for myself. I was done by mile 8, and held on till 16, where I knew Ber & LaDonna would be waiting to encourage me through the Newtons. The biggest question I had to ask myself and find an answer for with a head full of doubts - Do you want to finish this, cross that infamous line for fun? Or, Do you want to fall into the arms of your friends and surrender? I searched the crowd for them, hoping. Hoping Ber would be able to tell me what to do, because to stop would be very hard on my soulegospirit. My feet, my legs - so extremely tired, with 10 miles to go, and then I saw them. Cheering with great, beautiful fervor. Yelling, LEGATHA, a character embodiment, a newly created inside joke. And I stopped. Began to cry. Asked what I should do, should I or shouldn't I? But she couldn't tell me, I had to decide, and I walked off the course. A long, meandering walk of shame, pantsless, crying. We took the train back to the finish. I got so many false congratulations that I'd nod in appreciation towards, each one a small cut. Dressed. Praised the strength & positivity of the women who had finished. Sophia. Theresa. Megan. Ladia.

We had to check out of our place early; Ladia and her mother let us store our stuff in their hotel room, and we spent a few hours with them in lush, acroamatic conversation about life and living and why and how and ability and the subtext over reasons, or reasons over excuses. It was very significant to me, to spend that time listening to a room full of women who speak from a deep sense of love and self-awareness. I knew that my heart was hurting in a distracted way, but that if I paid attention, their words would be of even more comfort when I stepped out from under the somber veil.

Ber, LaDonna & I headed to the airport early to share beers before our flights out that evening. They would be traveling for vacation in Florida, while I'd fly home. That feeling of close-to-weeping was ever-present. It didn't help that Notre Dame was burning down. It was inspiring to see the community come together in songful prayer at the foot of the Cathedral. During the flight I distracted myself with Sabrina between fits of sleep, my seatmate kindly putting free cookies in the seat compartment to find when I'd wake. Upon landing we were stuck on the tarmac for an hour and my connecting flight left without me. With it near midnight there weren't any more flights out, and customer service is nil these days with no stipends or hotel offers or airport shuttles available and I cried and cried and Red came and got me. Home by 3 am, work at 8 am. 24 hours to feel this way. 24 hours. I cut my knuckle open near to the bone on a papercutter, exhausted, and then, everything, since, has slowly started to come down.

Before the race I meditated on the words, "Pain is a merciful thing - if it lasts without interruption, it dulls itself," said by Emil Zatopek. I was hoping that when it began to hurt in the race I'd think of this, sit in it, understand something. It didn't work linearly, but it might be working.

No comments:

Post a Comment