tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28244044178507310162024-03-04T20:42:05.024-08:00Within SightAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824404417850731016.post-23125132285762027982018-07-26T03:51:00.000-07:002018-07-26T03:51:28.356-07:00Dear LAVS<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Dear LAVS, </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">A culmination of factors found me here, silent tears of complete fear escaping behind dark glasses, standing amongst my fellow racers on some ferry endless miles from home. I wonder if they feel the same sense of unknown? The vets must not. They know what’s coming. They’ve stood here before. In my head I am trying desperately not to feel alone. I put myself here alone. I did this. There was great value in standing here without my protective guides. I can’t see that now though. I am drowning in a longing for a safety net I always bring. This ache, this ‘missing’ will haunt me for the next ten days I’m sure. These will be my company in my darkest hours: the ache of the missing and the ever present fear. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The ferry lands back where it started, firmly in Kentucky. The runners disperse like scattered thistle seeds in the wind. At first I see them, then I feel them, then nothing. A mass of warmth first close and then wavering away. The heat is already incredibly intense, but now that they’ve moved away I am feeling cold. Cold and yet again alone. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">We are after all, each here on our own journey. <br />
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The Last Annual Vol State, some 314 miles of country side through most of Tennessee from the north west corner of the state to the south east corner. A journey that is meant to challenge your sustenance, your self understanding, your fibre and control. Ten days we are given to make the crossing. I’d cross my fingers but i need both hands free; one for accessing my water and one to float my cane across the asphalt. All I can do is breathe and move from here to there with hope and belief. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’d planned to walk the entire first day. Not to help acclimatize to the heat and humidity. Not to ease into the journey, not to short myself on a daily distance. I’d planned to walk because the sun was ever so bright and I did not know what the roads would be like. I’d planned to walk when my vision was poorest. I’d planned to walk and convinced myself that this was a warm up to the days ahead. Movement for movements sake. It gave me time to adjust to the ear piece in my left ear providing the turn by turn information I needed to follow the map. People came and went from my day. I did a lot of nodding. I asked them questions. I tried to avoid answering any. I am far too choked up to talk about home and what had brought me here. The missing and the fear whispering in my head.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Just who do you think you are?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Ghosts of what could have been, lost among the shadows of what is, dancing on the sides of the road. The sun grows high, the heat grows thicker and the shoulders come and go. My cane finds and feels. My heart and head talk to themselves about struggle and hope. I may have come alone with my crew, but I brought so much worth fighting for. Patience is a difficult thing to muster while walking. I crave to break out into a run, spread the wings on this dream, move from point to point with a grace I don’t possess. Patience under the sun. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Aid stops with Chris go smoothly. Body is behaving well enough. The sunburn comes quickly. Lessons are learned ongoing. The day cycles through and I lose touch with the where and when. I have yet to find the here and now. I’m aware that you cannot feel the ocean while tethered to the dock. You might tickle your toes in the water but it cannot move you until you surrender to the current. I’m not ready yet. The day grows quieter, cooler, sun sets adrift the humid heavy cloudless sky. The traffic is unrelenting. There are times I hide in the grass as two or three big truck blast by. I stand still holding the cane that found the ground I stand on. Stand and breathe and let tears I cannot control find their way. Who am I to put myself here? Who am I to believe there is strength enough inside to face such a fear? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Into the evening I start to shuffle. This is my tentative pace that allows for last minute step correction should I need it, you know for snakes or dogs or trucks. It’s my happy little shuffle that I know can carry me a number of miles without complaint. I’m happy, dare I say I’m happy? Alone to run along the shoulder of an unknown, along the edge of something I can’t quite fathom yet. The sun bleeds away completely and darkness wins. Sight grants me more than two feet of vision in the dark, but fear of the wild I don’t know might actually win this. What’s out there? What do I hear? What do I almost hear? What possible monster could trump the daylight fears I have? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">We finally make it to the firehall at 48 miles. This would be my biggest day, my biggest push. It’s after midnight and I can shower here. Shower and sleep. My body seems to let me go tot that dream. Or so I think. Sleep comes like a wave… tide coming in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Vaguely I’m aware that Tim and Andrea are there. I’m also aware Chris is still awake. This sleeplessness sets a tone. If I know my body and cycles, I’ll be awake and ready to go just as he drifts off. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">That is of course what happens. 3:30am and I’m awake and need to move. Now. Like a fire was set under my skin. Chris has finally found sleep in the truck and I hobble around looking for an exit. I’m also aware of a fellow runner Mike parked beside us who is battling his own demons. It takes a bit of effort to get things organized but then I set off down the road away from town. My tummy seems to be slow to get the memo. After a few miles only I find myself drinking ginger tea in a chair road side preparing for 9 more days of digestive discontent. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">There are angels along the course, stocked coolers of cold water and sports drink. Chopped melon and cheeseburgers. Tents and cots and shade. Smiles and hugs and .. admittedly a lot of confusion about my BLIND runner vest. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“You’re not one of them are you?” I answered with the best smile I could … “I ask myself that every day”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Wow you’re brave out there with that traffic and … everything”. Thankful for dark glasses and extra humid weather that makes everything drippy, “I’m not sure brave is the right word, incredibly naive perhaps?”. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">They’d collect my name, promise to watch results and look for my name. It’s a sweet surrender that comes with knowing people are counting on you. I’d leave them, grateful, anxious, and return to my shuffle. Just me and the road.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Me and the road, the missing and the fear.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Hours turn to days. Sunrises, sunsets, cows and traffic. Sometimes other runners. Sometimes none. Several times I had heat exhaustion from not wanting to stop in the heat of the day. Stubborn? Maybe. I know my speed, sonically slow.. I can only make up for that by constant forward motion. Regardless of how I feel about it. Move. I’d try and nap, try and rest and get 45min to an hour and bolt up thinking several had gone by. Move. with all the blood in my veins and fight in my soul. Move. I’d find myself along a road crying for no reason and unable to stop. My only self talk was that’s fine, it’s just pieces of me falling away. Tears i don’t have to carry anymore. Cry if you want. BUT MOVE.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The shoulder varied from a single lane on the side of a divided highway, wide enough for two or three runners to move side by side, to a white line painted over the rumble strip beside a ditch or mountain side. Sometimes the earth would grant you one step sideways to avoid being run over by traffic. Most times it offered you nothing but the chance to stand bravely in the face of oncoming blasting moving sounds and demand that you take up space. This must have been my most difficult challenge. Disability does it’s best to blend it, to not be noticed, to not disrupt the norm. I had very little time to adjust to the place where I was forced to do just the opposite. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Hey you there, driving too fast towards me, yes you. Pay attention. I am part of your world. I am here. I breathe and eat and sleep and struggle just like you. I am part of this. I am here. More than once I’d smile and wave a gracious thank you to someone I couldn’t see through windshield. More than once I’d be wiping tears away between breaks of traffic. But I am here for just this reason; to illustrate the struggle people with low vision go through daily to fit in to the abled inaccessible world we’ve been fostered into. Why then, should I expect shelter from its gale force assault now? I am not above struggle. I am not worth more. I will fight the fight in my head. I will brave this onslaught. Apparently no matter what the cost. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">On one such road, that winded and twisted on banked corners and blind curves, on the miles between the aid stops, Jan the meat wagon driver pulled over and came upon me in a moment of mustering. </span></div>
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“How are you doing?” she asked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Voiceless I wanted to tell her of oppression and obstacles and fight and anger at being held back and the driving pain in my soul at thinking I was ever even slightly enough to conquer this task of my choosing. I wanted to collapse in her arms and beg to be shown the exit door. Stage left. Somewhere safe, away from this, away from all the monsters that followed me in. I wanted to fall into her back seat in the air conditioning and give her my life’s worth to be driven away. I wanted nothing more than to give up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I took a breath. Answered in my steadiest possible voice “I’m okay. It’s just a bit hard”. Retrospect tells me she knew better, could read between all my syllables. She crossed her arms over herself, almost as if to say this is not the refuge you seek girl.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“This road is tough, and I have vision” The rest trailed off in words I didn’t retain. <br />
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It’s okay. Army of one. Right here. I carried the belief of so many. Someone has to be on the front line. It’s okay. There is a time and place for everything. I ran my fingers over my Saint Christopher and wedding ring on my necklace and stepped back onto the road. For if there is no way - make one. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">There were nights I fell into hotel beds and couldn’t tell you my name. Three hours later I’d be awake and aware forward was the only direction to go. There were times food was put in my hands and I couldn’t tell you what it was. I’m not very good at this sport you know? Some ultra runners seem to know themselves and seem to be alert and awake and capable of holding it all together. I float in the middle somewhere. I can carry a banner and hold ground, but I may not remember what town we’re in or what day it is. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My questions were always about Oprahs location. And how far away sleep was. There was two nights in the tent. Those were harder mornings. Getting up off the ground was tricky. My right shin had developed a mind of it’s own. That’s okay, it took my mind off the blisters. We slept in a church parking lot once night. I napped in a park, in a postoffice lobby, in the bath tub. One time along the road I wanted to sit down and knew Chris was a few miles up the road soon. Spotting a guard rail I nearly stopped to unburden my feet. Told myself it was ok to need a break. There on the end of the rail a sunbathing copperhead changed my mind. Okay world, I’ll take your message. Keep moving.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">There was always bacon. There was always ice. There was always clean clothes. I found out on the last day that Chris had provided me matching outfits each day. This made me laugh, I’m colourblind and never match. My feet would literally bake in my shoes. Every time I stopped we’d switch them out. That worked until they were swollen enough that only pair fit well enough. I learned to hid in the heat of the day, impatiently watching an hour or two drift away. I learned to embrace going into random stores and asking for Popsicles and cold water. People were so very wonderful. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The country side would open into expansive miles between shelter and towns. Then out of no where a general store would appear and be open at 5am serving eggs and bacon. People would ask where we started, where we finished. Why are you going? Why indeed. I myself am going (running and now walking) to raise awareness for inclusion in sport. In my head would ring this why… it’s a good distraction from the sunburn, the leg, the blisters, the some hundred miles left.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Dogs charged. From here there and everywhere. Surprising dogs. Angry dogs. Thankfully loud dogs. I was on the phone with my husband during one such charge and screamed and yelled and hung up. Charging back at the dog. Regaining my stance. Composure long since gone. It seemed endless. It seemed heartless. It seemed like a lifetime of struggle in 8 days. Strength was missing and yet the miles clicked away. One such dog warning came about mile 240. I’d had enough at this point. Angry that I had to be so on alert all the time. Betty, Mikes wife and crew came back by car to warn me this was up ahead. I texted Chris what was upcoming. She offered to drive between me and the dogs. I asked her to hold my sunglasses. Trekking poles in one hand and pepper spray in the other, I was ready. There is a place where you decide what to tolerate and when to fight back. They call it ‘enough’. Chris got to the dogs before I did. The dogs got easier after that. I felt less afraid, or more equipped to cope. They still frightened me, but I felt more ready. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">From that point on Mike and I fell into pace. Company was nice. I was ever so grateful he didn’t need to talk. I think we spent some 60 miles together and I could tell you very little about him. We climbed the first mountain pass together. I made sure to call my husband before starting that climb. So many warnings had come my way I didn’t know what to expect. Mike seemed confident. Our crews could not be in touch for the entire three miles of ascent. I needed to hear Steven’s voice and make sure he knew why I had to be here. Maybe make sure I knew why I had to be here. Somethings are worth fighting for. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The climb proved unremarkable and i lost the bet on how many cars we’d have to dodge on the way up. 38 in total I think. And a lovely hotel bed waiting at the top. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The next day I knew had to be my last. I could not put pjs on one more time and curl up under the covers counting wishes and moons waiting for well rested legs to carry my both down and up the next two climbs. The weather seemed to give us a break, until it didn’t. My leg cooperated, until it didn’t, Until I could feel the line of pooling fluid and blood rising in my calf. The day gave away to darkness just after the blue bridge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The blue bridge was only 15k from the end.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I texted ahead “I’m on the blue bridge, not that I can tell it’s blue”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I don’t even know who got that message.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Did we tell you? They painted it yellow just today!” was the reply.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Yellow? OMG memories of yellow gates!!” I sent back.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And still we walked on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Through darkness we climbed the last mountain. I knew in my heart of hearts I was slowing Mike down. What I fine young man to stick with a stranger for no reason at all. At the top of the climb we met our crews one last time. I instantly elevated my leg and iced, knowing it had to be brief and that the barn door was calling. Both Betty and Chris told us there was a tornado warning for our area and that Carl had messaged all the runners requesting either they hurry up or seek shelter. Now I’m to finish this battle in a tornado? On a mountain? Right after the last text from Steven saying he had to close his eyes? Every step determined. Every step in painful awareness it wasn’t the last. Every step down a dark lonely road to the Castle rock.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I had emailed Carl before the race and said the last mile on the dirt track worried me the most. I don’t typically run trail without a guide. Thankfully he agreed either he or Chris could walk me in, if I’d made it that far. Fair enough good sir. And indeed when the time came and my feet turned left on the dirt, Chris wasn’t far away. I assured Mike we’d be fine and that he should go. That mile of earth was the longest mile I’ve every travelled on foot. Lightning flashed upon the hill and in my heart too I’m certain. The hair on my arms stood on end. The thunder danced in the clouds. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I begged to be done. Begged to just stop. Begged to be anywhere but here. This, was just too much. Chris spoke softly, counted down in meters, detailed the ground for my steps, Just let me be done. Done and down from here with it’s pending tornado's. Almost almost, he’d say. I said all I really wanted was some Italian Wedding Soup. I must have reached my bargaining phase. Chris said hey let’s just walk 400 meters more and then go find some Italian Wedding Soup. <br />
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And here I stopped. Dead stopped. In the middle of the trail. Jammed my poles in the ground and bent over sobbed openly. Chris was instantly concerned. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?” </span></div>
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“It doesn’t matter how far I run” I said sobbing still. “I can’t eat that soup, it’s my favourite soup too, but I’m allergic too most of what’s in it!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">That must have been my last fight. Instantly swarmed by fatigue, I felt there was no single one more step within me to give. Months before when I was training and testing out the technology , the use of RunGo through a long night run and the crew expertise of Chris, I’d warned him at some point he’d need to slap me. He refused then of course. Vowed up and down never to do such a thing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Now here is this forest, nearly fast asleep I said “Chris it’s that time, I need you to slap me”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I hadn’t made the request once in 8 days. Never once did I feel that sleepy. But now? Now I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I think I was surprised when he did. That was the point though right? Surprise. Adrenaline. Refocus. Oh I laughed and laughed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And then cried once I remembered how sunburned my cheeks were and how bad that hurt for such a gentle tap.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Then there were lights, and a few cars. And Mike and Betty swimming in victory. All I could do was wander to a well described rock on the edge of a cliff and say the few words I’d come to mutter, hopefully in a voice that was recognizable.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Everyone should be given the chance to fight for their finish line. That only works if everyone is given the right to stand at the start”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I remember asking Carl why they’d put so many god damned miles between the start and the finish. He’d replied with “It’s actually a trail race with a really long warm up”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Later, after driving back down the mountain as the storm finally hit, I sent a simple thank you message to Laz, who is out on his own journey throughout my mini adventure. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I woke up to his reply late the next morning;</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“It is not the physical limitations of the body that count, it is the poetry in the soul. if you have not limited yourself, how is it my place to limit you?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’m left with that to ponder. Why do we let others place limits upon us? Why do we place limits on ourselves?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Take me right now for instance… I am setting no limit on my recovery naps.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Dear LAVS, you are a beast and I know not which of us was slain, but now neither of us will be the same again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It is my firm belief that strength has nothing to do with the ability to endure or tolerate pain and suffering. I think I’ll work on finding the strength to celebrate the happy moments, the loving myself part, all the tough parts are there. Endurance is, to me, more about struggle. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I am so grateful for all the hope and belief that came my way through this journey. I am so endless grateful for the crew and support from Chris throughout it all. It must not be easy to send a friend into the fire and not be able to follow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">much love</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">rm</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824404417850731016.post-69798262025010681502018-07-10T19:30:00.000-07:002018-07-10T19:30:33.146-07:00Finding My Place <div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Display"; font-size: 28px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay-Semibold"; font-size: 28pt; font-weight: bold;">This is a tough one. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay-Semibold"; font-size: 28pt; font-weight: bold;">There’s no good place to start. There’s no good place to put the voice that’s crawling up from the pit of my stomach. It can’t be stifled down; or it would rot my courage, decay my strength. It can’t be set loose; it would run wild into traffic and topple over the innocent. It would take no prisoners ....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay-Semibold"; font-size: 28pt; font-weight: bold;">Yet I feel it holds me so; Breathless against the unknown edges of a world I tend to skirt and dodge. Each minute drawing me closer to the ‘Start’, pushes me closer to the ‘End’ of my safe zone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay-Semibold"; font-size: 28pt; font-weight: bold;">Stand behind the yellow line.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay-Semibold"; font-size: 28pt; font-weight: bold;">That’s easier if you can tell where the bloody line is. But if you’re out there, in this world, foundering around amongst the endless noise and chaos and movement, how can you find your place? How do you know where to stand at all?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay-Semibold"; font-size: 28pt; font-weight: bold;">This is a tough one. All fibres of my being ache for the soft hushed tones of my guide runners. I crave their directions, step here, watch that, stop and wait, okay forward. All comfort has abandoned my senses, leaving them raw and open. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay-Semibold"; font-size: 28pt; font-weight: bold;">Ten days of over stimulated. Ten days of on alert. Ten days of.... </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay-Semibold"; font-size: 28pt; font-weight: bold;">.... I can’t write the story before it’s lived. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay-Semibold"; font-size: 28pt; font-weight: bold;">All I can do is celebrate the small victories so far. Like today? Today I found the restroom in a Walmart. Today I said the I love you’s. Today I didn’t drown in the fear that seems to be my endless company for 314 miles. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay-Semibold"; font-size: 28pt; font-weight: bold;">Tomorrow... I will summon the fight from somewhere I’ve hidden it. Tomorrow I will find the fierce I will surely need....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ".SFUIDisplay-Semibold"; font-size: 28pt; font-weight: bold;">Two more sleeps. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824404417850731016.post-52831327235376631932018-07-09T07:35:00.000-07:002018-07-09T07:35:20.790-07:00Dinosaurs and Nightmares.....<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">The fridge light floods the kitchen floor. A tub of yogurt I’ve been searching for in my dreams for what feels like hours, is right there; centre shelf, middle of my view. I extend my hand to reach for it and then stop. What was that? A gurgle? A groan? a … laugh? impossible… My stomach must be talking. Midnight snacks usually happen when your tummy is rumbling. I reach again towards the plain white container of yogurt… It looks familiar now. This whole thing feels odd. I don’t often indulge in dairy products. They usually leave me, well, gurgling and groaning… Yet here I am still reaching forward. Almost as if I can’t control my impulse. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The Stuff, the label says. Even that sits funny. Where have I heard of that product before? Who bought this stuff? I try to retract my hand, beginning to think better of my choice. The yogurt, though, seems to have a different force pulling me in. It’s as if The Stuff was Alive????</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">This can’t be a thing? The lid opens on the container, from within? Something forced it open? How can that be? Yogurt doesn’t move? Doesn’t think? Doesn’t NEED? Still the lid came ajar and the yogurt itself bubbled up over the edge of the container and began to move down the side of the container, as if to reach for my hand. My fingers, outstretched, shaking, now inches from the ever growing blob of white… STUFF? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I need to scream. I need to escape. I need to NOT EAT THIS STUFF!!! Make this stop… must make this stop… </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">…. and then I’m sitting upright in my bed. A bit sweaty. A bit shaken. A bit relieved I hadn’t actually eaten that alive yogurt from my dream. 1980’s B horror movies can really mess with your head. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">There are no Dinosaurs in Tennessee. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I keep telling myself that. I’ve given up watching scary things these last few months. That leaves our movie choices to Oceans Eight and Mama Mia. Ask me how much dear husband will be happy when this is over? But last weekend I agreed to watch Jurassic World. Because, frankly, there are no dinosaurs in Tennessee. My Chiropractor asked me this morning if I was nervous or afraid for the adventure? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“There are no dinosaurs in Tennessee. Surely I’ll be just fine.” Was my reply. The secretary, who had a bit of back story, suggested I go home and watch Deliverance. I left their office with a chuckle and, white cane extended and ears to the ground, began navigating the construction nightmare that was their parking lot, and my entire street. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I have these skills. Let’s call them Batskills. In truth they are Orientation and Mobility training skills. Given to me gratefully throughout my high school years. They help me make educated decisions before crossing a road. They help me assess and evaluate before jumping into a thing. Trust me when I say, they are always in use. As I walked home and approached the only road I needed to cross, I followed all the bat skills I had. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Wait.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Line yourself up with the intersection.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Listen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Assess.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Make a judgment call.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">800 meters from my door I did this thing. It was a “T” intersection. One car turning left from the road to the right. One truck waiting to turn right from the road I intended to cross. I arrived with the truck. Car was in mid turn. Cane out. Lined up to cross. After car turned, I made my way to cross. It was distinctly my turn. However much that may have been true, the driver of the truck disagreed. Did not care. Did not rethink. Did not wait. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It continues to amaze me how little of the world people with vision actually see. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I stopped. A foot from harm. Not willing to take on this battle today. Another day, perhaps I’d make more of a stink. Perhaps I’d have been more startled. Perhaps i’d have reacted a bit differently.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">800 meters from my door and I can’t help but think…. Well fuck. This is gonna suck.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">What was I thinking?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Scary movies out. Time spent in my own fear kept to a minimum these days. I cannot sit still. I cannot stand and wait for the kettle to boil without shaking. Can’t seem to brush my teeth without crying. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I suppose it’s because I feel this way in my every day that I have to do this. I should not feel less than simply because the Way is inaccessible. I should not need to quiet my voice of frustration to make life easier for those who have no issues navigating the world. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My insides are screaming. My heart is exploding. There is a want that yells louder than the fear. Do not ask me if I want to do this. Please ask me if I must.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The world is a big place. So very big. The world has so many moving parts. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The last of my bags packed and now loaded in the truck, I have one last task; I needed to assign a distinct text tone to my crew captain Chris. This is so when I’m running I can pick it out against the endless traffic and other sounds. Can you guess what I chose?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">A T-Rex roar….</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">So maybe I’m a bit wrong. Maybe there are dinosaurs in Tennessee?</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824404417850731016.post-25645660104232913142018-05-30T12:51:00.002-07:002018-05-30T12:51:57.224-07:00Undoing At Sulphur Springs<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">It feels like a tearing down of camp. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">A disbanding of the community.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It feels like years of effort washing out with the tide.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Someone sold me a yard sale jigsaw. A ziplock bag of edges and colours all askew. I’m so stubborn that I have to see it through. Maybe there’s a picture coming. Maybe there are pieces missing. <br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">… an incomplete set</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Still I am fixated on piecing it together. It’s finding peace with that, that is overwhelming. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I am stumbling in the light, bumping into things, tripping over things, jamming my toes against rocks I’ve known were there. I am increasingly lost the more I am found.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I sent them away, my guides I mean, I sent them packing. Oh how I loved them. Oh how I enjoyed their edits. Oh how I miss their buffer. My doing. My choosing. My footsteps in the light, in the blinding, blazing splattered light.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’ve been struggling as to how best to tell this tale. I’ve been rattling around with syllables and imagery of how best to describe barriers and obstacles. Maybe, like my yard sale puzzle, the picture will appear clearly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The grocery store plaza 800m from my door is under construction. Upgrades. improvements.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Noise. Commotion. Distraction. Smells. People. Moving parts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It feels inhuman to not be able to go make a bank deposit alone, to ‘elect’ to avoid that coffee shop for six months, to fear the next time I need tylenol from the drug store, to not eat the last apple because then you’d have to go buy more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">These are not things I can’t do. These are things I currently can’t manage under the conditions set out in front of me by society at large. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Why no guides? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">This is why. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I need to tell the tale of how inaccessible the world is. I need it to be persuasive. I need it to be compelling. I need change to be something worth fighting for. I need to be heard.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">That has to be my biggest fear; not being heard. Disability should be heard. It deserves a place beyond a token card holder. It deserves a voice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Fear grows like a weed, like a fungus, like a wild thing. Fear of the unknown, fear of the misunderstood, fear of the lack of control. This Vol State training has consumed me with that fear. It bubbles and simmers on the back burner. It spits and froths under the excess heat and stress. Fear, I know your name. I know your name more than I know my own.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Friday at 8pm we started running at Dundas Conservation Area. Not quite dark, no longer bright. Sulphur Springs officially begins exactly 10 hours after my first step. Seems like an unfair advantage right? Let me tell you, it felt more like extra punishment. And I was there to embrace it all. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The forest was sleeping and dark. Steven kept me company. Head light bobbing up and down in the dark beside me. Silence between us. Company only. Usually on a run I can anticipate his next step, feel his heart quickening before a hill, hear the inhale before a mouthful of descriptives were thrown out in order. It nearly broke me, this silence. No words. No gestures. Not even sure his socks were different colours. Promised myself I wouldn’t look. I don’t envy him, or the position I’ve put him in. No one wants to put their loved one in danger. No one wants to walk them to the door and say go on, go… No one wants to walk beside and SAY NOTHING when there are things to say, obstacles pending everywhere. I had to get over myself pretty fast in the first few miles. I wasn’t more than three feet away and wanted to scream “why are you doing this?” “Don’t you love me anymore?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Yes he does. So much so he could do this. Remember I asked him to. Not sure that makes me a very nice person. More on that later.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I broke the course up in my head into sections. Maybe they make sense to you who have run this place?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The descent - Martin rd… the optimistic beginning</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The gimme - everything until you cross the road, because honestly it was the easiest part</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The new altitude - a few climbs that were added to keep us off the road. This took away a portapot access point, added hills, showed me a jeep road looking trail that make my goosebumps tingle in barkley memories.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The Bruce - a warm hug for those that know her… the first escarpment sight.. the one everyone takes a picture of.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Aid station one - thank the heavens</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The dive - Those incredibly technical steps down off the bruce into the ravine, and the root tiptoeing after, plus the climb.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The round about - Seriously who puts a roundabout in the woods? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The new altitude take two - seems hillier this way</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Two way traffic zone - after the road crossing</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The blurry grass lollipop - the new last year edition. This section hid the roots, played mayhem with my headlamp, made me cry. two hydrocut crossings, timing mats to trip on… and oh the way the sweet grass smells in the heat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Last loop - the second turn off the trail you dam well know takes you to the lollipop. ITs like someone decided you hadn’t gave the climbing your best so here’s a second chance bitch… (Or second, or hundredth)</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Aid station two - people who smelled better than me and who promise only 7 km to the end to the loop</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">the lollipop - Root dancing, bugs are the worst here. The trails feel older. The ground doesn’t drain the same. The stick, the round, the up and up and up those sisters, the lick that never seems to end, the down and down some more and the stick again. Ending again in the root dancing and bugs</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">aid station once more</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The ascent - one last fuck you before someone might offer you a freezie.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The first loop we got half way down the hill and Steven retreated to get his headlamp. Geez, these ultra runners I tell you! Everything went as planned. Including the lump in my throat. At the Dive the caution tape was before my memorized steps. They wanted us to use the old way down? But I’ve never gone that way. I’ve never walked those steps. I’ve not… Fine. Fuck you fine. And then mud and slippery ground and Steven offering his hand. “Go the other way the next time” he said …”let me help you” he said. Oh Jesus… I can’t give in so close to the beginning? One second of hand holding, one dart in my unguided run of the year, one million pounds of instant guilt. More than anything, I want your help. I think that’s what makes this whole journey to Vol State so incredibly frightening. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">At the Blurry grass section I had to ask Steven to run farther ahead. His headlamp made the ground dance. 20 meters have never separated us on a run. “Just here to keep the coyotes away baby” Stupid running. But they were indeed out and prowling around. As were owls, deer, skunks, raccoons, and Hooligans apparently. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">On our second loop 80% of the reflective markers had been removed or deliberately turned away so that they wouldn’t reflect oncoming light. I cannot believe the people who did this thought it was, what funny? What if I’d gone alone? It’s bad enough I can’t see the pink ribbons anywhere. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">On our third loop the sun came up on the lollipop. And yes, it actually does take me that long to run 60 freaking km on unguided trail. I am so sick of defending my pace; it’s a nauseating insult to my soul. People were beginning to staff the aid stations. They were of course confused as to why we were out there. I was happy to see them. Happy to know my next solo loop wouldn’t be just me and the coyotes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Loop four I took my poles, interpreting my steps by sound and resonance of taps. I left Steven to nap. I hoped Jennifer-Anne got some sleep as well, although from the size of her newly knitted blanket, I doubt if she got any. People started popping up around me on the course. Rounds of ‘good job’ ‘amazing’ ‘doing great’ … you racers, you’re the best alarm clock ever. That voice in my head that you may never understand, answered each one of you with a ‘this isn’t great, I’m not great, I’m tired and barely moving, don’t kid yourself’. The filter won over and I only allowed a “you too” to escape my lips.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">This ultra running business can build you up. It can move mountains in your soul. It can change your life, if you let it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">This ultra running business can tear you down. It can bury you under avalanches in your soul. It can change your world, if you let it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">All that stands between you and that… is a matter of belief.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Loop five I think was my longest loop. I lost my running bounce and was hiking. My foot was talking back. I’d been taking a mental inventory of the aches and pains and NONE of them were worth stopping for. None of them worth giving up, giving in for. I found myself once again standing at the Dive. It was then I realized my vertigo was winning. Think I’d been ignoring it for a while. The root steps I knew were there in front of me. They had multiplied however, morphed into about a zillion dancing steps I couldn’t steady. Runner noises from behind brought me back to the present, back to the place of knowing there was no other way out. I took a step back and asked them to go first. Said it was more difficult to have noise behind me on the descent. Most went without question. One turned and asked if I needed help, if I could see the ledge. Filter allowed me to say no I can’t see it, but I know it’s there. Thank you, I’m fine. Still I stood. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Still I stood. Tears stealing the day. You can’t run 100 miles afraid of the one you might have trouble with. Still the roots danced out of focus. Five minutes? More? I stood. A few more friends came from behind and really wanted to help. That nearly broke me, as it meant they could see my struggle. Graceful in an ultra I will never be. Gratefully they too went on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I took a picture. I took a picture of the steps, then zoomed in on the image and used that memory to steady the roots in my view. Closed my eyes and went down on my rear. Fumbling in the light. My only way, in the light.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Once at the bottom of that ravine, and over the bridge more roots and a climb to write home about only because of the angle of the dirt. Another friend from behind, “How are you doing?” Please don’t ask that. There is no question I’d like to answer less. That ultra running stuff…</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">At the last aid station before the lollipop, I sat. I sat and rubbed my feet, removing the stone that had wedged its way into my left heel, bruising it nicely for the memory. I sat and listened to the people who said things like “you look so strong!” Someone sat beside me complaining of knee pain, saying he was done. This is when I knew my vertigo would win. As a Massage Therapist, I would have stopped my race and helped any other day. I’ve never turned away a need before. Instead? I offered him tylenol. That was good for a few guilt points. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I texted Jennifer-Anne that I needed a break. That I was trying to piece things back together. Once I’d gathered, into the lollipop I went. On my way back down Jennifer-Anne met me. I think she most of all struggled with not telling me things. We walked back to the start/finish to eat and regroup.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">They fed me. They humoured me. They let me change. They sprayed me for the bugs. Too late I’d been their feast last loop. There was so much noise in the base camp. Incredibly loud chaos. My head was spinning. I think I left on loop six more to get away from the noise than to run. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Loop six, what would be my last loop, I went entirely off the clock. 12 minutes to get to that section. 35 minutes to make that loop. Aid station one I texted back that the vertigo wasn’t getting better, but that I was hopeful that darkened skies would settle it down. I found my run again. I knew it would come back. It always does. Wait for it. It will. I promise.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Run or no run, the earth was moving. I could feel it rotating under my feet. The dive was just as bad as the time before. I had expected it. Didn’t even look at the ground. Checked my picture and went down on my rear again. Every effort was for making it to the aid station before the lollipop so I could put my head lamp on there. I almost didn’t make the self imposed cut off before dark. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Aid station volunteers cheered when I arrived. Angels you are. I can’t eat your food, but I love that you bring breath to the forest. “See you in an hour!” they offered. Um no… 2 maybe? 90 mins at least. <br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Coming down the hill my third nose bleed of the race hit me, which did not help the vertigo, but man did the bugs love it. Head lamps danced in the distance ahead of me which made me believe they were stars above. I tried to look up and pull things into focus. Perspective? But every time I looked up everything went white. Blasting glaring white. Send me to the ground, hands in the dirt, bright white. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My wonderful crew met me with medicine at the bottom of the road. Because I knew it wasn’t safe to be out running anymore - even if my legs couldn’t care less if we did. we called it. There was no rally. There was never meant to be a buckle, having started some ten hours before the pack, even if I’d covered the entire 100 miles, I would have defiantly turned a buckle down. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">You know what there was though? 120km of unguided trail running. More than 26 hours of unspoken roots and bumps and horse shit and ravines. There was over 36 hours of awake time with no asleep on the side of the trail. There was zero gastrointestinal upset. There was intake of real food 100% of the time and, sorry aid station staff, proper digestion at nearly every pot. There was supportive family and friends and strangers everywhere. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">That ultra running stuff batman… It can change you, if you let it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Oh and my favourite line of the entire event goes to the one guy with (humour? balls?), who made me smile anyway… after seeing my “blind runner” bib on my back, came up beside me and said </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“You’re going the right way!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">why yes… yes I am…</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Constant. Forward. Motion.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824404417850731016.post-74935595381940178642018-03-23T17:03:00.001-07:002018-03-23T17:03:04.653-07:00Apology Not Accepted<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Apology Not Accepted</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The choices I’ve made weigh heavily on my heart and soul. They keep me awake at night. They inspire me to do the work when my everything screams no. My choices and I are old friends of contention. We are thick as thieves in the predawn awakening hour of my consciousness. They always bring along fear for a fun game of double dare. I’m not sure if i win or lose this game. It feels like a war I never actually fight; more like a battle that might forward the cause - if I were to win. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">If I were to emerge victorious… fear banished forever… and me, endlessly capable.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Disability likes to apologize. For getting in the way, for taking time, for even being present sometimes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Oh I’m sorry, could you please read that form to me? The font is too small for me to see it.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I’m sorry, could you hold the door for me, while I push my chair through?”</span></div>
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“I’m sorry, would you mind picking me up? Dropping me off? Letting me participate? Allowing me feel like a valued member of society?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I went for a run two weeks ago. The last text I sent before leaving my house in the dark for a solo six miles read </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I’m sick of being sorry”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Seems simple right? I’m tired. Tired of taking up time and feeling undeserving of it. I’m sick of being the last one to raise their hand and bring attention to the things, the inaccessible issues that were forgotten. I’m exhausted with being the afterthought, the retro fitted, the off centre, the last one chosen for the team.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The darkness takes you. It makes you quiet. it wraps around you, welcomes you to be part of the background, to blend in. You can fight it, search for the place of light among the shadows, be the light for a time even; but darkness tends to win. Darkness makes no apology. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Darkness accepts no apology.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Sometimes the sound of my shoes on the road make me uneasy. I tend block out that sound with soft music. I stick to the routes I know, following memorized footsteps around the block, through the neighbourhood I’ve seen a million times. I know the twists and turns, the uphills and curves. I can time out a run to the minute with ease and confidence. I can combine any number of trails or city paths, or sidewalks along the busy sections. I know when to raise my feet more for the seams on the bridges and the curbs that are eroding away. I blend in well with the darkness. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I blend in well with the darkness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I ask very little of it in return for safe passage. Warning of a rising sun would be nice; although admittedly once every spring I get stranded on a street corner I know that I know, but since I have no sunglasses to buffer the truth of your now awake world, I become frozen. I give the urban wildlife their space. I tread lightly along the edge of hope. I apologize for my intrusion and lack of grace while out there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I’m sick of being sorry”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The text rang through my head as I ran. Why does disability apologize? Why do we feel the need. Why am I sorry for merely being here most days? I’m caught in that struggle as I run. What if I wasn’t sorry? What if I just was? Don’t we all struggle? Don’t we all need help from time to time?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Don’t be afraid to stop and ask for help along the way” a friend says to me while dialoging about fear. The race I picked, the manner I chose, the shear volume of things beyond my control and the weight of all my decisions - oddly this hadn’t occurred to me. Ask for help.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’m sorry that I might not be able to do that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I’m sick of being sorry” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Road cross in the dark. The smell of coffee in the air from the drive through near by. The speed-bumps that give my feet extra reason to rise. Another road cross, and another right turn. Down the road, past the trail I dare not take in the dark alone. Over the last bridge before the subdivisions just beginning to stir. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Bridge seam. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Left foot, right foot, repeat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And then movement… across the road, on the other side of the bridge. In the space I can barely distinguish, in the darkness yonder… Movement of a person, two hands on the cement wall, one leg up on the ledge, and jump.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Wait. My brain can’t comprehend. It’s 5:00am on a Saturday. And I’m running. Did I just see that right? Did that guy just jump off this bridge? Into the cold water below? Sure it’s not deep but there are rocks and holy crap I think he just jumped off the bridge!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I took my ear buds out. I finished crossing the bridge, deciding what to do. I got to the lights and waited. Do I call for help? Do I go and check? Do I …</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I crossed the road, more at a walk than a run. My right foot had just landed on the opposite sidewalk when I saw this inconceivable thing. The guy who I’d seen jump was clambering back over the edge. How can the even be a thing? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And I’m angry, because I worried. Because I crossed the road to check. Because this guy was obviously high, or drunk or both and playing such dangerous games with the dark. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Two breaths of anger in and out. And time sped up. The guy was angry too. Mad I’d interfered. Mad that I cared? Mad that I stopped? Yelling. Screaming. No traffic on the road. And he’s running, rushing, towards me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I’m sorry….”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Running for survival is a very different beast. It reminds me I could be free. It whispers hurry hurry in my ear. And the voice from behind me is cursing, is yelling, is threatening to shoot me, to wait there every day to shoot me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">By now I’ve fished my phone from my pocket and, knowing my call will ring on my husbands phone I’ve called him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“You have to come get me? Please come get me. He’s chasing, he’s yelling. Can’t you hear that?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Up the road and quick into the subdivision. I’m sorry for waking you. I’m sorry for disrupting the peace and calm that dark can be. The chaser ran out of wind and stopped. He was no where to be seen. I’ve rung a door bell and handed the phone to the home owner and begged to wait inside for Steven. Let me harbour here briefly? I’m sorry to intrude.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The police did not find him or signs of him. The darkness faded to day. The world carried on. The run finished in my head. One step, two step, repeat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It took me a week to go out alone in the dark. Friends got me miles while the dust settled on my fear again. Sparks of hope glimmer in the ashes. Inspiring stories of friends and trails and happiness kept me going.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">A week later on my own again, I couldn’t run that direction. I couldn’t breathe the first three km from the fear that oozed out my pores. You can’t let it cage you, this fear, this helplessness, this neediness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Parts of my disability will forever create a dependence within me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">"I’m sorry to interrupt your trail run, would you mind calling out ever obstacle for the next 99 miles?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Do you know how scary it is to cross the shopping mall parking lot to catch that next bus? Do you know how frightening it can be to stand in your doorway in the dark wondering if today you’ll be granted safe passage along your run? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">You can’t let it cage you. You can’t let it define you. You mustn’t. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Don’t accept my apology. That is my only ask of you; if we ever meet, don’t accept my apology. I’m not sorry for taking up space. I’m not sorry for trying. I’m not sorry for not letting someone else definition of disability cage me into anything. </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824404417850731016.post-48300386785821686432018-02-23T12:31:00.001-08:002018-02-23T12:31:33.718-08:00Asphalt Aversion<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I am training. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">They call this training. The running. Countless steps of movement. <br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Movement. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">A soft spring to a step I have gotten comfortable with; the following. Yes indeed, comfortable. I will follow you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I could not begin to count the selfless guide runners I’ve met over the last 9.5 years of this ‘sport’. Can a thing be a hobby, if it’s calling is a cold sweat soaked sheet in the hours most still think of as night? Can it be a pastime, if it’s life-force carries your heart beyond the threshold of fear? An unfettering.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Indeed, I have become quite comfortable in the following. I wonder if my guide runners know I wish they were close when I walk the bank to cash the work cheque? I wonder if they know I miss them dearly when crossing the six lane, merge twisted city round about between me and my meeting? I wonder if they know just how dependent I have become on their voices in my head?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My goal has always been to create awareness for Inclusive Sport. This is what I cling to in the moments that my loathing for the actual ‘running’ creeps through. It always strikes me as funny when someone thinks I truly must love this sport. Everyone finds a voice and a medium. Running just happens to be mine. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Occasionally, when surrounded by the map in my head and the landscape that skirts my reality; yes, I do love running. I love to follow the trail, see where it leads. See what the world is like on the other side. See who I am after the end. I love that even when my skin doesn’t seem to fit, I can move along a wood, or a field and feel whole. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Yes, I am training.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I picked this goal to run a map I can’t quite see, across Tennessee this July. I picked it as focal point, as an “A” race. I knew the training would be a must. Not all of my training will make sense to you. There is a side of fear I must visit. There are demons there I have avoided at all costs, for far too long. There is this ‘independence’ syndrome that I normally don’t see in running.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The Last Annual Vol State; 314 miles of space I’ve never run through. 314 miles of unknown roads; of twists and turns and crossings and, apparently charging dogs. Outside of my ‘hobby’ of running, I tend to get angry at the levels of inaccessibility in the world. When I’m running alone in the dark, I stick to the roads I’ve practiced while following you. I might even have asked you to drive me down them first. I like practice. I like repetition. I like loops. I like to memorize the steps.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I like to judge the depth of a hollow from the sway of your hips. I like to anchor to your footfalls on the earth. The sound of your breath against the tree and rock are my most intoxicating moments on a run. The way you ‘see’ the world and how you share that with me, is the biggest gift, you’ll never know you gave.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">A gift is never is to accept. I am fully aware that my constant slow, decreases your pace for too long. I am fully aware that to help me, you give of your own training. I try to distribute guide running requests across a number of people. This is so as to not take away too much from your possible. I know how you runners celebrate and relish in your possible. I’m grateful for all the guided steps I’ve ever been blessed with.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It is however a sheltering. I am tethered to the want of your voice, of your instructions to navigate through the ablest world in front of me. There is a child like ache in my soul to be ‘capable’ of just living. It is a hard reality to swallow that the world is not set up to allow such inclusive living. It’s difficult to look my children in the eye and say “I’ve done what I can, this is the way the world is”, and then sleep well at night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">As a whole, we can do better. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And so I run. I continue to flirt with this ‘hobby’ of mine. Space for disability in sport, and in life, may not come to fruition in my lifetime, but I will do what I can.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I am training. But my training is a haunting, hollowing experience of loneliness and fear facing. It is the running without you. It is the unknown road in front of me. It is the noise, the din that approaches in the light when I cannot see and have no telling voice in my ear to diffuse the fear. It is the wind moving between me and the oncoming. It is the edge of space where asphalt stops and more unknown begins. Is there a ditch? A safe step at least? When I get to that corner, will I be able to cross? Is there a light? A stop sign? The driver of the car may have waved me on, but I’ll never know. I can’t see through windows.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">314 miles I’ve chosen to run alone. In my head your voices will sound though, in all my moments of attempted bravery. I hope to run most miles at night, but time will tell that tale for sure. There is a rather big difference between the black dark of country roads and the street light bathed city streets a slumber. On my side I will wear a BLIND RUNNER bib. Most will only catch a glimpse of this as they whip by at racy speeds. All the reflective and LED bright vests will be in my possession. I have made room in my pack for fear; because she is my constant companion along the unknown asphalt for all 314 miles. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Sometimes, to create space for a thing, a notion, a change, or a hope; you have to move beyond the margins you’ve been confined to and take up a previously shouldered place and do your best to be noticed. </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824404417850731016.post-13551647014797624002017-05-23T06:06:00.001-07:002017-05-23T13:04:25.124-07:00All In A Day's WorkSeventy-seven paces to the fire hydrant. Two hundred meters to the lights. No advanced green. If you hold the cross walk button for five mississippi's it will beep. Crossing the opposite direction, on the return trip from the bus home from work lands right at rush hour, and spasms of children running free from their educational cages all at once, in all the directions, in all the bubbles of noise.<br />
<br />
Step down there. Curb up there. There's a drop off on the Tim Horton's side of the sidewalk beside the bus shelter. Don't veer off. Not even if the adolescent giants are hogging the entire sidewalk. Hold your ground. They will move. <br />
<br />
They will move. Surely they will share this space. Dammit. Fine. Step down into the drop off. Yep it's muddy. Fucks sake. <br />
<br />
Wait. I don't have the next two steps memorized from here? Fucks sake.<br />
<br />
Merge lanes at this light. Merge lanes and asshole coffee-aholics that think I can make eye contact with them through their car windows. Panic rising. Hands shaking. Cane clicking on the ground in intervals that sound so.... controlled. So controlled in this ablest land of mayhem.<br />
<br />
.... and that's just getting to work.<br />
<br />
That's not running. That's not trusting every footfall past the next. That's not grand open spaces of adventure. No sir, it's not.<br />
<br />
That, my friend, is just life. <br />
<br />
Don't mistake that for a plea for sympathy. It's more of a gentle self reminder that life, this life, my life.... Is far from perfect. But it's a life. Delicate steps. Delicate coordinated memorized steps.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I run alone. I like that. Of course I have to convince my guides to run me that route a number of times first. Then I'll go back alone. And if the weather changes, or the leaves grow, or the wind sweeps across the woods, or it's garbage day; I need to have them run me through it again. <br />
<br />
And again. <br />
<br />
To memorize it, to commit it to memory. Every step, every nook, cranny, crack, root, rock, branch. Just ask the people who guide for me. When we are in the woods near my house, I give directions from the rear;<br />
<br />
"You're going to come up upon some chunky roots under foot soon. About ten paces past them, take a sharp right turn on the trail".<br />
<br />
"Okay. yes here they are.. chunky roots.... and a right turn you said?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, right"<br />
<br />
"But that's a big hill?"<br />
<br />
"That's correct"<br />
<br />
People talk about running to zone out. You know that thing? That space? That calm that over takes you? Where nothing else can touch you? You feel invincible? Content? In-the-zone?<br />
<br />
That's great. Good for flipping you....<br />
<br />
Running only gives me a break from my 'every day' chaos of normal life, because I can't hold on to all of that 'stuff' while thinking about memorized steps, while interpreting your dialogue and descriptions about my next five steps, about my safety. I'm not that good. I have to focus. I have to shut every thing else off. I have to BE HERE NOW.<br />
<br />
Try being that attentive for 24 hours straight. Try. Most of us can hardly make it through one dinner with family before glancing down at our phones for distraction. <br />
<br />
Okay, in fairness, I'm being harsh. I'm exhausted. And totally by my own doing and choice. No Sad Panda Points for this one baby. Self induced...<br />
<br />
.... as every Ultra is....<br />
<br />
Remember? You paid for this nonsense? Fuck, you relished in it. Let's be perfectly freaking honest right now; You're likely so sadistic you were lying in bed immobile from your last 'exposure' to the ultra world when you bloody well signed your life away for this one?<br />
<br />
Right?<br />
<br />
Okay.... moving on.<br />
<br />
When you set up your race calendar for the year (oh no, don't you shy away from the screen now, I know you sit down in flipping November to think about your entire next year, you've likely submitting your work vacation days for the next 16 months to have the right weekends off)... you have your "A" races, your "Training" races, your "Goal" races, your "Family" races, your "Can't NOT do that one again" races...<br />
<br />
I do this too. Set up my list to serve my training purposes for the "A" race. So what do you do when not one, BUT two of your "training" races go to shit? Absolute literal shit?<br />
<br />
Shakes the ground you stage your "A" race on right?<br />
<br />
And I need to breathe. Why do you run? I run to feel like I can run. It makes me happy to think that me running might in some strange twisted way, help you run. I run to change the world. I run to create space for Disability in Sport. I run to try and inoculate myself against the harshness of the world in which the teenagers won't share the bloody sidewalk. I run to feel brave.<br />
<br />
I am not brave, let's be clear on that.<br />
<br />
I'm also not the least bit fast. I fight tooth and nail for every blasted cut off. I crave the ability to browse UltraSignUp without the fear of finishing within the time line. I sit around your post race camp fires like the outsider that squeaked in the back door. I listen to your race banter and hope you don't notice that I'm under qualified to be there. I keep showing up. Rather quite lost most of the time.<br />
<br />
Fucks sake, I get lost in bathrooms.<br />
<br />
First thing I asked my friends to show me when we arrived at Three Days at the Fair was the bathrooms. Goodness knows I should know where these are. Let me describe this in my terms....<br />
<br />
There's the start line. Buildings on both sides. Cobble stone ground. But random inlays in the orderly brick. They fucked me up every time I crossed them. Round patterns within the brick, taking my direction away, stealing any sense of finding I'd gathered. Food on the left. Lots of food on the left. Oh the smells. All the smells. The start line itself was two cables. Each end pinned down by an orange pylon. <br />
<br />
Orange. My favourite fucking colour. Of all the colours I can't see clearly, orange in nearly every light, is completely invisible. Why the fuck can't my ex be spray painted orange? Because that's one thing I'd like to never see again. But no, let's mark race courses with orange. That sounds like an attention getting plan, right? <br />
<br />
On the right is the timing screen. Turns out I can read this from a few millimetres away in the dark. I hesitated to go over and look though, it gets addictive, knowing stuff. Besides "You make a better door than a window!" kept running in my head whenever I did. <br />
<br />
Just up there's a wee right turn. A few uphill slanted steps and garden like rocks on the right. Don't veer right. Don't pass anyone on the right. If you miss the right, straight ahead are the bathrooms. Bathrooms with two doors. An entrance AND an exit. OMG lost in the bathroom flash backs. <br />
<br />
Why just last month I was running around an indoor track with my Steven and stopped in the loo. Memorized the steps from the door to the stall. Steps from the stall to the sink. From the sink back to the door. The door with no handle? No handle? OMG... There were two exit doors from that loo. But then taking them would put me where on the track? How many steps off course? How much in the way of the track team would I be? OMG Lost in the flipping bathroom. Someone please inform my Steven, that this, this right here, is who he intends on marrying. For Fucks Sake. <br />
<br />
Needless to say I did NOT exit the fairgrounds bathroom from the exit door. Not once. <br />
<br />
Okay right turn. Running in front of the loo. Garbage can on the left. The big kind with the lid. Sharp left turn. Or if you went straight in non chipped moments you could get to our site, to Robins car. But then there was a divoty gravel driveway to navigate there. It's a scary world batman. One breath of running and another sharp right turn. Don't veer right, there's a lip up on a interlocking brick step there. But don't veer left on the right turn. There's wooden barricades. You know those triangle things? Where the legs stick out WAY further than the tops? Oh but you know, the top railing is super excited to meet your hip should you get too close. <br />
<br />
Right this is the out and back strip. Our tent is second on the right. Camouflaged walls. Hey as long as they're not orange. Barricades all the way down this strip of road. And at the end where you make the 180 degree turn left, two of them separated with a garbage can in the middle. The toes of the first barricade are angled out a bit further. And the edge of that garbage can is rather sticky. Just saying.<br />
<br />
Ok around the turn around corner and back down the road. Do not turn to head back to the bathroom. God knows what you'd have to step over. Barricades continue straight. It's just enough straight running to let you listen to the song in your ears. Don't loose focus. Right turn ahead. Don't veer right. Drop off on the right. And a misleading white arrow on the ground that if you follow specifically would have you run head first into a invisible fence. Instead three steps left. And a white chain fence appears from no where on the right. Twenty meters maybe? Straight again. Sharp left turn. Optional gravel step off left. I joked with Catherine as she zipped past me a hundred bazillion times, that's okay you're faster, I'm getting all the extra mileage going around that gravel spot. <br />
<br />
OMG stop giggling to yourself and Turn LEFT NOW dammit.<br />
<br />
I loved this strip. Slight down hill. Back side of the course. Must be near a full km. Okay I loved this strip minus the few trucks presumably transporting the chickens into their barn. Minus the series of orange pylons that kept us left, that never seemed to stay still the entire 24 hours. Sneaky little bastards were having their own party while I was running. I swear.<br />
<br />
Two garbage cans on the left along this strip. Hey this was important to know. Good places to barf and all. Street lights. No need for headlamps. Gentle turn left with the road. More pylons. Stupid left turn at the #8 gate. Don't veer left. Drop off. Step down. I tried to hit this each time with a left foot forward swing, so I could drop and hopefully jump over that spot. Two breaths and a right at the stack of white horse fences. Sharp left. Optional grass section. You go for it. I'll be over here on the slight left, but not all the way left side of the gravel road. Watch the left, there are pot holes there. Don't pass left. OMG there's three middle pot holes. Merge right. NOT THAT FAR RIGHT. There's missing edge, like the spot where Catherines monster truck has chipped away the edge of my driveway. Sharp right uphill turn. Barricades. Garbage can. Pylons. Sensory overload...<br />
<br />
Few meters of running and one left turn to avoid before finding that last left hand garbage can. Turn left to come back around to the start line. Two cables. Food smells. And well, you get the idea.<br />
<br />
And again.<br />
<br />
And again.<br />
<br />
For 24 hours.<br />
<br />
Oh truth be told I was content to stop and sit down at 22 hours 13 minutes.<br />
<br />
When we arrived Friday evening, the girls walked a loop with me. Told me all the nooks and cranny's, fences and barricades. First loop of the race, Robin ran with me. Whispering sweet nothings in my ear about this step or that. The thing about my memorized steps that always seems to surprise me; I can't memorize the moving parts. People had been running for five days when we started. Others for three. Others for two. And in our mix were marathoners. Dammit they all refused to stand still. The buggers. Moving parts. <br />
<br />
When I started running it was road racing. Which I hate by the way. Two much noise. I used to pin bells on my guide runners shoes. This helped me follow the right feet in the crowd. The pack in this race was varying gate and shuffle. Too many tempting sounds to follow. We were blessed with a good 5 hours of overcast sky's. I ran 'blind runner' bib on my back, but guideless along the memorized course. Robin assured me she was only ever a mile away if I needed her. <br />
<br />
Several things happened. <br />
<br />
I couldn't handle the noise so plugged my music in. I let the moving parts move themselves. I apologized in my head a number of times for bumping into them all. I prayed they'd forgive my repeated clumsiness.<br />
<br />
My tummy, which has been my biggest nemesis this year, revolted. Revolted in flying fits and spurts of barf every which way and where. As the day went on this made any attempts of a bouncy run step (which my legs seemed quite happy to do) impossible.<br />
<br />
And the icing; The sun came out. <br />
<br />
You may as well shoot me. I kept thinking about the worse possible events here. Like what if my flying spasms of barf happened in front of the food building? What if I tripped off that gravel step down and knocked over the moving parts? What if... What if... I failed. What if ... I choose to fail?<br />
<br />
Okay so here's the thing, the retreated sentiment of the day; I am only here as a training race. Chosen specifically for the attempt at making my tummy digest and stabilize for 24 hours so I can trust it again. But that goal was flushed down with the rice I had at four hours. This unknown piece of fate that hangs around in the tear misted air around a "change of plans", leaves me heavy. Here I am empty and angry. Self induced, no Sad Panda Points, put myself exactly here on purpose. Suffered the 12 hour tummy failure 8 hours early. Ran a bit more anyway. And now?<br />
<br />
And now?<br />
<br />
Blazing brightness from every direction. All the memorized bits and pieces, details of this step and that, and my head full of fear. <br />
<br />
Then I did something I've never done. And prayed it would help. I began running with my white cane out.<br />
<br />
Every turn, every obstacle I 'knew' was there, found me repeating to myself; I'm gonna die. I'm not gonna die. Is New Jersey a good place to die? What are the death taxes like here? OMG I'm gonna die. Please please please don't die. <br />
<br />
Someone touched my arm on the second loop with my cane out. I unplugged my headphone to find Catherine "Do you need me?"... Of course I do! I'm so glad you can't see me crying. Every fibre of my everything wanted to cling to her TAKE ME WITH YOU! She came for a goal and was on track for it. <br />
<br />
"No, I do not need you" But I do...but I do... but I ... Of for fucks sake run away faster. As much as I loved her and her offer, ignorantly I jammed my headphone back in place. Hope she forgave my rudeness.<br />
<br />
Robin found me too and asked. I laughed and said I'm not dead yet. Keep running.<br />
<br />
Under-breath cursing, I ran a number of loops in the slow to set sun. People say I swear a lot when I run. I say you haven't met Catherine obviously. But seriously, I spent $40,000 on a linguistic degree, figure I'm making use of the cost per swear rule with each curse. <br />
<br />
Fucking sun. Fucking Brightness. FUCKING STUPID SELF IMPOSED ULTRA SUFFERING.....<br />
<br />
I know y'all pray for the sunrise after the seemingly endless hours of lonely dark. I love the dark batman. Oh look! I can see the timing screen. Oh Look! I can read the exit signs in the loo. Oh look! I can take the optional gravel L-cheater path to the left and NOT die. Who knew? <br />
<br />
Please, give me dark. Endless hours of dark. <br />
<br />
I did relent and nap. Settled my tummy. Well not entirely true. Emptied my tummy and waited. And faced the truth that this would yet again, not be a big number race. Faced the truth that I would sink after. I know that pattern. Faced the fact that I'd have to face the fucking facts. I came for what? 45 miles?<br />
<br />
No. I came to learn how to eat and survive a lot of running. Also I had to pee. And like hell I was going to cut back along the course, or worse, behind the car where I'd barfed about ten times, to get to the loo. So I walked a loop to get to the bathroom. On that loop I was discovered by Catherine. "Movement is better than stillness" she sang as she flew past. Oh fuck you too, I'm just going to the loo.<br />
<br />
But I kept going. And ate a few things. Tentatively. Anything over a swagger gate produced more endless threatening barf. So as with the rest of my life, I did the best I could with what I had.<br />
<br />
Darkness meant no cane, no blind runner bib, no music needed, no glasses. <br />
<br />
Of course all things come to an end. The night is no exception. <br />
<br />
My "day" at the fair ended in a ridiculously low 65 miles. Happily I can report fear did not win. This time.<br />
<br />
.... and no, I have not yet browsed Ultrasignup. Maybe I'll take up full time knitting? Or spray painting?<br />
<br />
Oh but I hear my shoes calling me from down by the door.....<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824404417850731016.post-90959264616044870432017-04-22T19:04:00.002-07:002017-04-22T19:04:50.494-07:00Once Upon A Moon Hill...It's not an odd thing to run twice in one day. It truly isn't. My family seems to think it's normal anyway. When you're juggling around "responsibilities" and "commitments" and, well, life... You run when the opportunity presents itself. You make use of every second you have; whether that's planking while your coffee is perking, squatting in the hallway between clients, or carrying all the bags of groceries home because you know there isn't time for weight training later... you make use of the time you have. <br />
<br />
After all, we all get the same 24 hours every day. Seriously, you there, reading this; why haven't you started a wall sit at the same time? Honestly...<br />
<br />
Anyway, the curse/blessing of a double run day means you get ALL the weather in a season switch (-4C in the morning, 18C in the afternoon, and a windy 7C at dusk), it means your shoes get circulated. Trail in the morning, road in the afternoon, hybrid in the evening. It means headlamps recharge while you're out at lunch, and sunscreen sits abandoned at 9pm. Reflective vests anyone?<br />
<br />
Because nothing says sexy quite like a reflective vest, headlamp, trail shoes and snot rockets .... right? Oh man I hope so. It's like my mom always used to say, shave your legs... you never know.... or something like that.<br />
<br />
It's 9pm on a Saturday. Kids are in bed or organized with random activities. Shoes are tied. Headlamps are on. Run key in hand. Hybrid shoes on. <br />
<br />
Wait, you never wear your headlamp? Did I pick the wrong shoes? Crap.. Time is running out and 11km starting at my bedtime is not a super happy feeling to begin with. But I'm committed to getting my mileage for the week up past 200km. Why? For no reason. Why? Because it means I get to spend an hour and twenty minutes with this guy. Why? I'm not number obsessed. Just a crazy ultra shuffler with laces tied. Why? Because, dam it.... I said I would.<br />
<br />
And out we go.<br />
<br />
He picks the turns. Normally I fret about time, elevation, my pace, getting home, said I'd be home, this way is 40 seconds longer, that way has a bigger hill... I don't like waiting for traffic at that corner. But tonight I let it go. I let it go, and he picks the turns. The night air is cool but not cold, and the shoes carry me on.<br />
<br />
I breathe a sigh of relief when he skips the left up the hill. I fall into step. Not much to call out, very little to guide. Help crossing the road, one or two curbs, a bridge seam, the mile beep. And an unexpected left turn.<br />
<br />
"Hope you love me?"<br />
<br />
Oh you bugger... this hill, what we call the Moon hill, is way steeper than the road hill he just skipped. You bugger. Time is not on my side and the steepness means an extra 80 seconds on the ascent. Gravel under my hybrid shoes crunching out against each toe off. Fine. FINE. I'll run your dam hill. <br />
<br />
Up and up and up and up. It's really not that steep. It's really nothing. It's no mountain. It's not escarpment. It's just a hill. I do like the view up there. And the moon is so pretty hanging there, almost perfect, on the edge of my vision, just outside the headlamp hue. At least now I know why the second head lamp. <br />
<br />
Wait do you hear that? <br />
<br />
"There are people up there?" I say.<br />
<br />
"I hear them. We're okay" he reassures.<br />
<br />
People are fine. But in the dark, on a trail that loops up to a neighbourhood, meeting the corner park at a three way stop between roads? People playing music loud enough for me to hear down here? I worried. I worried about confrontation, about delays, about worse case scenarios.<br />
<br />
"There's people up there on the left?" I said again.<br />
<br />
The trail at the top does a loop, a circle around the plateau and the park. When we run repeats here, we run the loop and back down the hill, turn around at the bottom in a round about and run back up. At the top he veers left, towards the people, towards the music playing in the dark at 9:30pm. I start walking five steps from the top, heart rate rising. People.<br />
<br />
"Baby I have to take a stone out of my shoe, I'm just gonna stop a minute" he says.<br />
<br />
"Okay, sure, rocks are annoying and stuff" Plus I love to walk. Seriously, you don't need to give me any excuse to walk. I'm in. Heck I only run with you people so we can walk sometimes. Geez... stupid hills. <br />
<br />
"Hey we're on our Moon Hill darling" he says. Of course we are, you picked this left. Truth be told I love that moon, love this hill; and he dam well knows it. What a flirt. <br />
<br />
"Yes we are. It's special here" Or would be if not for the people? Why are they here batman? Weird of people to be out after dark and stuff.<br />
<br />
I turn to him. He's sweet to know the day has been long. He's sweet to think I needed this view, this air, this time with him. He's still on the ground. Musta been a big stone.<br />
<br />
"I'm going to do this thing baby" he whispers. He never whispers.<br />
<br />
Wait. What thing? Holy moly there are people here. The music is off now though. And for all the space I had felt between us moments before, now there isn't but a breath, there isn't but a hairs width of emptiness. I'm right there, in front of him on the ground. Inappropriately close for public. Of course we wouldn't be in public if those people would go home!! People are walking now. They're getting closer. What thing?<br />
<br />
From somewhere (I don't know where) he pulls a heavy handful of something. Lifts it up to me. This is no shoe stone stowaway. What is this? <br />
<br />
And I'm crying.<br />
<br />
"I don't have a ring for you baby. But I do have this" This? This... Oh my god.. I know what this is.<br />
<br />
And I'm crying.<br />
<br />
This is the Race Buckle from the race we first met at. This is the beginning we never saw coming. This was the first face to face we ever shared. This buckle he earned for running so very far during our shared adventures at Dirty Girls 48hr race so many years ago. I had a buckle from the same race. A much smaller buckle. I'd managed my first 100 miles there. I'd seen him, just after he'd earned this buckle, I had begged him, having lost my guide in the night through some offence, I had begged him to come with me. I'd only needed three more loops. Please would he come? He couldn't. At the time, spent from having pushed so very hard, he couldn't. There was nothing left in the tank. And fearfully, I'd gone off into the darkness alone. Running. Running like all the scary bears in the world were chasing me. <br />
<br />
Part of our story. Part of us. This buckle, this moon hill, this space and all the time it took to find each other through chaos and mayhem and friendship. He knew. He knew a ring wouldn't mean anything to me. But this? <br />
<br />
And I'm still crying.<br />
<br />
"Baby will you marry me?" I hear him. Think I hear him. Can't be so. Can it? <br />
<br />
I pull him up. Standing again, close to me and I'm now so grateful I didn't actually blow that snot rocket just before this began. The people walked by and I see now why he wasn't worried. They are not prepubescent hooligans, but a family who had come out to watch the same moon. <br />
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"Enjoy your run" they said in passing, going right around the loop.<br />
<br />
"Run?" I said. "You mean proposal!" <br />
<br />
They "oooo-ed" and "Awww-ed" and laughed... under the same sappy mush ball moon he'd brought me to see.<br />
<br />
Once they'd left, we were alone again. <br />
<br />
"So is that a yes?" he asks.<br />
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'That's a yes" I'm still crying.<br />
<br />
As we came around the end of the loop and onto the road, the people were all there. To me there was even more of them. Standing in the road, random moon sharing strangers calling out to me in the dark "Did you say yes?"<br />
<br />
"Of course I did!" I called back....<br />
<br />
and time, which never stands still for long, carried on... and we ran together under the moon, briefly holding hands....<br />
<br />
"You are such a mush ball !!!" I said.<br />
<br />
"Don't tell everyone my secret! They'll think I'm a softy" he answered.<br />
<br />
.... but no baby... you are not a softy... you are my rock, my safe place. You are my now and forever. You are my always. And you are so very stuck with me!<br />
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Okay, you can all stop your wall sitting now. See how productive you are at multitasking?<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824404417850731016.post-89440219040087540222017-03-23T09:10:00.000-07:002017-03-23T09:10:39.743-07:00Just keep swimming... Anvil training week 8T minus 197 Days 19 Hours 50 Minutes<br />
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Maybe it gets easier. I keep thinking. Maybe this shuffle and shimmy of minutes and details and priorities smooths itself out. I keep thinking. Maybe. Maybe the bacon will cook itself. Maybe I won't lose focus the first time I get sleepy, or hungry or ... wait was that a panda?<br />
<br />
These are lies of course. I've run 'long' enough times to know - it doesn't get easier; it gets done. <br />
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Still the lies comfort me in the wee hours of morning when I could be sleeping. I could be snuggled right there, warm beside my BBF dreaming of the sunrise and all things coffee infused. I dare not however, I know Catherine is on route to run with me. And lets face it.... I'm more than slightly afraid of her. <br />
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Still my typical Wednesday hill running guide had the nerve recently to go climb mountains in Colorado, giving her an out for two weeks of of my company. They were interesting weeks. Getting up stupid early on a Wednesday and running, then going to work and trying to motivate myself to get in the pool for an hour or more at 8 or 9pm. Can you say yawn? Who stole my nap? Seriously? <br />
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It's then that the painful truth of this Anvil truth seeps in. 36 hours of race time available. How will you use it Batgirl? <br />
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Sadly I'll likely be using every second actually racing. Hello, slow moving bus over here.<br />
<br />
The first 6 weeks of this plan now feel like a warm up. Like the teaser days of those month long fitness challenges I always get roped into. Ohhh a 15 sec plank! Easy!! yeah wait for the end of the month when it's freaking 9 minutes long batman. And I'm all shaking and hovering there on my forearms cursing the ones who threw my name into the challenge to begin with. Speaking of which I have burpees to do today...<br />
<br />
So the first six weeks I bitched and moaned and tossed and turned about details and frantic minutes here or there. And now? Now I'm having nightmares about getting out of the pool and finding the door to the ladies locker room to use the loo, then finding my spot in the pool again to swim the second half of my 3hour laps. As if seeing it once wasn't hard enough. <br />
<br />
I'm lucky to know enough long distance runners that there always seems to be a guide somewhere willing to travel a distance or two. Training is supposed to be fun right? It occurred to me last week I've done everything in my power to avoid running alone, even in the dark, since they took down my tree out front of the house. I'm so concerned I'd not be able to make my way back home that I keep chickening out of the solo run. It's a dangerous, dependent ground to stand on. Sometimes you need to know you can alone. In the shuffle of all the details, I've been allowing this to slip. Could it be my own delicate fear of "dis"ability? <br />
<br />
But then fear drives us right? Pushes us, just past the place we used to sit comfortably? It wakes us up with brilliantly insane ideas. <br />
<br />
Possibility<br />
<br />
Hope<br />
<br />
Dreams<br />
<br />
I've survived 8 weeks of the 'Anvil Plan'. 11 weeks total of this routine. I'm certain it gets trickier. Especially now that my Vermont 100 plan is overlapping the Anvil plan. My alarm clock wakes me at times matching my step sons bedtime. I nap before dinner when no one notices my absence. I still fold laundry between sets of squats. I do dishes between planks and packing lunch. I eat lunch in bites between quad stretches held ever so carefully in the hallway just before my client comes out of the treatment room. And blogging? While my head and heart spin out of control with thoughts of self doubt, progress graphs and omg did I turn the dryer off before leaving the house; the actual act of calming down the world long enough to write the words? <br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't trade it. To chase your passion? To breath in wisps of intangible dream? It helps when my BBF whispers this is who we are baby, it's what we do. Plus, there's always a faint smell of trail bacon, bone broth, and tada muffins lingering around here, around home.<br />
<br />
I got to see it again last Sunday. I got to feel it. We were climbing a hill on the far side of the tenth farmers field we'd crossed. A group of six of us, all sharing space on the northern end of the Grand Valley Trail. Clambering up, sun just poking out. Chill fading, frost melting, mud forming. Wait, pause there just long enough. Turn around among the snagging raspberry bushes, the baby would be briars. Turn around and catch it before it fleets away again. Sunrise cresting the opposite hill. Rows of snowy sleeping corn and bean stalks. The blazes we'd followed poking out along the edges.<br />
<br />
Breathe in.<br />
<br />
This is why.<br />
<br />
Move me as slow as you wish good karma. But this is why I'm here. This is me, being a part of being here. To see where I've come. To see where I'm going. To feel, where exactly, I am.<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824404417850731016.post-60623225812520029892017-02-27T08:06:00.001-08:002017-02-27T08:06:04.721-08:00Houston... We have a problem... Week Three<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-size: 16px;">T minus 222 days, 2 hours, 16 minutes</span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Oh week three. You sucked. You really truly did.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Our entire house was in various stages of the plague. The plague that had no name. The one that came with nearly no symptoms; minus of course the need to find alternative ways to breathe and the compulsion for endless sleep. Endless sleep, like the one you crave at the end of a hundred miles.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Week three you made me look back on week two with a knowing glare; so that was coming. No wonder I craved the end of every workout, the extra minutes of slumber. No wonder I felt like molasses creeping out of bed in the morning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Week three had two rest days. One of which was entirely that. I think I got up three times to make tea. Holy cow you know you're sick when you don't even turn on Netflix? Of course the loss of time created the internal debate; how much do you try and make up for? How many miles, minutes, effort, do you back track over?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">This debate has such colourful sides. There's the side of caution, get better, rest, heal. There's the side of reality, time stops for no one, 48 hours is a lot to lose, your body will ultimately decide. There's the side of fear, but I have to train, I have to get better, I have to swim, I have to bike, I HAVE TO .... Then there's the side of family, who remarkably haven't disowned me yet and still wish to spend time in the same proximity as me, who have also lost 48 hours with me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Week Three I still managed to fit in 5 days of training; 127 min of swimming, 143 min of biking, 449 min of running, 85 min of strength training, 48 min of core, 112 min of stretching. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My favourite day? On the Bruce again. Trying not to fall off the river bank. Trying not to slid off the edge of the icy trail. Trying to see the google app on my phone to read the reroutes for the trail we've lost. Getting lost on a map. Trudging miles towards earning a badge. Giggling in my head at the thought of losing myself in the woods right beside a city suburb I can't even see. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My least favourite day? The last swim. OMG the pool was busy, open swim at the same time as the lane swim. Which is fine. I understand on some fundamental level that weird people like to just get wet, or just puddle around or like even go so far as to play in the water. Man did it make for turbulence, and noise. And every new nearly pubescent youth that joined the swim had to be tested as pool safe, had to pass the dreaded lane swim to ensure they'd in fact survive their fun swim. <br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Oh joy, oh bliss… Guess in who's lane they tested each of these fearful flailing invisible children? Well, if you guessed mine, you'd be right, but likely you wouldn’t be quite as surprised as me to learn it. Apparently there was a sign. Stupid signs, saying stuff. Ugh. Oh and here’s a thing. Just a thing. A small thing; but a thing nonetheless. I was joined in my lane by an avid, obvious triathlete, master swimmer about half an hour in. I hadn’t be swimming in circles. I hadn’t been following the rules. In my defence those rules were made to follow an organizational plan that isn't hugely accessible. Swimming in circles suggests I might know how to draw, and follow, said circles… all while not drowning. So after our near collision, which came within minutes of my thrashing child near collision, we met at in the swallow end and exchanged a few words. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I started with apologies. They weren’t well received. I think he felt I’d been selfish, lane hogging. A serious offence in a lane swim. Here’s the thing, my small nit picky thing. The moment I explained I hadn’t seen him, hadn't been following the “rules” was due to my restricted vision, because I am legally blind and was following the rope up and down; he faltered. He perhaps even blushed. We agreed to stay on our own sides of the remainder of the swim. (This would prove difficult as the kids were progressively tested in our lane) Something about the change of attitude and level of understanding from this swimmer nagged at me. In Disability theory, and throughout history, the only way in which a disabled person was accepted as part of the society was if they had ‘over come’ their disability and proved themselves stronger than the average person. Why was this person so ready to meet the situation with anger before learning of my vision; and then so ready to tell me after that it was “incredible you are even here”? Unsettled. I was unsettled. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Too much movement underwater, too many people, too much noise, disoriented, confused, just recovering from whatever flu I’d had the days before… Heart rate too high, breathing felt like I was gasping. I know this feeling. Panic. I fought it off. I struggled to convince myself it wouldn’t be calm during the Anvil race itself. Told myself you can’t control the things outside of your control, just swim. Isn’t that what you love about swimming? That you can “just” swim. Stroke stroke breathe… It abated, the panic, but it never truly left. And when I left the pool I felt outdone by my goals. And scared I’d not be able to pull this off. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Week four was better. Better in the sense that I had this major talk with myself. Self, I said, self we have to remember a plan is just that. A plan. And life outside of that plan, carries on. It doesn’t wait. It can be forgiving, it can bend and flux. But it will not wait. And if it’s pushed too far in any direction, it will snap, it will break, and it will bite back with a force that will wake you from the deepest slumber. We must be flexible, self.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Of course I hated this. I wanted to punch this side of myself in the face. We can do anything self. We can we can! Struggle is all we know. Struggle is all we ever have known. Be like the salmon, fight for space, fight for…. But my other, calmer, craving peace self won. And the week moved along smoother. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Week four I took the time to stretch. Admittedly not all the minutes I had scheduled myself to set aside for stretching, but I did stretch. Self care stepped up. I had a wonderful massage therapy session. Figured out what was holding, what was tight. I focused stretches on the places that called out. I made time to prep lunches, eat dinners, hydrate. Oh my goodness the hydration is never easy. I ran over 5.5 hours, I swam 2.5 hours, biked 2.5 hours, but my strength training was poor. Part of me wants to grant allowance for this, recovering and all. The other part is just as angry to not be invincible. Whatever bug attacked our home left this lingering fatigue and chronic sense of grumpiness behind. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">At the end of the week I got to share a run with my BatCub3. My 9 year old son wasn’t about to wait for me to get over my selfish need for a rest day though. The day before the two of us ran, he did a fast paced road run with my BBF. Of course when the two of us took off I had to remind him we’d be pacing at Batmom speed. He started walking. This made me giggle. Thanks buddy. Snow had fallen, in this tease of a winter we’d lost too soon. We took to the forest and broke trail along the single track. We laughed loudly as we slid attempting to clamber up the hill I like to call the Baby Barkley hill. Directly beside the sewage treatment plant, this hill is rather off the beaten path and offers a sense of OH MY GOD that no other trail hill around here can share. We followed blazes along the Grand Valley Trail and my soul ached when BatCub asked if I’d take him to the Bruce someday. “We’re really lucky to live so close to this forest Batmom”. Yes we are pumpkin. Yes we are. How lucky am I to have found this love of the trail? Luckier still to have found people willing to share in that affection with me? To humour me with slow paced guiding?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The last bit of training I did for week four was, again, eye opening in this world disability and sport. Back to the pool I went. Again a rerun of the open/lane swim combo. The near panic attack I’d had last swim during this type of pool time left me feeling rather less than. I hate having fear. I loath waking up in a cold sweat wondering how to “conquer” that. I despise feeling owned by that feeling of specific avoidance of an activity. I cannot imagine living under the thumb of any fear. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">In the pool this time there were the same two lanes on the right side for training. The rest of the pool was full of boisterous hooligans. (Yes I’m completely aware this is merely how my fear heard them, they were in fact likely quite nice youth) Beachballs flying every which way and where; defiantly not just within the boundaries of the open swim side. Man how I love invisible flying beachballs. Especially while my head is under water. Anyway, I made sure the guard knew I was there, knew I had a vision impairment. I made certain my lane mate (at the time only one other lady) and I had discussed and understood we’d stay on our own sides. All went fantastically until a third and much slower swimmer joined our lane. He didn’t seem to wish to have any communication about not swimming in circles. I nearly ran him over the first time I found him. I was hugely apologetic. After the frustration of obvious lack of interest in conversation, I went to the guard to ask for direction. I was again in the lane they use to test all the hopeful deep end swimmers, and now there were three of us. The guard seemed confused. I tried to make it light. I find general public take disability easier when it’s light. If only they knew the depths and heaviness it could carry. The guard was still confused. He did nothing wrong. He didn’t react poorly. He just didn’t understand my needs. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">If I had a penny for every time someone didn’t understand my needs…. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Disability is like that. Confusing. Flux. Flow. Ever changing in an ever evolving world. But surely we all have a place? Surely we can all fit? By god I hope we can. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Like a frustrated and upset toddler this inner dialogue, here, interspersed in the loud obviously abled world of the OPEN/LANE swim combo, nearly brought me to tears. Thank goodness for goggles. Deep breathing. I started again with the guard. Explained how I didn’t “fit” into the way they’d organized the swim. Explained that I have 8% vision and could not see people coming or going under water. Explained I hadn’t brought a swim guide. (Not that there are many of those floating around). Explained that he'd need to let me know every time they tested a swimmer in the lane I was in. Explained that I’d be happy to “get out of the way” and let everyone swim; but surely there was a place for me too? And surely the only answer to this jenga puzzle wasn’t that I would have to leave and abandon my place in the pool? Abandon my training for theirs? Simply because the model wasn’t ‘inclusive’? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The end result was of course some shuffling and better communication. The end result was a conquering of my internal fear to put others out for the sake of allowing me ‘space’. I have trouble taking up space. My friends are laughing now, reading that, I’m sure. They think I’m rather excellent at being loud and needy and demanding. Self advocacy is not a pretty graceful thing for me. My inner child dies a bit every time I have to use my voice for that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The dirty little truth about creating an inclusive world for disability, both inside and outside of sport, is that no one really knows what this looks like. No one really knows the right non-offensive steps to take to get there. And worse? Very few people have even thought that this might be a thing, that this might be a need, that this might be necessary as a part of our societal evolution. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">In the meantime, at least I know why I’m here…</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824404417850731016.post-67652696246806511292017-02-16T08:47:00.001-08:002017-02-16T08:47:06.375-08:00Oh Anvil.... Week Two - Don't Forget Your Towel<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The Double Anvil (4.8 mile swim, 224 mile bike, 52.4 mile run.. 8% vision)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">T-Minus 232 days: 20 hours: 33 minutes: 43 seconds...</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I'm </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">glad no one can see me at 4am. Nix that. I'm glad no one can hear me at 4am. Usually singing under my breath, usually daring to fart outloud, usually cursing on my foam roller when I hit the edge of that tight hamstring, usually.... emotionally naked. Definitely celebrating space and time with every ounce of the best lack of grace I possess. Walk into a wall, yep I knew that was there. Tripped on a teenagers shoe, OH MY GOD HE HAS BIG FEET. Spill coffee while pouring it and cry a little. Ponder licking it up off the counter. Wonder if cooking bacon now would wake up my house.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Let them sleep. I have stuff to do.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Week 2 Day 1</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">4:25am before I find myself self caring on the same over tight right hip flexor that annoyed me last week. And mmmmm cheerios. Be the Cheerio. Then it starts. All the 1980's TV commercials that plague my head... The unsinkable taste of cheerios. I'd like to be unsinkable. or something. Week 2. Be unsinkable. But I've looked ahead, I know this week will be tough. Clients every day, and two outside appointments, a specialist visit and a Birthday, plus transit. The thing about "appointments" that seems so normal when you read that sentence the first time; it takes orchestration. Not driving myself, not that 'moveable' in this big city life. Public transit, favours from friends, makes a one hour appointment that you might fit in a lunch break, an entire half day or more for me. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Aw well. Be the Cheerio. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Today - Bike 30 min, stretch 20 min, strength 35 min, core 11 min</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Week 2 Day 2</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">4am and there's no freezing rain. A runners bane. Well yeah. Black ice everywhere. Every step a trust and faith balance of tangled hope and a toss up of bravery and cautious adventure. Close your eyes and run that. Wait, don't. You'll likely fall. And then blame me. I have convinced friends in the past to run blindfolded. I'm not certain it frightened them. I think they got this taste of "wow" that's different. Mostly I wish they'd stop the minute after the relief of removing the blind fold and think... man it's nice to have the choice to see again. Disability is a funny thing. I do not begrudge living in it. It makes me who I am. But there are times I begrudge living with a disability in an ablest world that cares very little. There is no choice, no removal of the blindfold. It's on. Etching it's permanence into my milliseconds of this life. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">4:27am and out the door to brave this thankfully not frozen ground. An hour alone on the roads. An hour alone interpreting the landscape, the obstacles, the ... wait, is that a third grader? sending on the corner? At 5am? Should I wave? Debating... logic says a kid that age wouldn't be out here alone now. But what if? So I wave. Just as a car goes by; it's lights illuminating the truth. It's a paper box. Well perhaps the paper box was just as lonely as a third grader might have been? That's okay... I haven't said hello to any firehydrants recently.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Wow this is harder than it should be. I haven't been running enough. Is that ice? I haven't run enough. CAR. I hate running batman.... we must be on a hill. Wait, I must be on a hill. Stop talking to yourself. Okay. Up and up and up and up. Running. I feel like a hippo. Those deadlifts, those lunges, those squats. Sure I can lift a bit now, just not my arse up this hill! I love running... we must be on a downhill. Ugh stop talking to yourself. As oppose to singing? Right... </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">When I got home I dawdled. Stayed in the wet cold clothes too long. Ever done that? Oh man, it's hard to bounce back from that. The shiver down to your toes. The bottoms of my feet blanched white from standing on the chilled tile floor barefoot. I had a list. I had a list of things to do. The stretching, the core, the ... dammit.. teeth a chatter I clambered into the hot shower. Think I'll pay for this.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The freezing rain came later that afternoon. It started as rain. On run number two, thankfully guided, we zigged and zagged and jigged and jogged... on the road to avoid the icy sidewalks. And there were people. People everywhere. People and no darkness to hid in. I'm so much better at the hiding, at the slipping out into the world unexpected and unseen... There I go, putting myself on the edge again. Catherine kept talking. I love that about her. I don't have to think. The sound of her voice when it rises ever so slightly as a hazard arises. I feel it creeping up her spine, what should I call that? How should I word that? What if she dies on my watch? But yet, her story never stops, if anything it quickens. It rises in tone and pace. Next are the arms; hands flailing. That direction over there, and the movement of her body either further or closer to me. It's kinda scary. But highly entertaining. Road guiding offers me more time to interpret. Once the danger has passed, she congratulates herself by creating the circumstances in which I survived, under her watch. I love this. The only real life use of my linguistic anthropology studies. How articulate the syllables become when blood pressure is raised. How big of a jump does that pothole require? These details are intimately intertwined. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Don't ask me how to guide. I'd love to learn how to follow you though. Teach me your language. Show me how you see the world.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Today: 124 min of running. And sheets of ice everywhere.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Week 2 Day 3 - </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Disheartened. Yesterday all I managed to fit in was the running. Not that I ran out of time, that I couldn't have done better. Appointments, company, chaos, weather and family. Today though... I am very aware, the settling stiffness reminds me, that I should not have skipped the stretching. After all it's in the spreadsheet. Never doubt the spread sheet. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The wind is howling outside, across ice patches that formed over my neglected driveway. Howling like the ghosts of stretches left undone. I hear it creeping up the fireplace. Day three is always hill repeats. I'm no physicist, as my grade 12 math teacher was kind enough to point out, but the wind is always worse on top of them there hills. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Hills and then a swim. (and when no one is looking, a nap please?) We run typically up and down the trash heap hills. I wonder if after yesterdays freezing rain it will be ice? I know it will be. I wonder if we will need to change our venue to fireman hills. These hills are so named after the fire station at the bottom of the hill. One time I actually saw a fireman running up and down it. Or perhaps just some random guy with big bold printed letters FIRE on the back of his shirt. It's a mile around the fireman hill block. One simple mile. Easy enough right?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Todays swim should be interesting as well, since day one's weight lifting DOMS have kicked in. Thank you bicep curls. I don't mind drinking coffee with a straw. No big deal ... unless you need your arms to, I don't know, stay above the water? However, I am still pretty excited to have found a pool with a swim time an hour earlier. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">But back to the present, in search of balance in this hip stretch I should have done yesterday. Why yes, yes I do know exactly what regret feels like.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;">The run; Round and round the block we go. Round and round they run me. Firehall then up and up and up and round and round. It must be Wednesday Deb? Feels like fucking ground hog day. Firehall. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;">Round</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"> and round. Water there, on top of the ice, by the bus stop. Don't forget that batgirl. Round and round. Ice on the right, the crunchy kind, four steps. Up and up. The trash heap was complete ice so we retreated to the fireman hill. One mile loop round and round. Up and up. Ice and up and water and bus stop and school kids escaping every which way and where. Make them stop. Dodging pompomed hats and </span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">stringed mittens. Bags swinging. They seem so unaware I can't see them. Unaware we are even there, invading their little walk home from school world. Not moving, unshifting, rhythm of what they know. Escaping, stampeding little booger faced munchkins. Round and round. The girls keep talking. They keep asking me questions. I can't talk, are you crazy? I manage to spit out 'gonna die no talking'. Ice there, four steps. round and round, bus stop, firehall. up and up. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Of course this day I feared boredom in the loop before we even started. Told them as we topped out on loop two we needed to do ladders, to you know, keep things fresh. What was I thinking? They're beasts. Two hills for loop two. Three hills loop three. Four hills for ... fuck me... loop four. Because heaven forbid we have a normal boring run. I can do this.. think about something else. Ground hogs. Hedgehogs. Pompoms. I walked the last maybe 15 meters of the second last hill. The girls were mad. Mad mad mad. Kindly friendly mad. Accountability can bite me. It wasn't lost on me I was then put in front of Catherine and beside Debbie on the last lap up. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I'm certain Catherine knows I'm very afraid of her. Oh look. Firehall. Grin. Last loop?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">We came home and I ate everything. Popcorn, pepperettes, gluten free pasta with cheese and salt. Salt. You know, to stop toe cramps in the pool. There is a swim to do after all.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">What was I thinking?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Today - stretching 30 min, swimming 70 min, running 85 min</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Week 2 Day 4 - </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Swollen Ass Syndrome</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">That's what I said. Sorry mom. Blog about redirecting your life around a passion has to be real right? Oh it will likely get worse. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Anyway, the SAS; I'm convinced that's what I have. I self diagnosed this a few days ago. The signs became obvious. My underoos are .. ahem... snugger? my yoga pants don't... ahem, move with the breeze as much. My stair climbing is easier with stronger legs (I assume). My deadlifts don't make me as dizzy. I'm adding pounds to my squats weekly. But what really gave it away? Well, truth be told, the law of averages. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Now wait, don't jump to conclusions. I'm not getting "math happy" here. But some things I make use of in my everyday life and stuff. Not like measuring baking ingredients, but the law of averages. Like for example, the percentile growth of the amount of times my BBF grabs a handful while walking through the room... Yup, self diagnoses, founded in scientific studies. That's my statistical analysis; ass-grab-squat-ratio. Take that Statistics 101... </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">In the meantime, I swear this is important. I took my swollen ass to the pool last night. I was dreading the cramps. They seem so unavoidable. I've been waiting to readjust to the whole swimming thing before starting to swim "drills" and practicing different strokes etc. The cramps have been winning. Off to the pool I went last night. BBF set to run loops outside while I swam. Love is... love is... postponing a run until your batgirlfriend (BGF) is ready to plunge into the chlorine for 70 mins. Oh and can we drive to a different town? They happen to have an hour earlier swim... I am a pain in the ass. The good news is, I have one of those amazing BBF's who's crazy enough to run loops for endless hours (and I mean endless)... just about anywhere. Love is being fully aware his love of running is way bigger than me?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">So I'm swimming. I have to tell you the swimming in open water is so different. In open water I get to tie myself to you. I get to shut off completely and just be there. I get to lose myself to the boyancy and forgiving nature of the water. I get to trust you'll steer us. I get to, just, swim. And man I love that. I love that feeling of the push back the water gives against my fingertips. I love knowing that it's a relationship between me and oxygen and effort that keeps me afloat. I love knowing I can. For hours I can just... push back and glide through. Have you ever swam so long the water feels as heavy and thick as jello? Have you ever swam so far you can't remember how to make your legs work walking under gravity after returning to land? Have you ever just, meditatited with each stroke? It's a magical feeling. Anyway, I'm swimming. In the pool. I'm swimming. And not even 1000m in my feet and calves start to pull and twist. I'm more than angry. I even took a salt pill before getting in the water to try and prevent this. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Pay attention batgirl. Your body is talking here. Pay attention. The water is not your enemy. Think think think. Oh man I've been working so hard at building strength. I even brought my SAS to the swim with me, you'd think... wait a minute. Wait a minute! That's it! What's the point of having glute strength if you aren't going to use it? Coach's voices in my head... they whisper: If your kick isn't coming from the glute, stop swimming, plank more on land so you float higher in the water. This is the problem. This is my issue. Epiphany. I was so excited I nearly choked on the water, giggling to myself.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I have been swimming - like a runner. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Worse.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I have been swimming, like a bloody ultra runner!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Once I corrected the kick, once I started floating my tush higher in the water, my cramps went away. My swim times were faster by the 100 meter measure and I was actually moving! Nearly out of breath by the end of my swim, but so so happy to have "solved" this issue. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Today - bike 70 min... yep that's it. no stretching AGAIN... this week is just too busy.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Week 2 day 5 - </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The mat under me is laughing. I hear it laughing. Try to pull this off without stretching. Try. You're not 20 you know. I'm aware. It's my batcub2's 15th birthday today. Trust me, I'm aware. Stupid bendy stuff left me. Oh dear god what was I thinking... Muscle fibres screaming. They scream while the mat laughs. Surely this is worse than talking to myself? Shut up mat. Shut up mat, or I'll get my BBF to kick your ass. Shut up muscle spindles. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial", "tahoma", "helvetica", "freesans", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I gotta get out more. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial", "tahoma", "helvetica", "freesans", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Or lift stuff. Maybe I should lift stuff. Yeah. That will help.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial", "tahoma", "helvetica", "freesans", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Note to self; when lifting a snatch, double check ceiling height before starting.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial", "tahoma", "helvetica", "freesans", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">today - stretching 30 min, strength 30 min, run 62 min.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial", "tahoma", "helvetica", "freesans", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Week 2 Day 6 - </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif;">I've been looking forward to this day. I've been craving it. A chance to take my batcub3, so eager eyed and hungry, out for a run. A chance for him to realize he's a superstar. 9 year old and 5k together. I hope he remembers this stuff. I hope he looks back and thinks wow... life skills... I did that. We did that. Maybe life gets hard, maybe it gets carried away, maybe it takes your breath away sometimes. But we can use that energy for something. All my cubs were with me in Boston in the bad year. They all have to deal with a different side of the coin we shared that day. I hope they don't forever associate running with "running away", with terror and fear. I hope they can join others and run together like this often. Or at </span><span style="font-family: "arial", "tahoma", "helvetica", "freesans", sans-serif;">least</span><span style="font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif;"> participate. Volunteer. Build community. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif;">Inclusive community.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif;">Today - 90 min of running. But more </span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">importantly watching my batcub3 smile and feel proud.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Week 2 day 7 -</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">family focus regroup day... unplanned rest day. It appears we're under attack by some plague... And man I shoulda stretched more.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">End of week thoughts? Training is tough. Not the training part, the fitting it in part, the deciding if you're sick or just lazy and tired. The inner voice struggles are so present on a down week. Why did I pick such a crazy goal? What was I thinking? Listening to your body is key. Knowing that sometimes you need to push through and other times not. My biggest concern... learning is not as important these days as 'unlearning'. Unpacking old beliefs and baggage is going to be a big big issue for the next few months me thinks. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Do you have things to let go of? </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824404417850731016.post-63615619648395217482017-02-06T17:52:00.001-08:002017-02-06T17:52:36.743-08:00Let The Anvil Fall.... Week One: I WAS IN THE POOL!The Double Anvil (4.8 mile swim, 224 mile bike, 52.4 mile run.. 8% vision)<br />
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T-Minus 242 days 11 hours 31 minutes and 50 seconds...<br />
<br />
Well sometimes I think this training blind stuff is 'normal'. I guess that's true, since it is MY normal. Sometimes I think it's annoying. Organizing the run based on availability of guide, or in the cover of darkness. Speaking to the life guard and other lane occupants to explain why I may unknowingly swim directly into them. Or why I may walk into the mens change room from time to time. Sometimes I think it's entertaining. <br />
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Once in a while I remember I'm doing it for reasons outside of myself; to work towards creating change in this highly ablest world of disability and sport. <br />
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They call this "training"; I'm not so sure? One week and I'm cringing at the thought of setting tomorrow's alarm. I'm dreading the calculations of minutes, seconds, distance, and calories. Dreading may not the right word. I'm desperately attempting to out-source my math. I'm texting my son in class time to ask conversion on units. I'm emailing pictures of my bike pedometer (sorry maybe that's a cadence monitor?) of before and after my ride, to my BBF (batboyfriend) to read and subtract because not only can I not see it, I have no clue how to reset it. <br />
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And then there's the spreadsheet. Don't get me started. Suffice to say glitter glue and coloured pencils don't help me with averages and percentiles. The ceiling on this is too high. I out-sourced the creation of my spreadsheet too.<br />
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And now, on a Sunday night I sit with my Batgirl journal, all its lines etched in ink and minutes averaged out, and the calendar, and the appointment book, and the work schedule and yes... even the days I need an extra three minutes in the shower to shampoo my hair. I guess, making the plan, is a bit like making my own map. How to get there - this place where I am that person who can swim 4.8 miles tethered to a near stranger, tandem bike 224 miles with the same near stranger and then run a double marathon guided by what I can only assume will be a tired not so strange stranger, in 36 hours - from here. Here. Where the heck is that anyway?<br />
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Either way, I decided the plan is 35 weeks long and if I don't write about the chaos in my head as the journey goes... Well then I might actually explode, or at the very least drive my family nuts. So how did week one go? Oh boy.. let me open a door for you, paint a picture for you...<br />
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Jan 30 2017, week 1, day 1 -<br />
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When I was little, I never wrote the year on anything. It was as if I didn't expect life to be quite that big that it took up so much space; that one calendar seemed enough. Twelve entire pages. Isn't that long enough? Don't they know how long that is? I can hardly wait until dinner, let alone 11 move pages. <br />
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When I was a teenager I never wrote the year. It was an absolute defiance that one day I might forget I'm here now, living this. Isn't once bloody well enough? I remembered everything dammit. How could you forget such things? I'll not grow old anyway. Too many pages for me.<br />
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.... too many pages for me.<br />
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Oh but how I love the blank page. Its offerings, its peace, its pure potential in time and space. Imagine all the possibilities in the world, all the worlds you could write about, create, invent... the stories you might spin. Yet I always land exactly here. In my head just here. Rehashing the obvious lack of dates over too many pages. Forever counting down, or up, to ... something. Usually with cold tea perched close by, wondering if any of it means something at all.<br />
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Today - swim 53 min, strength 39 min, core 15 min, run 61 min<br />
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Jan 31 2017, week 1, day 2 -<br />
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Yesterday I ventured to the gym. This is a big deal. New spaces, unmemorized steps, corners, couches, tables, weight plates, and people. UGH I don't like people. I don't trust people. They keep moving. They keep changing their clothes. They smell different. They are very nearly unmemorable. I don't like feeling "different" in a group of people. Can you tell I'm disabled? I mean, if I wasn't bumping into that squat rack, or swinging my white cane around.. if I just acted like you... sigh. I am not you.<br />
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I don't like being obvious. But man, if I don't open up my cane to walk the pool deck then you might not know. And that, might be deadly.<br />
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The weight room was busy. Older men doing, and redoing the bicep curl, the tricep extension and the chest fly machine. Closed chain exercises. Twenty times through eight reps, and I could hear the swing and plink of the weights from the bike. Why? It's a circuit. CIRCUIT... not circus. Those muscles aren't going to change staring at them. Swing and plink. I'll just pedal. Counting minutes. Thinking to myself, that's okay, I'll see you in my massage therapy treatment room in a few weeks complaining of an overuse injury. I sat on the edge of a spin bike, on the edge. Always on the edge.<br />
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That a good sun. Good? Evil. Windowed room. I'm forever on the edge of normal, this cusp setting. Stupid three sided windowed room is so scary. Moving parts. I like my edge. I'm aware I keep myself here more than they keep me here. On the edge of the room in the relative safety. <br />
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Then it happened. A public plank. I can't think think about this in hindsight. When I"m in my basement shaking, quivering, holding on like a shipwrecked pirate ; I'm pretty dam sure I seem as a drowning alligator must. A fury under the shake to simply just hold on one second longer. ONE SECOND LONGER. My life in seconds. My hatred for this world, its expectations of my expectations in one more bloody second. A war in my soul. The quiet corner so picked to hold this plank was bursting over the room with a silent scream for ONE MORE SECOND.<br />
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Three planks total 5:45, 2:30, 1:30.<br />
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... but that was yesterday. This is today.<br />
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It's 4:19am; the laundry is half washed. Yesterdays aches are filling my head as I stretch, as I convince my muscles... stretch. I fit stuff in. I squish and twist until 39.43 seconds counts. If I love you, my greatest gift is time. Never forget that. It's so hard to invent time.<br />
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From the planks to the pool yesterday, my 2000m swim took me nearly 53 mins. Disgraceful I tell you. I'm ashamed. Dam you world for expecting my expectations. And the toe cramps? Fucking awful. Just awful.<br />
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Following the bike, the planks, the swim, there was a fitness test yesterday. This makes me giggle. The assessor, the would be coach, with his terrible boredom and uninterested tone. Darling, should you not be inspiring? Things I found out during my fitness assessment; My squat form is just fine, the lunges illustrate my balance is not good. The medicine balls are stored in the corner fifteen paces before the stack of mats. More and more ... he could actually nap. I feel it oozing from him. "What are your fitness goals?" me... not dying reinventing myself (in my head though? Getting away from you, I fear it's contagious) Lets time your plank now. Egads batman, where were you 90 minutes ago? He counted up by uninterested 5's. At 1:45 he actually paid attention. At 2:00 minutes he walked all the way around to check my form. At 2:10 when I couldn't hold on any longer he actually saw me. Too funny... where were you before I swam and biked and planked already?<br />
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Yesterday ended with an hour run. I'm tired. The kinds of tired that soaks you up and calls you for snuggles. The perfect time for an insomniac attack right?<br />
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And today? I'm hoping to survive. Glad I've stretched, although man it makes my handwriting such a squibble. And the laundry calls.<br />
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...<br />
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Lifting weights seems so odd to me. Lift things that are fine where they are. Pick them up - put them down. Why? So I can hurt the next day apparently. My arms feel like they're dragging on the ground, like I'm an Ape doing a post ultra shuffle ... Great, now I'm stuck on the letter "A", obviously... alligator, apes... oh and I'm craving popcorn. Do Apes eat popcorn? Can they lift their arms to do so? Oh and I could nap. Is napping part of this "plan"? Let me check the spreadsheet.<br />
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today - bike 30 min, strength 40 min, core 10 min, stretch 20 min<br />
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Feb 1 2017, week 1 day 3 -<br />
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My body hates me. Or this is how I feel. The urge to pee lifted me from sleep around 1:30am. But the first movement, that first wiggle hurt down to my toes and back. I don''t know why they call it DOMS (Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness). There not much delayed about it. You move, it fucking hurts. My arms hate me for yesterdays 7:15 min plank, for the french presses. I was hovered there on the yoga ball, a 15 lb dumbbell overhead descending behind ... thinking, well this is dumb. What doesn't kill you, gives you DOMS? how do you stop this? <br />
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Of course the only way to avoid DOMS is to lift more regularly. Yeah. Try telling yourself that while falling ungracefully onto the toilet seat because yesterdays deadlifts have rendered you incompetent mid squat to eloquently lower yourself. Oh my god... I'm going down! You know you could avoid this in future by adding weight or reps to those deadlifts right? THUNK.... really? Helpful thanks. Or , or, heres a thought, I could instal hand rails beside the toilet, they'd be useful after 100 mile races anyway. This was my thinking as I fell at 1:32am. Please please let the boys have put the seat down?<br />
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But up now to stretch again at 5sm. And they all sleep. I'm blown away at how far away my toes are this morning. Look up... wayyyyy up...<br />
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In other news, I survived yesterday without a nap. There should be some award for that shit. Today's pool time doesn't start until 9pm. Should be interesting. Bring on the Alligators. <br />
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today - swim 52 min, stretch 20 min, run hills 80 min<br />
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Feb 2 2017 week 1 day 4<br />
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Busy busy bee... biked, core, stretched and lifted. Night shift day. night shift days are tough. I like to be in bed at 9pm typically. There an odd karma in watching people sleep when you're tired. Yesterdays swim was crazy. New to me pool. More unmemorized steps. Hell if I know where the ladies locker room is. I'm fully aware I came out of that door. But man if only I knew which one it was again. I went swimming at 8pm (instead of 9). The life guard explained the lay out of the pool to me; the end two lanes were currently the lane swim lanes. The middle two lanes were for the life saving youth, (great I'd get to hear a chorus of "HELP" as I swam... try ignoring that with your eyes closed!) Okay and I was assigned the lane rope right between them both. Excellent, increased risk of being kicked in the head by a 10 year old. Gotta love adventure.<br />
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The thing about me and swimming, once I'm in the water, there's no white cane buffer to explain to others that I'm legally blind. They honestly have no idea (and by rights neither do I) that I'm going to rudely blast head on into them if they come my way. Oops sorry, oops pardon me. Just stick to the lane rope batgirl. Todays self talk. Stay on the edge, again. Surely the guard will tell them. Surely the guard will let them know. There's no possible way they've changed shifts and this guard has no clue. One two three breathe. Please don't die. Stick to the lane rope. Maybe I should actually try paying attention? Like actually try and look up? Ugh I hate looking. It's exhausting. And I always... get... dam...<br />
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water in my ears.<br />
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Man this tri stuff must be incredibly hard when you can see. Oh no... Oh no... TOE CRAMPS!!!!<br />
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I'm sinking. I'm gonna die. Worse no one will hear my "help" over the life saving 10 year olds. Oh no... this is it... I'll never kick again! Oh who am I kidding? I'm a runner, we never kick anyway.<br />
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Out of the pool, find the change room door. Is it this one? Yes, the distant squeals of hair drying little girls. This one. Why, why do I always run 90 mins of hill repeats before coming to the pool?<br />
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today - bike 30 min, strength 30 min, core 20 min, stretch 20 min<br />
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Feb 3 2017 week 1 day 5<br />
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today REST DAY Just shut up<br />
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Feb 4 2017 week 1 day 6 -<br />
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Oh I've been waiting for this day. Today we go to a snowshoe race. 6km of floundering in the woods on invisible white ground in this insanity they call winter. Where every little hill is buried in the back drop of nothingness. Wait my friends are all here. I get to just have fun today. I don't hear your feet? Did you cut them off? What do you mean root middle? I can't jump in these shoes? oh oh oh I get to step ON the root. Whoa. Weird.<br />
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These people have no idea how much I love them, how brave I think they are, how tolerant of me they've become, how insanely grateful I am... How bearable they make 'sport' for me. <br />
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Guides. Otherwise known as my family.<br />
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today - 60 min of snowshoeing<br />
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Feb 5 2017, week 1 day 7,<br />
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Sleep escapes me. This is not unusual for me, I suppose. This plan, this week of this plan, had so little run time I worry. I worry and I miss it. My body remembers how I'm certain. But still. There's an ache.<br />
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I'm ending this week with a group run. Today we ran the Waterloo half marathon route. This is a race (42.2km) I'm booked to run at the end of April, the day after running 50km at Pick Your Poison. It's a winter wonderland out there. Blowing snow and mismatched run clothes. Layers upon layers to hide in. Thirteen people came to run, several more to volunteer. Again, I am blown away a the community. It amazes me how many people need sport in their lives. Plan a run and they come. <br />
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We jumped snowbanks and dodged snowplows. We spread out along the 21kms of road by our comfortable speed. And yet, we ran together.<br />
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Sport is like that; sometimes apart and quiet, but always collective, always together. At the end of my week one, here I am... hoping beyond hope that this "togetherness" in some way includes disability too...<br />
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today - 160min running, 25 min of stretchingAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824404417850731016.post-82092434652007822332016-10-03T17:54:00.001-07:002016-10-03T17:54:45.950-07:00The Missing"I hate you!"<br />
"No you don't!"<br />
"Oh yes I do, I absolutely do!"<br />
"Fine! Just Fine!"<br />
"Fine!"<br />
"... I hated you first! I hated you for so so long, I'm sure you knew!'<br />
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Then it happened, just like that. I don't know how we got here.<br />
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We were having it. We were having it and didn't care if the world witnessed our graceless decent.<br />
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Hallway sex.<br />
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"Oh F@%K YOU!'<br />
"No baby, no... F@%K YOU!"<br />
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And that was it. Doors slammed. Caution thrown to the wind. Feelings set on fire, unforgivable hurt. Edges of daggers everywhere you look. Not the kind of moment you 'get over'. Not the kind of fight you 'forget'. We were, and have since been, officially broken up.<br />
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Do you know that feeling? When the ground shakes and all you believed in loses its meaning? When you aren't sure which way to look at the world to avoid breaking out in random senseless tears...<br />
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I still have the shirt I wore the last time we were together, it hangs in my laundry room under the pretences of 'not quite fitting in that load'. I'm afraid to lose that smell, the last of us together. The last time we held each other close. <br />
<br />
I used to feel so safe there, all wrapped up in that sweaty embrace. Safe but simultaneously thrilled, as if on the edge of some dangerous life changing epic adventure. Oh how being together could change my world view. How it could move mountains for me. Or maybe how we moved mountains together?<br />
<br />
Now I'm stuck in this hurtful bubble. This place of unknowing. People whisper, that's okay, there are other fish in the sea. They tell me the memories will fade, that soon I'll find happiness again. But I don't think they understand. I don't think they get it. <br />
<br />
Maybe they've not known a love like this before? Maybe that pull, that tug, that unstoppable longing to be together has never taken ahold of their souls like mine. I feel sad for them. Or I would, if I were feeling. I've given up feeling, since we've been apart, since I've been abandoned here, to my misery.<br />
<br />
Bricks and mortar. Bricks and mortar. You can't see me. I'm hiding. Rebuilding my armour. Collecting my pieces of self from the ashes left on the ground. Oh look there's some more. I wouldn't dare let on how deeply this loss has hurt me, how much my insides are out. I'm hiding from everyone. Admittedly sharing your vulnerability is as graceful as sharing your strength. But my wounded heart will have none of it. <br />
<br />
Mostly I'm hiding from myself. <br />
<br />
Yes that's right.<br />
<br />
From myself.<br />
<br />
I have banned all self talk until future notice. You know that saying, if you have nothing nice to say? Nice? Nice... What fucking planet are you on anyway? Nice. Here I had thought I'd found someone I could just be myself with... forever. Someone I could trust. Someone who accepted my strengths and weaknesses. And oh how there were weaknesses. So so many weaknesses. Cracks in the foundations of my everything. But together made me whole. I was unstoppable. I could put on a brave face each and every day and step out into the light.<br />
<br />
And holy hell, do I hate the light.<br />
<br />
But I would face it together. And all the dark, gnarly bits too. It filled me to the brim with such belief and hope.<br />
<br />
We keep bumping into each other, every day, in such unavoidable ways. I see everyone else's smile. Brightening up everyone else's life, with such bliss and joy. Throwing compliments out like they're going out of style. I see all the photobombing in all their pictures, making them glow, making them giggle, doing everything to make me jealous, envious, angry... more compounded hurt.<br />
<br />
But you can't see me. Bricks and mortar. I build this wall. My new safe place. Tucked away. Dreading the day I have to come out again.<br />
<br />
Friends say, just think of the fun you'll have, starting again. Fun? Oh my goodness I hate the tentative flirting, the hopeful tippy toe steps, the careful breathing, the kind words, the appraisal, the dancing around schedules, the playing who's turn is it, the sharing of intimate details that I swore I never would again. <br />
<br />
The daring to trust again.<br />
<br />
The very thought makes me nauseous.<br />
<br />
Bricks and mortar. I don't want someone new. I want my familiar, my known, my comfortable, my safe, my knows me well enough to finish my sentence. But my inner compass is still spinning hurtfully. Bricks and mortar. We can't fix this, neither of us willing to sit down and dialogue. Neither of us willing to bend the rules, change up the game, lower expectations.<br />
<br />
I won't do this again. I won't put myself out there. I won't allow for the potential of hurt again. I won't... We used to talk for hours. We used to carelessly stay up all night and watch the stars shine, and the moon fade, and the sun come up. We used to be present. We used to share. We used to...<br />
<br />
I am full of guilt. I never said how I felt, how I adored. I never said the words 'I love you. I love you more than my breath. You make my world make sense. You take my stresses, my frustrations, my fears and break them down into manageable bits. You are what makes me sleep well at night, what I jump up in the morning with excitement for. I love you. I love you and I hardly even know you. We've only just begun to know each other. Why are you leaving? What have I done to deserve being left behind?'<br />
<br />
And yet.... no self talk. Not yet. The hurt is still too new, too raw, too fragmented, too sharp. With every whispered 'come back' I'm flinging around assaults like 'never accepted me on my terms' and 'always felt like a struggle to be with you, like I had to prove myself every second, like I couldn't just be, that I had to constantly be better' I'm sick of trying to fit into a mold you've created for me. I think I'm enough right here.<br />
<br />
But that's a big lie. I do not think I am enough. Never ever have I thought that. Not for one second.<br />
<br />
So wait....<br />
<br />
How does this work? <br />
<br />
Chissel out the grout around a single brick... stream of sunlight sneaks in. How can you expect someone to love you, to accept you, to take you for what you have, and offer, and expect nothing else from you; if you don't accept yourself on your own terms?<br />
<br />
How frustrating. How endlessly aggravating. <br />
<br />
I have lost my best friend. I have lost my best lover. I have lost my favourite soul mate. <br />
<br />
But maybe that's a good thing?<br />
<br />
... a good thing? How can a good thing hurt so dam much? How can a good thing make me gasp for breath in silent sobs I'll never admit under the cover of the warm shower water? How can a good thing make food lose it's taste, make the moon lose it's allure, make my will to move evaporate quite so? <br />
<br />
I might throw bricks. I might shove things. I might have my toddler tantrum. I might cry unconsolably and make a scene. I might fuss. I might swear. I might... I might. I might...<br />
<br />
"We should talk"<br />
"I'd like that"<br />
"I don't want to hurt anymore"<br />
"I miss you too"<br />
"We can't be the way we were. I can't go back to that"<br />
"We weren't all bad? We had some awesome times..."<br />
"On your terms. It must be on mine this time. Or we can't ever be again"<br />
"I see. Let's talk about your terms. Let's see what they are. I'm thinking we could compromise?"<br />
"I can't keep up. We have to slow down. I don't like the rush. I like the journey. I love getting lost with you, not knowing where I am, but feeling safe all the same. I can't do this with guilt anymore"<br />
"You can't blame me for everything. You can't look for excuses. We both have to work at this. Fast or slow, we have to be in this together.... that's the only way it works"<br />
"I don't like the jealousy you create. I have to spend time with others, doing other things. I have to smile more and stress less"<br />
"Okay... one more thing..."<br />
"Yes?"<br />
"Have you washed that shirt yet?"<br />
<br />
I'm not sure what it all means. We haven't actually met again yet. I haven't dared reaching out yet. But we're talking. Talking is a step right?<br />
<br />
We're talking. And my friends and I are planning to rent a bulldozer to knock down a few bricks in the wall...<br />
<br />
Friends are how you get through these awful breakups I think.<br />
<br />
Especially when your breakup was with your third Run Streak on what would have been day 480. <br />
<br />
Next time baby... next time... on my terms. <br />
<br />
And oh how I miss you... and oh how missing you hurts...<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824404417850731016.post-54582442471226720922016-04-24T14:21:00.000-07:002016-04-24T14:21:16.955-07:00Foundations Of SelfSelf designated, self designed, self imposed, self conscious, self transposed...<br />
<br />
Selfish<br />
<br />
But there's therapy there too, I think. <br />
<br />
Today I'm denying question marks; let them be the forget-me-nots of another worry.<br />
<br />
Self denial. Oh I've lived there. Self potential. Self advocated. That's a scary place to visit.<br />
<br />
Self talk. It haunts me. Especially when I run, when I plan a run, when I meet someone for a run, when I'm thinking about a run I had, a run I should have had, a race I could have run better, faster, more graceful.<br />
<br />
In the dark, on the road, in the quiet, before you wake... I'm out there. Running. Jogging. Shuffling. Moving. Praying. Don't let the dogs out. Don't let the skunks wake up. Don't let there be black ice blending into the shadows. Don't let there be a lot of cars and their shiny lights. Don't let the streets be empty either. Don't let there be strangers, strange noises, strange sounds. <br />
<br />
Don't give me another reason to stay home. <br />
<br />
I don't need one.<br />
<br />
Head lamp a-lit along the sidewalk I will stumble on hours later to take the bus to work. Reflective vest, reflective bands, stand out, shout out, look here, watch out. Such a contrast to the soul I tend to hide the rest of my day. Hoping not to be noticed making mistakes while crossing the road, while squinting at price tags in the grocery store, while cutting the grass into crooked rows. Memorized steps.<br />
<br />
I know this route. Self talk invades; it may have changed. I know this way. But it's rained since you've come. I know this curb, that step, those garden gnomes, garbage cans (not people - don't say hi). I missed that guard rail. Over dodged that construction pylon. Tripped up on the shadow following me. My shadow. Calm down. It's just running.<br />
<br />
Breath escapes me here. Never have I uttered such a lie. <br />
<br />
Who am I kidding? Who is there to fool? Stop unbalancing the only piece that makes any sense at all. Finally helpful self talk. Finally productive self judgment. <br />
<br />
Finally, a sense of some kind of self.<br />
<br />
It's never "just" a run. Ever.<br />
<br />
It can set you free, can make you step out of the everything holding you back. It can make the world shine, it can set it aglow. It can be the 'hard' thing to get you through all the other hard things. It can be self defining. Yes... It can be the reason to get up, the reason to go to bed, the reason to reach, to try, to train, to focus, to create that sense of... of... of..<br />
<br />
selfishness....<br />
<br />
Doesn't there have to be, by default, some selfishness to your sense of self.. Maybe...<br />
<br />
I don't need another reason to stay home. I have a million already. No guide, no time, no dark hours, no good weather, no energy, no hope, no breath, no self belief, no sense of safety, no sense of my-self. <br />
<br />
No; it's never "just" a run. Do not take it for granted. A step you take is a step from where you are, a step into who you are, who you want to be, who you trust you might be.<br />
<br />
Today no question. Today no doubt worth breeding. Today, a run. <br />
<br />
Tomorrow, a run.<br />
<br />
Foundations of a self I might like to meet someday.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824404417850731016.post-6091740529614069842016-04-09T17:57:00.002-07:002016-04-09T17:57:12.947-07:00They say the gate is yellow<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal;">
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Flecks of paint along the metal rail, the gate I would not touch until it was time to cross it. They say the gate is yellow. Yellow like the colour of the feeling in my toes. My intention was bigger than my strength. They say the gate is yellow. I’m not so sure. When i finally did reach out to it, all I felt were flecks of paint clinging to a history I could not know. A history hidden in the road beyond, embedded in the flesh and blood of many who charged bravely, willingly beyond, into the 'out there'. </span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">All I can do is follow. All I can do is beg to be led. All i can do is fight off the darkness that grips my heart and anchors me to the 'impossibilities' I’ve been forced to accept for what seems like ever.</span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">I’ll stop. </span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Full stop. </span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Before we get too far, before you lose yourself in the park along the mountain ridge on the opposite side of the summit and off the map you’ve attempted to trace. </span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">I’ll stop.</span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">I'll grant you the safety net to retreat back to camp, back to the waiting arms of the ones who love you, support you, and all your sense of adventure... the ones who pray the hardest when you set out. </span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">This is not your typical race recap. And if that's your pleasure, please stop reading. I can't give you Barkley secrets, I can't tell you how to enter, what a complete loop entails, or even what the famous chicken tastes like. But here, in what follows, I can give you a little piece of my experience. Eyes closed, here we go...</span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">This race, this euphoric culmination of insane improbability, has called to me since the finishing of my very first trail race. One of my new found cohorts in the ultra world posted their condolences. Early 2013. Condolences. My constant reminder when I stand at any start line ... I chose this. Condolences fit so well. Being legally blind means a number of things. Most typically, in the ultra trail genre, it means accepting that things will suck until a path is made to make a space for what disabled participation looks like. The thing about ultra running.... it is the challenge that most people love; to reach beyond what we accept as possible. </span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">I can't count the number of emails I have sent to race directors asking to be allowed to participate in events. The response has been overwhelmingly positive. Coming from a world where I have lost job interviews when my disability is disclosed, my experience with acceptance in the ultra world is optimistic. There have been some that will not flex any rule. Not the pacer times, or the cut off times or what have you. For the most part, I am most accepted on the trail. Road racing tends to be the most difficult to navigate. That's really okay with me. My heart is lost there on the hillside, on some mystical single track, some blazed ridge off in the sunset. My soul loves to tangle near the escarpments edge, where all disability buffers have fallen off and guard rails are as invisible as my next steps.</span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Why Barkley? </span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Do you have a minute? Can you take a minute? This is difficult to explain. With disability, comes expected failure. Disability is the 'other', the lacking, the 'almost' but not quite normal. It comes with expected failure. It also comes with celebration of small success. So here is this race, where everyone is expected to give until their guts bleed and still will most likely fail. I can't honestly think of a place I fit in more. </span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Can you imagine living your entire life under an expected failure umbrella? </span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Barkley. Because I can fail in good company. </span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Barkley. Because I am just stubborn enough to gather strength from that.</span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Barkley. Because, dammit, it is the least likely place you'd ever expect to find disability.</span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Graciously, courageously, and under not illusion of grandeur, Race director Laz returned my email, saying yes I could have a guide and make an attempt. But when the time came, I had no such willing party. It seemed no one wanted to be responsible for the real potential of death of a blind girl. Which I found funny. They trust me to cross roads, navigate city transit, raise children, go to work, find the edge of the pool at the gym, chop and prepare dinner... all on my own. But not climb mountains. Unwavering in my faith that the world will eventually come around to knowing that disability is more than just the space holder for the edges of your normal, I emailed Laz back to say I could not find a willing soul this year. But most certainly he'd hear from me again. </span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">I went running with my Steven one Sunday afternoon. He stopped mid stride, dove into the ditch and emerged with an abandoned license plate. "You're going to need this" he said. It doesn't appear that way... was all I could think. But Steven insisted I not give up direction on following my dream just because of hurdle. "It's not what you do" he said. He packed the plate away in his pack and we carried on. </span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">By email I was introduced to a fellow who agreed to try guiding the Barkley. If you stood at the yellow gate and counted this year, you'd have found there were 41 of us. This gift, this chance, this space, completely unreal. I owe so much to Laz for searching for a guide for me. I owe so much more to the brave Christian who took on the challenge of guiding.</span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Imagine taking on something so dark and scary you know you'll come apart. Knowing and still accepting that challenge as a gift, a chance, a place to stand your ground and, well, just simply, TRY. Now back step. Imagine taking that on and taking someone else's life in your hands at the same time. This is exactly what Christian did. The Barkley is no trail run. It is no single track. No mountain race. It is struggle. It is survival. It is your worst possible fears served sweetly with a side of arsenic. Neither Christian or I entered this challenge without that knowledge. But truth be told, you just simply don't know the things you don't know.</span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Standing at the start line behind that supposed yellow gate, in such good company, my thoughts were simply "Well dam, open mouth, insert foot" Now the world was watching. This is my life's purpose; cause a stir, create awareness, make space. This is the hardest thing I do... raised within the boundaries of the backdrop of "I can't" every breath is a dog fight of turning off that soundtrack and beating a new drum. The thing is, here I was, like always, surrounded by 'real' runners. Those who have actual athletic reasons to stand there. I'm not the least bit fast, not the least bit strong, can't climb worth a dam. My only strength is stubbornness. I talk my way into these things and then find myself tangled in the actual issues of pulling them off. </span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Not sure Christian believed me when I said I'd never been on a mountain before. That set the tone for the next while.</span></div>
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<span class="" style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">So we climbed. And climbed. And climbed. Go get yourself some tea. I'll be here, stuck in the memory of that endless climb, watching the bobbing heads ahead disappear. Ok that didn't take too long, I could only see them for about ten clear feet. But I did get to hear them go. They seemed to dissipate. Like they were overtaking the mountain. Gone gone gone ahead. And me, one foot then the other. Slow, painfully slow ascent. The easiest one on the loop to start us off. Up and up and up, to see the world from outside my lens. Up and up and up and voices in my head; shouldn't, couldn't, wouldn't. Up and up and up... touch the sky, touch the clouds. Up to where the wind cares not what you see, what you feel, what you think. Where the wind on one side of the mountain kisses your cheek and on the other slaps your ass so hard you fall over. Up where your echo dances away the thoughts of all your edges. </span></div>
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I couldn't read a compass to save my life. If I have any wisdom to depart in this mishmash of madness, it is this. They should have tactile compasses. Have you seen a braille watch? Lift the glass that covers the watch face, and feel the arms? Yes well, they should make a compass version. I was cursing engineers everywhere for not inventing this for the entire race.</div>
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The thing about Barkley, one of the things about Barkley, you're bound to get lost. And that's okay, expected actually. I do not know any pair who did this quite as well as Christian and I did. Let me jump ahead... At the end of the day; no that's wrong, at the end of the next day, we'd covered maybe 8 actual miles on the loop, and about 50 extra miles just to ensure how lost we were. Don't kid yourself, I didn't go to do anything but stir the pot. So in that right, I think it was a successful venture.</div>
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On the first off trail down the mountain, my trekking pole strap broke. I love my poles. They make me feel safe, invincible, sturdy. So here, some 2 hours in, was my first reminder that I am none of those things. Repaired and down again. Down and down again. We reached a bench. Now wait. I'm new to all this. Not a park bench. A flatfish three foot wide grassy bit of the mountain. An old mining bench? Our instructions were to look for book one on this bench. I was so happy. Hell I'd just come off a mountain. Two feet, level ground, knew exactly where I stood. Neither here nor there, Truth be told only half way down the mountain. But two feet firmly planted. Christian wasn't certain which direction the rock under which the book would be. "You go left, I'll go right" and I strode off. Pretty sure he was concerned. Can you do that? Your Steven might kill me if he knew. "It's a bench. I promise to stop if my feet don't line up" And besides... my Steven would have expected me to take off like that. Looking under rocks was my next 30 minutes. Rocks on the grassy bench, half way down (up?) a mountain. Quick mom... turn off netflixs. I'm certain this is the easy part. </div>
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More diving into the unknown. Down and down and compass bearings. Down and down and streams coming together. Down and down and do you hear that? More streams. Instructions... if you've come down too far south, you'll see nothing. No shit. That, at least was a familiar feeling. Somewhere along that stream edge I knew we were stuck. If Jared and Gary hadn't lapped us coming to book two, we not have found it. So then what do you do when you're at the bottom of the mountain? Well if you're Laz sitting comfortably around a fire, chewing chicken... you'd plot a course up the yuckiest part of the next mountain. </div>
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Headlamps on and climbing up and up. In my pack, on my back, exactly enough supplies for 15-18 hours. More than I'd ever carried. It's just a mountain, or ten. It's just stuff. Up and up and up. Can you hear the wind? Less kissing now that the sun is gone, she is fierce and vindictive and all the voices of those who challenge my right to be here. That wind, so cruel, so heartless, trying so hard to tear me apart. To a high wall... I'm not a squirrel it turns out. Around and up and up and up. </div>
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wait...</div>
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I can't breathe.</div>
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wait...</div>
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Christian stopped. Waited and wondered what had changed. I had no footing. I had no grip. I had nothing but fear and wind in my ears. No sound of his feet. The mountain was older than anything I'd ever dug my finger into. It's history swelling up like a wrath I was not prepared for. This forest, this place, this mountain edge... voices of past wanderers. I am not hallucinating. I'm not tired. I am fearful. They do not want company. Not here. Wait. Let me breathe. Let me sink my feet into the ground with hope and lightness. But no. The wind would not relent. And the climb continued. </div>
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Book three in hand. And down the other side of the mountain. Gratefully out of the wind.</div>
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Down and down and down again. Round and round. Not a soul breathing. But water ahead. Water that washed my feet of every ache and tenderness. Water through the mountain, like a gift from the heavens. But cold feet get colder though the night. Later we'd return to this ditch and tuck ourselves in that crevasse to stay warm and reread the map for the hundredth time. Later I'd curse my were feet and shaking hands. Later, so much later I would beg the skies to swallow me up, and take me whole. Later I would think that heaven must be a warm place... because this hell, this hell I asked for was colder than death. Unforgiving wind and lost on a map. No tactile compass. And poor Christian listening to me whine about being cold, while he shivered in a t-shirt.</div>
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I called it. I said I quit. Here, somewhere after book four, I knew there was a road. It was supposed to take us back to camp. We followed a 'road' for two hours of down. Down and down the mountain. The sun came up. We warmed enough to speak again. And knew we weren't going back to camp on this road. So lost we couldn't even quit. Laughing we turned around and climbed two more hours up and up. Back to book four. Back in a race no one knew we'd quit. </div>
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May as well look for book 5 right?</div>
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The Mountains laughed at this. They taunted and teased and dared our descent down the wrong summit. Over here... this way... try this way... Hours ticked by. Packs grew lighter. That's okay though, the space the food took up was being recycled with more doubt. Doubt... Again the Doubt... And then...</div>
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And then...</div>
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Army helicopters. Two of them. Circling above. We'd been gone hours. More than a day. Our foggy brains took on the mob mentality that we were being searched for. Perhaps my crew back at camp was too distraught with the knowledge that I couldn't have carried enough food to survive. Perhaps Laz himself didn't want the blood of a blind girl on his yellow gate. Peeling bits of blood and guts of those I do not know, splattered on that gate. Quitters road is long indeed.</div>
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We went back to the water drop, the place where the riddled instructions told us there was a road out to camp. The "RIGHT" road. Again we failed to find this road. We found ourselves at a fork where a jeep road intersected a gravel road. Standing, compass reading, deciding; we heard a noise. I turned to my guide, my companion, my new life long friend...</div>
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"Ready to be rescued?" </div>
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A beat up old pick up truck came rumbling down the mountain we'd just been on. After some discussion about how to return to camp, they asked if the choppers were for us. "We think they might be"... They offered to drive us to the fire tower trail. So in the back of the truck we hopped. I did not hop... Clambered. Heaved. Heavy with the knowledge that now, there was no turning back. We had officially DQ'd. </div>
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We got comfortable.</div>
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That's not right.</div>
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I think Christian may have had a nap. I, on the other hand, was nearly paralyzed. Winding, turning, speeding gravel down the side of a mountain. The one that had seemed so angry by foot, now seemed to growl as we retreated. It yelled in my ears... Dammit Batgirl... you weren't supposed to give up. Where are you going? This is Barkley! This is the test! This is the end of all things and you quit?</div>
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... seriously.... you quit?</div>
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There was a can in the back of the truck. or a bucket. With every turn I grasped on the edge of the bed and the bucket would slam a bit into my shins. Quitter, it teased. Quitter... it taunted. QUITTER!!! it bruised... down and down and around we drove. All the things they say you can't do, batgirl... all of them... and this. </div>
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Steadfast in my decision, even in heartbreak. I knew we were hopelessly lost. I knew I did not have enough food to carry on. I knew... that in my effort, some now 29 hours of effort, there was still some message. </div>
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The truck dropped us off at the highway pull off for the tower trail. They said there were three trails. One to the prison, one to the tower, one to the camp. Somehow we took the one to the prison. We stopped at the end and found ourselves half way on rat jaw climb. I looked up. I talked to my legs. I considered trying it. But my race was done. Officially done. We retreated (again) and went to the tower. Here, after what seemed like an endless climb, we found book 9; the braille book. Helicopters were still flying around. In attempts to let them know we had been here and were alive I began searching for the page number that matched my bib. This book, perfectly fitting to my situation, had no page numbers. The pages were still attached from the braille printer. Little did I know, Laz's last minute instructions at the yellow gate, some 28 hours earlier, were to tear out a page... any page. There was no point in my taking a page that didn't match my bib. No one would know we'd been here. I left some of my personals on the water table, thinking that one of my crew could place me having been there that way. We sat on the grass, soaked up the sun. I felt the warmth of hope and promise in the sky, it wasn't to be my day, but it was to be our saving grace. Food nearly gone, water nearly empty and both of us too foggy to even refill while we sat there by the second water drop. Almost as if dropping made us less deserving of it. </div>
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Out of the game.</div>
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But, not out of the forest. </div>
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This tower, marked the half way point on this years course. Half way back to camp and still rather lost. Breathing in and out, 28 hours later, and still just as confused. </div>
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We decided to go back to the highway. Hitchhike our way back to the camp. Before we rounded the corner there was a trail that led to the camp. Some unknown distance along that candy ass trail were our people, sitting around a campfire, eating chicken, counting seconds. Heart full of the knowledge that we'd have to face them... head full of the awareness that we were down to one working headlamp and still not clear on distance between here and there... we continued back to the highway. </div>
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Running.</div>
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Running... 29 hours later. Running. And listening to Christian talk about pregnant trees and faces in the rocks. Running and knowing that finding another well rested human being was the only way out. Down and down. and down.. </div>
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We ran into a couple on their way up. Dam if they weren't hiking up the mountain faster than we were running down it. Humbling to know just how slow the ultra shuffle is. Please if you see anyone from this race, tell them bib 81 is alive? Tell them we are headed back along the highway? And in my head... tell my Steven I am sorry to have failed at this quest.</div>
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one step </div>
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another</div>
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one step</div>
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misstep</div>
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another</div>
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walking again... and now along the highway. No shoulders, white lines, crazy fast cars, movement, noise, chaos.</div>
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my nemesis. This... this... this... culture, so developed for the abled, so focused around the things I cannot do, or not well anyway. White lines, traffic, guard rails... shifting focus... maybe I'm sleeping. Sloped roads.. shuffling feet. Single goal...</div>
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be found</div>
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Then a car pulled over and asked if we needed a lift to camp. Wait I know that voice. I've heard that voice. But to be honest, I"d have taken a ride from Santa Claus if he'd pulled his sleigh up. Yes... please. A ride home.</div>
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Home. I dread that. Love that mountain side and all it's potential. All it made clear. All the hope it carried to allow other'abled participants to show up, take part, be accounted for.</div>
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The drive took 15 minutes. I can't imagine having had to walk that. The couple in the front tweeted out our picture of us to tell the world once and for all that we were in fact alive. </div>
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When we reached camp, they weren't expecting us. Oddly I felt they weren't looking for us either. Once they saw us, everyone started yelling 'RUNNER'... no no I thought, we aren't running. We drove here. 'RUNNER'... shhh...no no no...</div>
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they say the gate is yellow... of course, yellow in the sun is as invisible as your uncaught dreams. </div>
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they say the gate is yellow... but all I felt were peeling bits of paint, history etched into the metal as much as the rock under my feet. History or effort. Bits and pieces of me all over the ground, fallen like last years foliage, trodden on by overstepping awareness for a race who's prestige was in it's unknowing.</div>
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they say the gate is yellow.... perhaps it is, but i remain skeptical and hopefully ever-present enough to always question that which 'they' say is true.</div>
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Thank you Barkley Family; for accepting this rather black sheep to your fire pit. I am forever grateful.</div>
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much love,</div>
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rm</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824404417850731016.post-44139593825628554572015-10-21T19:48:00.000-07:002015-10-21T19:48:34.525-07:00No two steps the sameThree sleeps. <br />
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That's all that stands between me and that start line, that metaphorical chance to overcome myself. Three sleeps. Five road crossings. And one chance more to dance under the moonlight when no one is watching.<br />
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My head is full. Self judgement ranks too high on my priority list. At least I excepted it. At least I prepared. Spent my time huddled on the kitchen floor in the quiet before stupid o'clock settled in. On the frost covered kitchen floor, since I refuse to turn on the furnace yet. Three sleeps (almost two). Five road crossings. A bridge or two. And a mere glance in the mirror of self defeat.<br />
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I've come to know this doubt like an old friend. It twists my reality. It shakes my foundation. It forms itself into voices from my past. The little demons we all carry around. The trouble is, demons are dead weight. And my bucket is too full to offer them space. Yet I'm clinging to some sense of my reality based on the stories they tell me. Based on the whispers that wake me. The 'you can't' that clouds my better judgement. Three sleeps. Five road crossings. A bridge or two. A haunted tunnel. And this opportunity to shed some burden.<br />
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I picked this race to tackle my own idea of limit. My intention was to do the entire thing solo. No guide. Just me, alone in the dark at night. Well, that part doesn't really phase me. It's more the alone in the blazing sunlight that terrifies me. Of course I chickened out. Not sure who I'm more afraid of; the me I would have to face if I fail, or the me that I might have to face if I succeed. Three sleeps. Five road crossings. A bridge or two. A haunted tunnel. Two crew, and two loops to memorize all the steps contained within 15miles.<br />
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Of course if you know anything about Ultra, anything at all, then you know that no two steps are the same. Even if you take them upon the same ground over and over again. No two steps are the same. And the beasts that wait for you in the dark, all live in your head the rest of the day. May as well fend them off in first person. Three sleeps. Five road crossings. A bridge or two. A haunted tunnel. Two crew. 15 memorized miles. One course reroute that puts us on road for a mile. And the coping strategy of an impatient blind girl.<br />
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I've decided they're all liars. The lot of them. All the nah-sayers I've known. All the hogwash i was fed by cruel peers. Liars. They live in my head. Shorten my gait to a graceless pitter patter of tentative tip toes. Fear of the root. Fear of the rock. Fear of the unknown. Fear for the sake of fear. Or so it would seem. Three sleeps. Five road crossings. A bridge or two. A haunted tunnel. Two crew. 15 memorized miles. One course reroute. One more attempt at the coveted hundred miles. And the fidgety dance that comes with careful self negotiation before an adventure.<br />
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Why attempt a hundred miles? Why not? I'm not sure anymore. It hangs there... just out of reach. Beyond the realm of my safe place. Past my understanding of the Way Things Are. Why are they this way? Why do I accept them this way? Racing is not my happy place. Give me a trail any day. Let me be the red line that gets lost in the sunset of forever. Let me prance around the highlighted hotspots and lookouts. Let me live in my shoes longer than I have used the same tooth brush. Let me touch the trees without a clock running. Let me converse with the clouds, feel the stars, slide in the mud, run, walk, crawl until someone calls me home. But put a bib on me? Make me accountable? Three sleeps. (ok two and a half). Five road crossings. A bridge or two. A haunted tunnel. Two crew. 15 memorized miles. One course reroute. One more attempt at a hundred miles. 8% vision.<br />
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What could possibly go wrong? Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824404417850731016.post-15637949487009112982015-09-18T07:18:00.000-07:002015-09-18T07:18:42.918-07:00In Case of Fire....It strikes me there is no pause button on life. It hits me rather hard actually. There is this thought that while I'm off on some big adventure or plotting the next big goal, or training towards it, that perhaps the rest of the world holds on. In my head there is this little pin I put in it all. Assumptions of a life that will be there as I left it when I return. The faces, the places, the friends and family I knew, will surely all be the same when I turn back to face them all again. <br />
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There was this little sign above the fridge at the lake in Buckhorn, at my Grandfathers cottage. It hung above a fridge from a time I hadn't known, with a pull down handle I was sure would break off some day in my haste to retrieve the flat orange pop from its insides. From a time that seemed to stand still. Like the broken clock on the wall stuck at 2:20 for as long as I can remember. Such a silly sign, on a wooden plank that read:<br />
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In Case of Fire, Lift this Flap. <br />
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It was a standard joke in my family. Now? Can I lift it now? Of course the underside always read the same words back. I used to wonder if they'd ever change. In a time of swing sets where if you pushed enough you could catch the leaves between your toes, in a time of dock sitting, of rock sitting, of eating local bakery donuts off the fork (so as too avoid getting sticky hands), I wondered if the other side of that sign would ever change.<br />
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When you're growing up, you do so with such haste. In such a rush. Devouring the world for all its opportunity and possibility. But the coming home? That one 'safe' place? It is timeless. TV too loud because he didn't hear well. Crokinole board hanging on the wall, all the red game chips duck taped to distinguish them from the black for his two colour blind granddaughters. Little night light clipped to the head board for late night reading. Old Mill Wool Blankets on the bed. The biggest tree in the middle of the back deck. Deck built around it. Learned to gut a fish on that picnic table. Never fished again. Paddled away from the shore only to realize after I got twenty feet from it I couldn't pick it out again to land safely home without him. Learned to drive a car on those back roads. Yes, my bully skills are that honed. Convinced my wonderful mother I was deserving of the same rights as any other growing child. Not that she needed convincing. Think we traveled at maybe 20km/hr for about 10 minutes before she'd called my bluff. Yes home is timeless. It is constant. It is the evergreen of my heart.<br />
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He used to put brylecream in his hair. Came in a tube. Never once saw him with grey. Hummed to himself, unaware of how loud his little tune carried. And that record player that took up half the living room. The couch that was covered exactly the way my Nan would have left it years and years ago. He'd straighten those covers before you'd even said good bye. Seems I'm not the only one that craved the time warp. Three planks on the coffee table, the toy cars slid so easily across and onto the floor, that looped carpet that tangled around my toes. It offered me depth. A place to land. And the cars too, before the Storm trooper transport ate them up. And the brylecream that made horrible tooth paste when you weren't paying attention. <br />
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My Grandfather; my mothers father, my great aunts brother... but to me... just my grandpa. A passing I am unprepared for. A life lived for some 90 years. News that sweeps me away like the dusty dirt road that stole the bottom of my tummy on the way to the cottage. My image of the timeless 'home' becomes placeless. Or perhaps well placed, in some memory. Between the frying pan that was never washed and lived in the oven, and the stale cookies in the cupboard, I am tangled up in the thought of how to remember him. All I can grip to, cling to, is that stupid sign that hung above the fridge with the pull down handle. <br />
<br />
In Case Of Fire, Lift this Flap....<br />
<br />
And of growing up in his shadow, his endless knowing. The kind of endless resource of "how to's" that a Grandfather should have. The slobbery kiss when I greeted him every time, the 1950's rusted patio furniture, the woodpecker door knocker, the car with the its falling down upholstery, the grapefruit spoons hiding in the drawer....<br />
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Turns out, remembering a life doesn't have to have this big epic list of amazing things. It just needs to mean something to one person. All the small things piled on top of the other change the world for the better. There is no pause to your life or anyone else's. There is no reason to need one. Live every minute with a big heart and respect, and maybe a forked donut or two.<br />
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Between tears of my loss, I have incredible gratefulness at having known my Grandfather, Grandpa "Bear". Between the memories I am left wondering if this, finally, qualifies as a a 'fire'. Can I lift the flap now mom? I wonder if it would still read the same thing on the other side....<br />
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That's how I'll remember you Grandpa...Timeless... placeless... and always there for me.<br />
<br />
"In Case of Fire, Lift this flap...."<br />
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Which, of course we had all done any number of times, only to find on the other side;<br />
<br />
"Not now stupid, In case of FIRE!"<br />
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If it's okay with you Grandpa, think I'll try to run 100 miles remembering you, think I'll try and change the world just a little bit at a time, taking you with me every step.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2824404417850731016.post-7749431969917075462015-09-11T06:43:00.000-07:002015-09-11T06:43:01.630-07:00The Truth About Dating An Endurance AthleteYep. I'm going there. Sorry mom. Maybe skip this one?<br />
<br />
You've heard those comments? <br />
<br />
'Your pace or mine?'<br />
'It's funner with a runner'<br />
<br />
etc....<br />
<br />
So yeah... Truth time people. What's it really like to date an endurance athlete? Let me first say, I asked permission before writing this post. Also, let me clarify, by 'endurance' athlete, I mean the kind of athlete that NEVER turns down another run (unless it's taper time), the kind of athlete that has goals bigger than the buffet table and belief and discipline that put my very Dutch Grandmother to shame. The kind of athlete some day I dream to be.<br />
<br />
In the meantime....<br />
<br />
You know you're dating an endurance athlete when:<br />
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- Your shoe collection is no match for his. And you can bet every pair has a log in some excel spreadsheet (#TheSpreadSheet) for the number of miles on each, which pair brought the best PR time, what pair is best suited for what terrain, what temperature, and what pair matches the exact run outfit in the Running Walk In Closet (#TheCloset)<br />
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- Your pantry has six different kinds of protein powder in designated cans. Each meant for a different kind of run (you can bet these are backed up in #TheSpreadSheet with data proving validity) Each has a flavour of Chocolate (because ps everything is Chocolate). Also there's a back up can of each in the cold room for emergencies, like when random friends need pacing for 100 miles, or girlfriends say let go on an adventure, or a zombie apocalypse where ultra running is clearly your only chance in hell of survival.<br />
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- The same pantry, different shelf, has multiple jars of seeds and powders. Chia, Hemp, Macca, Sunflower, Peptias (oh wait those are mine)... All meant for increasing power and strength. All of which have the added side effect of increasing metabolism and uhhhh digestion. This provides a space for a "while we are running" clause in the dating arrangement where either or both parties are permitted apology free farting rights.<br />
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- Hidden away where guests are not likely to easily find, is an equally astonishing stash of chocolate M&M's, dark chocolate, dill pickle chips, and cookies. This stash never truly seems to dissipate. It's almost like a reminder of a piece of life left behind in the choosing of the new path. Like all the size too big pants and shirts yet to be relinquished. "Health" doesn't mean not enjoying life. It means understanding that you can really throw a zombie off course with a forceful peanut M&M to the head while you run away in your Brooks Cascades that only have 368km on them. Ohhhh and don't help yourself to this stash. It creates worried glances through curtains and impromptu supply shopping trips. The Bulk Barn super saver card is hotter than your visa at christmas.<br />
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- #TheCloset isn't for Harry Potter. It's Stocked. It's ready. The GPS watch is always charged. The headlamp always has fresh batteries. He may not know where the heck that one screw driver is, but there's a fully stocked running bucket at the ready for the 3am call from a friend that needs to practice night running. The drop bags have embroidered name tags for that favourite race. There's a second (and likely third and fourth) #TheSpreadSheet for how to crew hour by hour in the next 24 hour race. The vitamin bottles are labelled "Turn around #1" "Turn around #2" The water bottles are lined up in the cupboard in order of preference, possibly colour coded, likely matching the shoes and compression socks and favourite race finish shirt. Finish times come and go, but hell that finish photo will be thrown around online for years!<br />
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- There's socks. OMG there's socks. This is the only dating relationship I've ever been in when it's completely normal to go out shopping in purple and pink compression socks and shorts, smiling the entire time. Where my tan lines are 'normal' and matching his.<br />
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- What's your idea of a dinner date? When he mixes the recovery shake for you and shares the kitchen floor to guzzle it down while you sit in your underoo's having stripped off all the sweaty run clothes the moment you reentered the house. We shared a kiss this morning, both of us shaking our blender bottles off to the side, hoping the other might not notice, or be offended. Yep, match made on pluto I'd say. Who else can you kiss without a second thought to the chia seeds likely stuck between your teeth? Who else can you tangle your blender ball whisk with in the sink?<br />
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- This brings us to bed. What's an endurance athlete do when first laying down? Think again... It's a well coordinated maneuver of who's knee will face which way to avoid bumping in the dark while stretching. Yep. I'm that sexy. Pardon me while I spend ten minutes self pretzeling away my chance of DOMS. Oops sorry, was that your hip? Could you just poke your elbow there in my IT band? Awwww much better thanks. Where were we? Oh and ps... yes the neighbours hate us. <br />
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This endurance athlete business is a routine all it's own. What do you do in your spare time? What spare time? Got two hours to run before or after work? Perfect, don't mind me showing up ten minutes late. Quick kiss me good bye before you scoot off for your run. "See you in an hour love... " translation: If an hour goes by and you don't see me, I'm in love with the movement of the ground under my feet, the run took me hostage, I'll be back, I promise. It's the only love affair either of us will accept outside of the other. It's the one we aren't afraid to share and protect for the other. It's a #RunStreak thing. It's a #ThisIsMe thing. It's an acceptance thing. It's a forever thing. Like a long run... It's a perfect thing. It's a forgive my snot rocket thing, can I borrow your hand sanitizer thing, a can I have a suck off your hydration pack hose thing, a 'your pace or mine' thing, a share the world together thing. <br />
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Yep he's #ThatGuy. And I'm the lucky one, dating the endurance athlete... Truth be told!<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17910563128400304469noreply@blogger.com2