Undoing At Sulphur Springs

It feels like a tearing down of camp.  

A disbanding of the community.

It feels like years of effort washing out with the tide.

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. 

… an incomplete set

Still I am fixated on piecing it together.  It’s finding peace with that, that is overwhelming. 

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.

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.

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.

The grocery store plaza 800m from my door is under construction.  Upgrades. improvements.

Noise.  Commotion.  Distraction. Smells. People. Moving parts.

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.

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.  

Why no guides?  

This is why.  

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.

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.

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.

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.  

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?”  

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.

I broke the course up in my head into sections.  Maybe they make sense to you who have run this place?

The descent - Martin rd… the optimistic beginning

The gimme - everything until you cross the road, because honestly it was the easiest part

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.

The Bruce - a warm hug for those that know her… the first escarpment sight.. the one everyone takes a picture of.

Aid station one - thank the heavens

The dive - Those incredibly technical steps down off the bruce into the ravine, and the root tiptoeing after, plus the climb.

The round about - Seriously who puts a roundabout in the woods? 

The new altitude take two - seems hillier this way

Two way traffic zone - after the road crossing

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.

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)

Aid station two - people who smelled better than me and who promise only 7 km to the end to the loop

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

aid station once more

The ascent - one last fuck you before someone might offer you a freezie.

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. 

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. 

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.  

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.

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.

This ultra running business can build you up.  It can move mountains in your soul.  It can change your life, if you let it.  

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.

All that stands between you and that… is a matter of belief.

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. 

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.

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.

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…

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.  

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.

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.  

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.

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.  

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. 

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.  

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.  

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.  

That ultra running stuff batman… It can change you, if you let it.

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 

“You’re going the right way!”

why yes… yes I am…

Constant. Forward. Motion.

Apology Not Accepted

Apology Not Accepted

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. 

If I were to emerge victorious… fear banished forever… and me, endlessly capable.

Disability likes to apologize. For getting in the way, for taking time, for even being present sometimes.  

“Oh I’m sorry, could you please read that form to me?  The font is too small for me to see it.”

“I’m sorry, could you hold the door for me, while I push my chair through?”

“I’m sorry, would you mind picking me up?  Dropping me off?  Letting me participate?  Allowing me feel like a valued member of society?”

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 

“I’m sick of being sorry”

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.

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. 

Darkness accepts no apology.

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.  

I blend in well with the darkness.

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.

“I’m sick of being sorry”

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?

“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.

I’m sorry that I might not be able to do that.  

“I’m sick of being sorry” 

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.  

Bridge seam.  

Left foot, right foot, repeat.

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.

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!

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 …

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?  

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.  

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.

“I’m sorry….”

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.  

By now I’ve fished my phone from my pocket and, knowing my call will ring on my husbands phone I’ve called him. 

“You have to come get me? Please come get me.  He’s chasing, he’s yelling. Can’t you hear that?”

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.

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.

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.

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.

Parts of my disability will forever create a dependence within me.  

"I’m sorry to interrupt your trail run, would you mind calling out ever obstacle for the next 99 miles?”  

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?  

You can’t let it cage you.  You can’t let it define you.  You mustn’t.  

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.  

Asphalt Aversion

I am training.  

They call this training.  The running.  Countless steps of movement. 

Movement.  

A soft spring to a step I have gotten comfortable with; the following. Yes indeed, comfortable.  I will follow you.

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.

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?

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.  

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.  

Yes, I am training.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

As a whole, we can do better. 

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.

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.

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. 

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. 

All In A Day's Work

Seventy-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.

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.

They will move.  Surely they will share this space.  Dammit. Fine.  Step down into the drop off. Yep it's muddy.  Fucks sake.

Wait.  I don't have the next two steps memorized from here?  Fucks sake.

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.

.... and that's just getting to work.

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.

That, my friend, is just life.

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.

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.

And again.

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;

"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".

"Okay. yes here they are.. chunky roots.... and a right turn you said?"

"Yes, right"

"But that's a big hill?"

"That's correct"

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?

That's great.  Good for flipping you....

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.

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.

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...

.... as every Ultra is....

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?

Right?

Okay.... moving on.

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...

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?

Shakes the ground you stage your "A" race on right?

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.

I am not brave, let's be clear on that.

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.

Fucks sake, I get lost in bathrooms.

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....

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

Needless to say I did NOT exit the fairgrounds bathroom from the exit door.  Not once.

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.

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.

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.

OMG stop giggling to yourself and Turn LEFT NOW dammit.

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.

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...

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.

And again.

And again.

For 24 hours.

Oh truth be told I was content to stop and sit down at 22 hours 13 minutes.

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.

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.

Several things happened.

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.

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.

And the icing; The sun came out.

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?

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?

And now?

Blazing brightness from every direction.  All the memorized bits and pieces, details of this step and that, and my head full of fear.

Then I did something I've never done.  And prayed it would help.  I began running with my white cane out.

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.

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.

"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.

Robin found me too and asked.  I laughed and said I'm not dead yet.  Keep running.

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.

Fucking sun.  Fucking Brightness.  FUCKING STUPID SELF IMPOSED ULTRA SUFFERING.....

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?

Please, give me dark.  Endless hours of dark.

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?

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.

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.

Darkness meant no cane, no blind runner bib, no music needed, no glasses.

Of course all things come to an end.  The night is no exception.

My "day" at the fair ended in a ridiculously low 65 miles.  Happily I can report fear did not win.  This time.

.... and no, I have not yet browsed Ultrasignup.   Maybe I'll take up full time knitting?  Or spray painting?

Oh but I hear my shoes calling me from down by the door.....

Once 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.

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...

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?

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.

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.

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.

And out we go.

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.

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.

"Hope you love me?"

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.

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.

Wait do you hear that?

"There are people up there?" I say.

"I hear them.  We're okay" he reassures.

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.

"There's people up there on the left?" I said again.

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.

"Baby I have to take a stone out of my shoe, I'm just gonna stop a minute" he says.

"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.

"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.

"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.

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.

"I'm going to do this thing baby" he whispers.  He never whispers.

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?

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?

And I'm crying.

"I don't have a ring for you baby.  But I do have this" This? This... Oh my god.. I know what this is.

And I'm crying.

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.

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?

And I'm still crying.

"Baby will you marry me?" I hear him.  Think I hear him.  Can't be so.  Can it?

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.

"Enjoy your run" they said in passing, going right around the loop.

"Run?" I said.  "You mean proposal!"

They "oooo-ed" and "Awww-ed" and laughed... under the same sappy mush ball moon he'd brought me to see.

Once they'd left, we were alone again.

"So is that a yes?" he asks.

'That's a yes" I'm still crying.

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?"

"Of course I did!" I called back....

and time, which never stands still for long, carried on... and we ran together under the moon, briefly holding hands....

"You are such a mush ball !!!" I said.

"Don't tell everyone my secret! They'll think I'm a softy" he answered.

.... 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!

Okay, you can all stop your wall sitting now.  See how productive you are at multitasking?

Just keep swimming... Anvil training week 8

T minus 197 Days 19 Hours 50 Minutes

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?

These are lies of course.  I've run 'long' enough times to know - it doesn't get easier; it gets done.

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.

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?

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?

Sadly I'll likely be using every second actually racing.  Hello, slow moving bus over here.

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...

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.

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?

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.

Possibility

Hope

Dreams

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?

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.

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.

Breathe in.

This is why.

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.