Motion Again
We run across one bridge, which leads to another. Then another bridge. And another and another.
We talk back and forth about how the race is going and how we should approach the remaining distance. We move quickly, but fatigue comes back, and so do my pessimisms. We talk about our family and the things we know most personally – addiction and paralysis. We have the same claustrophobic conversations we always have. And then my sister runs on ahead.
The sun is beaming down on me. I feel dehydrated. I finished my water miles ago and have no more calories to spare. My mouth is dry, my fatigue is real, and my morale and phone both just died. I wonder if I could have prepared better, trained harder. I contemplate how much weed I smoked, how many run days I skipped, and how little sleep I got the last few months. I guess the answer is yes.
And the question remains:
Why the fuck did I sign up for this ultra-marathon? It’s 100 miles. Who the fuck runs 100 miles?
I am running through downtown Charleston now. Football rivals are drunk in the streets, offering beer and spirits to the runners who pass by. I wave them away, until I see one offering a shot of dark liquor – whiskey? Fuck yes. They cheer in utter disbelief and excitement as I down it, while I stride away with prideful masochism.
I soon approach an incline that forces my pace to surrender to a walk. Walking brings powerlessness. Walking brings paralysis. I imagine a day when I won’t feel stuck. A day where I haven’t let myself down. It’s funny what a hill will remind you about yourself.
I embrace the pain, because I inherited this life. This addiction to feeling and to using. To a lack of modesty and a lack of temperance. I might as well externalize it.
The streets in Charlestown are empty, but I haven’t felt this energized since the beginning of the race. FRED AGAIN is blasting in my ears and each movement feels like a dance.Everything hurts, My head, my heart, my ass. But I’ve never been this close to the finish line.
Eight months ago, I woke up with no plan, no esteem, and no ability to take care of myself. I was pursuing a career, a woman, and a lifestyle that simultaneously rejected me. I was underweighted, dehydrated, anxious, upset and felt powerless. An addict of all vices.
But then: routine. I decided to run.
Every day, I would run, stretch, drink water, and eat. I was a student of the sport, looking into every wayI could improve my form; my pace; my style of running. The simple act of showing up was commitment. Meaningless pursuit begat direction. Purpose.
I arrive at an aid station with an assortment of drinks and quick bites. Donuts and pizza are my weapons of choice. I scarf them down, and quickly get ready for battle again. Immediately, I feel a cramp and I tell myself the old mantra: “Pain is inevitable.”
I am approached by another runner. His name is Bob, and he tells me about his family. His racing career. A young girl he is raising money for.
I like listening to him talk like a lunatic about the sport, but I begrudgingly have to ask him if we could stop for a second as I have a pain in my foot that won’t go away and feels as if I walked over glass. He cannot, he says. I understand. It feels like the third act of a movie, he’s the hero who continues on as the liability stays behind. I wish him the best and watch as he runs ahead.
There is a blueberry sized blister on my heel, and I can no longer keep shoes on without my foot feeling immense pain. I take them off and continue barefoot.
I am moving so slow that I might as well be walking. Each step hurts more than the last, but I persist. High beams from a passing car blind me momentarily. The car does a U-Turn and pulls alongside me. It’s a familiar face, support – only so drunk they don’t realize they are driving on the wrong side of the road.
They ask if I’m okay, and I lie because I can never answer that question. I tell them thank you. I tell them I love you. I tell them please head home safely. I watch them drive off drunk with no concern and no awareness.
The realization that, after 20 hours, I can no longer run has sunk in. I hallucinate shadows ahead and behind. I hear voices. I am delirious and realize that I should walk to avoid injury. My mind plays pinball, awakening every triggering thought and feeling. Every problem before the race will exist after. This is not an escape. This is just endurance. I find myself crying.
It’s the crack of dawn, and I slowly walk along the same highway that I passed yesterday. The extreme optimism and freedom I felt have vanished.
I check my phone.
I have surpassed my fundraising goal by thousands. I have received texts from friends telling me they are inspired. That they love me. That they are proud of me.
Underneath a tree on the side of a busy intersection full of morning commuters, I squat and take a massive shit for the first time all race. Nobody notices. I wipe with leaves, toss my boxers, use some hand sanitizer and soldier on.
I start off on the track until I see her again – my sister – the first runner in our family, the woman who taught me everything I know. We don’t talk much, but we’re on mile one hundred now, and the local spectators have begun to re-appear.
We cross the finish line together, me and my sister. And I feel everything.
The power. The purpose. The inspiration; fear; joy; anger; rage; sadness; nervousness; depression. I thank a God I struggle to believe in. I keep hugging myself.
I lay in bed that night, smiling softly as I know what I did is permanent. If I can survive this – the blisters – the exhaustion – the delusions – and the occasional shit on the side of the road- then I can outlast whatever is next.If nothing else, I can always stay, somehow, in motion.
We talk back and forth about how the race is going and how we should approach the remaining distance. We move quickly, but fatigue comes back, and so do my pessimisms. We talk about our family and the things we know most personally – addiction and paralysis. We have the same claustrophobic conversations we always have. And then my sister runs on ahead.
The sun is beaming down on me. I feel dehydrated. I finished my water miles ago and have no more calories to spare. My mouth is dry, my fatigue is real, and my morale and phone both just died. I wonder if I could have prepared better, trained harder. I contemplate how much weed I smoked, how many run days I skipped, and how little sleep I got the last few months. I guess the answer is yes.
And the question remains:
Why the fuck did I sign up for this ultra-marathon? It’s 100 miles. Who the fuck runs 100 miles?
I am running through downtown Charleston now. Football rivals are drunk in the streets, offering beer and spirits to the runners who pass by. I wave them away, until I see one offering a shot of dark liquor – whiskey? Fuck yes. They cheer in utter disbelief and excitement as I down it, while I stride away with prideful masochism.
I soon approach an incline that forces my pace to surrender to a walk. Walking brings powerlessness. Walking brings paralysis. I imagine a day when I won’t feel stuck. A day where I haven’t let myself down. It’s funny what a hill will remind you about yourself.
I embrace the pain, because I inherited this life. This addiction to feeling and to using. To a lack of modesty and a lack of temperance. I might as well externalize it.
The streets in Charlestown are empty, but I haven’t felt this energized since the beginning of the race. FRED AGAIN is blasting in my ears and each movement feels like a dance.Everything hurts, My head, my heart, my ass. But I’ve never been this close to the finish line.
Eight months ago, I woke up with no plan, no esteem, and no ability to take care of myself. I was pursuing a career, a woman, and a lifestyle that simultaneously rejected me. I was underweighted, dehydrated, anxious, upset and felt powerless. An addict of all vices.
But then: routine. I decided to run.
Every day, I would run, stretch, drink water, and eat. I was a student of the sport, looking into every wayI could improve my form; my pace; my style of running. The simple act of showing up was commitment. Meaningless pursuit begat direction. Purpose.
I arrive at an aid station with an assortment of drinks and quick bites. Donuts and pizza are my weapons of choice. I scarf them down, and quickly get ready for battle again. Immediately, I feel a cramp and I tell myself the old mantra: “Pain is inevitable.”
I am approached by another runner. His name is Bob, and he tells me about his family. His racing career. A young girl he is raising money for.
I like listening to him talk like a lunatic about the sport, but I begrudgingly have to ask him if we could stop for a second as I have a pain in my foot that won’t go away and feels as if I walked over glass. He cannot, he says. I understand. It feels like the third act of a movie, he’s the hero who continues on as the liability stays behind. I wish him the best and watch as he runs ahead.
There is a blueberry sized blister on my heel, and I can no longer keep shoes on without my foot feeling immense pain. I take them off and continue barefoot.
I am moving so slow that I might as well be walking. Each step hurts more than the last, but I persist. High beams from a passing car blind me momentarily. The car does a U-Turn and pulls alongside me. It’s a familiar face, support – only so drunk they don’t realize they are driving on the wrong side of the road.
They ask if I’m okay, and I lie because I can never answer that question. I tell them thank you. I tell them I love you. I tell them please head home safely. I watch them drive off drunk with no concern and no awareness.
The realization that, after 20 hours, I can no longer run has sunk in. I hallucinate shadows ahead and behind. I hear voices. I am delirious and realize that I should walk to avoid injury. My mind plays pinball, awakening every triggering thought and feeling. Every problem before the race will exist after. This is not an escape. This is just endurance. I find myself crying.
It’s the crack of dawn, and I slowly walk along the same highway that I passed yesterday. The extreme optimism and freedom I felt have vanished.
I check my phone.
I have surpassed my fundraising goal by thousands. I have received texts from friends telling me they are inspired. That they love me. That they are proud of me.
Underneath a tree on the side of a busy intersection full of morning commuters, I squat and take a massive shit for the first time all race. Nobody notices. I wipe with leaves, toss my boxers, use some hand sanitizer and soldier on.
I start off on the track until I see her again – my sister – the first runner in our family, the woman who taught me everything I know. We don’t talk much, but we’re on mile one hundred now, and the local spectators have begun to re-appear.
We cross the finish line together, me and my sister. And I feel everything.
The power. The purpose. The inspiration; fear; joy; anger; rage; sadness; nervousness; depression. I thank a God I struggle to believe in. I keep hugging myself.
I lay in bed that night, smiling softly as I know what I did is permanent. If I can survive this – the blisters – the exhaustion – the delusions – and the occasional shit on the side of the road- then I can outlast whatever is next.If nothing else, I can always stay, somehow, in motion.