Run, Run, Run Fest

I despise being cold.  The only thing worse is being hungry and cold.  Fortunately, I am always with food—almonds in the purse, dark chocolate hidden in obscure pockets, pork tenderloin slices tucked away.  So, I’ve found compensatory strategies for this perseverative hunger beast.  That still leaves me cold, and it is freakin’ December.  The only, only solitary time I embrace the Central Texas Tundra is when I am running.  This act brings me much joy.  One could assume that since I love running, I must do it all of the time. This is an erroneous assumption.  On average, I run once a week.

This running thing happened by accident in the 7^th grade.  I did not make the basketball team (only volleyball member who did not make the b-ball team—damn being 5’1” and uncoordinated with large, orange balls), was passed over for team manager (low-blow) and was stuck in the off-season.  Coach Hutchinson would blow the whistle, and a mass of girls in the midst of puberty would awkwardly start moving in some type of forward trajectory.  It was not pretty.  We were required to run for the entire athletics’ period through the streets of Wylie’s finest suburbia.  Now, as an academic, overachieving zealot, I kept running because I always did as I was told.  Girls took shortcuts.  Rumor had it (cue Adele) a few would just run home for part of the time, pat some cold water on their faces and got back to school when it was time to get dressed.  How timely and efficient of them.  This is where my tumultuous love-lust affair with running started.  It was 1992, and I was 12 years old.  Oh, how I ran. 

I love the way the soles of my shoes grip the pavement, the dirt, the grass, the track.  I love the juxtaposition of my cold face with my warmed-up torso and limbs.  I am in love with the mental-peace I always find.  This is my favorite part, and I get drunk from it.  When I think about all of my former residences, I think about my paths.  I ran around the Wylie Butane Mobile Home Park as a teen.  It was home, and mom did not want me to go far.  UT did not feel like home until I went on a run.  My first new friend on the 40 acres was Clark Field.  She  was there for me when I needed a break from studying, she was there for me when I broke off a six-year relationship, she was there for me when Kim called about mom's brain tumor.  Madison brought me some of my favorite runs. Lake Mendota pushed me to take longer, faster strides as my throat burned from the sharp , cold-ass air.  The hill on Hart Lane in North Austin challenged my quads and brings fond memories of my first home with Jeremy.  Now, my runs take place long after the sun slumbers.  The girls are in bed, and it’s my time.  I put on my reflector vest and knee brace.  I turn on my music.  Long-gone are the days of Run DMC, Ludacris and Trick Daddy.  Now, my ears and pace are more keen on the Avett Brothers, variations of Pachabel’s Canon in D and Iron and Wine. 

 

In 2006, I annihilated, schooled, simply finished my first 26.2.  I crossed the finish line 55 seconds under my goal.  When asked if I will ever do this again, I am reluctant.  For me, this whole running thing has nothing to do with the distance, the amount of time required or the need to consume goopy crap to provide nutrients during a run.  It is also the only and last time I wore a fanny pack.  Some called it a water carrier belt.  No.  Fanny pack incognito, folks. 

 

I am in awe of those who run long distances for their body and heart-needs.  For me, the six-months of training got me revved and giddy, and that was enough.  Most importantly,  I dedicated time to something I loved.   I need more of this. 

I enjoy my solitary time during my jaunts.  It is also an unexpected gift to share this time with fellow mates.  My recent run with Lisa in 28 degree weather was warmed by heart-conversations.  Cyndi and I surely conquered the parking garage stairs at the service center—it was the perfect way to wrap-up a work week and kick-off two days sans work-work-work-brain.  And, now, I have two of the best running partners.  Given, our treks are more like endless adventures, include various snack stops, and, at times, never involve running (more like corralling).  Notwithstanding, it is pure pleasure for this Mama. 

 

Bottom line, I keep running because I can.  I am still on this earth, and I want to stay connected to it.  I am able to wake up each morning, put on some shoes and move onward.  There are days  (most) when I am slow, and that’s okay.  There are times when I forget how it feels.  My days are wrapped up in hullabaloo, and, eventually and thankfully, I find my way back.  I feel my heart beating.  I feel my lungs working.  I feel my mind settling.  It feels right and too good. 

 

Let's go. 

People, Actually.

I must have been 8 or 9 years old.  Our already-flat noses were cold and pressed up against the kitchen window.  This would be the year he comes.  Nothing.  The sky was black.  Then, we heard a bell.  It’s him.  He’s coming.  Alas, it was only the horn of the train running right in front of the Wylie Butane Mobile Home Park.   Our two bedroom home had wheels but did not have a chimney.  We were confident he would find a way to come into our house.  Now, given, we also did not have a tree.  Instead, Dad permanently had an outdoor antenna placed on our kitchen bar.  I guess this sufficed.  The center pole was perfectly sandwiched between the cheaply-made counter and the ceiling.  The width was ideal for creating a focal point for everyone who entered our home and needed to look at something awkward and large.  Most importantly, instead of going to the roof of the house to make Bull on Night Court appear more clear on the television, we just had to stand up from any point in our living room or kitchen, reach out an arm and rotate the damn thing.  Not even a decade old, even I could sense the ridiculousness of my father’s stubborn need to do things his way.  But, hey, we had good TV viewing, enough metal to build our own Vicky robot and a place to hang a metal fruit basket and the gluey, glittered ornaments made in school.

Twas’ the night before Christmas

All through the mobile abode

3 kids were so hopeful

For just one gift bestowed

The movies said it would happen

The kids said it was all true

Bearded man cladded in red

Brings goodness just for being good-you

Alas the time came

After years of anticipation

Lies of gifts told to save face

Conjured and such fake elation

Perspective gained with time and age

You are better from harder falls!

When the cold settles each year,  

the heart slightly aches to recall.

Not soon after that year, with urging from her three children, Mom convinced Dad to buy our first tree.  It was the 24^th of December, and Dad was going into the Allsup’s gas station in Sachse to buy his weekly lottery tickets.  “I feel lucky.  This is going to be the night.”  We definitely rode the wave of our father's fleeting generous spirit.  The tacky front window display, apparently, was the perfect backdrop for selling holiday trees.  With only a mere day left to sell their goods, the price was reduced.  We could afford the $10 or so purchase.  And, ladies and gents, we had our first tree.  Kmart provided the rest of the discounted holiday paraphernalia.  I swear we were the happiest children to ever exist throwing silver tinsel on a dried, ill-shaped, patchy Christmas tree. Even better, Kim, Dan and I were ecstatic to open up presents that we made in front of one another.  There was no surprise element, but there was something more obtained from those few gifts under the tree.  The feelings were just as real when we played our maracas made of toilet paper rolls, Scotch tape and  uncooked jasmine rice.

Fast-forward about 30 years, and I am sitting in my 4 bedroom, 2-living room home.  Our symmetrical tree holds ornaments that cost 7 times the value of my first tree.  Holiday cards are hung by a contraption made just for the purpose of displaying the said item.  Perfectly spaced lights line the edge of our roof, and a revolving, blow-up carousel guards our front yard.  Not to worry, we have an eight-foot wooden snowman to protect the carousel animals in case the evil winds knock over the prized-possession.


In case we forget which stalking belongs to whom, our names are already embroidered onto our individualized sock made of fine fabrics and lined with batting.  Boxes and boxes of wrapped gifts are hidden away and anticipating their reveal the evening Santa arrives and the creepy, rambunctious elf leaves.

Each year, I am overwhelmed by this season.  The expectation, the hustle and the happiness of it all is all-too-jarring and surely foreign to my inner-and-former-self.  I admit that guilt horribly resides in all this madness, as well.  Why do my girls get to have all of this when there are little-me's that keeping waiting for just one solitary gift to come her way?  And then, there is a part of me that knows that my former hardships molded me.  I am a good person because it was so hard, right?  Bennet and Ruby, in some ways, have it so easy.  Of course, why would any parent want things to be hard for her child?  That would be absurd, and there are days when that is exactly what I feel they need.  It’s horrible, and it’s true. 

And, then, there is my Jeremy.  He is a light.  Add some holiday music and barely a whisper of the word “Christmas” after July 4th, and he is surely the North Star.  He relishes in his warm and loving memories of his wintry family festivities.  I am a quiet participant next to him come one day post-Thanksgiving.  I am supportive because I have learned to not say, “No.”  This is how we mutually move through the holiday season.  I love him because he loves the spirit of it all.  And, even with all he received as a child, he is the least-entitled, kindest, heart-happy soul I know.  And, this thought brings me comfort as I make multiple trips from our secret present-hiding location to our tree this evening. 

Deep, deep down, I know all of this does not matter.  I know my ego gets in the way.  The stuff and, even more importantly, the lack-of-stuff is insignificant.  I am working on letting it go. It is the people, actually. And, we have great people in our lives.  We have passionate, giving, extremely-good-looking (!) , smart, tenacious, honest, kind, kind folks in our circles.  It is always the beating hearts sitting next to you, throughout the day or the first of Christmas morning, that brings the meaning.  And, in this regard, I know Jeremy and I had identical, heart-full upbringings.