Saturday, October 25, 2014

If it was easy it would be called your mom: IMT Des Moine Marathon





I picked that title because it was one of my favorite fan posters along the IMT Des Moines Marathon route. It’s not a poster that’s new to me: “If (insert marathon here) was easy, it would be called your mom."  I’ve seen derivations of the same saying at plenty of other races. Boston and Providence come to mind. 

I got an extra big chuckle from the words at this race, because the poster was held by a conservatively dressed, fresh-faced young woman who looked too sweet and innocent to have even an inkling of the red hot fury on some of my students’ faces when they’ve used the "your mom" phrase. And Des Moines, this small town/ pristine city of bridges, corn, handmade quilts, butter cows, is the polar opposite of the crumbling red brick, spray painted, broken-windowed, gang-infested neighborhood where I teach. 

I had to laugh. It was too cute.
  
I loved the Des Moines Marathon. I loved it from the minute I signed up back in July. Loved it as I overpaid for plane tickets to get me there. Loved it as I roamed the expo for the twenty minutes or so it took me to see everything I needed to not buy. Even loved it at the halfway point, when my legs faltered, along with my confidence, and I decided that if I needed to walk the rest of the course, then so be it. 

I would run Des Moines again in a heartbeat. Why? Because I got to run it with my daughter. She first visited Des Moines as part of a law school internship last year, then decided after she graduated to make this city her new home.  My visit to Iowa was a visit, on several levels, with family. 

I arrived near midnight the Friday before the race. On the last leg of the trip, which originated at O’Hare in Chicago, I was upgraded to first class. Had a pleasant conversation with a woman who commutes a couple of times a month from her job in Boston to her home in Des Moines. She gave me her business card and told me to pass it on to my daughter, in case she needed some connections in order to get a job. What a wonderful way to start the trip. 

The airport was smaller than T.F. Green in Providence. Except for the folks from our flight, it was quiet and empty. My daughter was at the curb when I exited the terminal shortly after departing the plane.  Fifteen minutes of wide, calm streets later, we arrived at her apartment on the western outskirts of the city.     

It took us about four traffic lights and a short stretch of highway to get to the expo the next morning at the local convention center. There was free parking everywhere. My daughter pointed out the glass-enclosed pedestrian bridges connecting most of the downtown buildings. She explained this was so folks wouldn’t have to walk outside during brutal weather. I noticed neat, easy-to-read signs on lampposts at every intersection, pointing pedestrians and drivers to businesses on those streets. 

The expo was a little larger than the one I’d visited two weeks earlier in Portland at the Maine Marathon. There were the usual local vendors, including two local running stores, and lots of physical therapy offices. I chatted with local author Terry Hitchcock, who was autographing “A Father’s Odyssey: 75 Marathons in 75 Days,” a book detailing his heroic journey to raise funds for causes close to his heart, including autism and breast cancer. I picked up a business card from Iowan artist Cindy Swanson, sole owner of CampusTshirtquilt.com, who turns old race shirts into gorgeous quilts. My daughter picked up info on one of her favorite runs involving her all-time second favorite treat – Nutella is first, a chocolate-themed race that gives every runner an awesome fleece pullover, plus, um, chocolate.  


The two of us scratched our heads a bit at the fact that the expo included a Tupperware booth. Seemed a little random but no more random, I guess, than the bath fitter guys and the window replacement companies that seem to show up at every race expo I’ve ever visited.

Guess I should get to the running part. . . 

It took us all of 15 minutes to get to the race start the next morning, no traffic jams, no major road detours. Temps were in the mid-forties, so we scooted into a hotel at the start in order to stay warm. Ten minutes before the run, we made our way to the packed starting line -- about 4,000 total marathoners, half-marathoners, relay runners -- on a low bridge over the Des Moines River.  My kiddo headed toward the nine-minute pacers. I headed toward my people at the back. 

As the race began, a local radio personality shouted out names of some of the runners. Music pounded. The crowd roared. The first few miles were flat. We headed toward the state house, an onion-domed, gilded confection, then turned back toward the city hall, a handsome building straight out of the H.H. Richardson era, crossed the river again, and started up a broad tree-lined avenue. We passed the city art museum, and many sprawling thick-stoned 19th century mansions, then entered into a winding, narrow-laned neighborhood of Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired prairie style homes.    
   
Lots of folks wore Marathon Maniac gear and 50 States shirts. I ran with one woman who’d run all fifty states four times each. She was maybe in her seventies and wore red, white, and blue tie-dyed calf sleeves. We talked for a bit about her crazy journey. As I passed her, I called out, “I want to be you when I grow up!” She called back, laughing, “and I’m broke too!” 

Ran with another 50 Stater and asked him how long it took him to get them all in. His reply went something like this: “ten days seventeen hours and twelve minutes.” I must have looked confused because he laughed and added, “Well you asked me how long it took. That’s my answer.”  

I ran for a bit with a fellow Marathon Maniac who was finishing up her fifty state quest. Iowa was her last state. She was surrounded by a fan club of marathoners, all cheering her on the whole way. 

I saw lots of runners wearing two bibs, one for the Des Moines Marathon, and another showing that they were part of the I-35 Challenge. Interstate 35 runs through both Des Moines and Kansas City.  Des Moines was their second marathon in two days. They’d done a marathon in Kansas City the day before. 


Ran for a few miles with one young guy who asked me all kinds of questions about Boston. My pants, top, and hat were all souvenirs from my love, my Boston Marathon, so my Mass stood out a bit. He was obviously having a tough time, even at mile 8. His pants and t-shirt were soaked through. He was limping. He’d run Kansas City the day before.  

A part of me wanted to stay with him and help him finish the course. But we all have to run our own races. I left him around mile 9, but saw him later on at one of the several out and back spots where faster and slower runners get to meet up and smile at each other. I pointed to him and yelled out, “Hey Kansas City, you look wicked awesome.” He gave me a grin and a thumbs-up.  

Met up with my daughter when I was at mile 10 and she was at mile 14. She gave me her sweat-laden windbreaker and I wrapped it around my waist. It had warmed up by then. I was used to carrying packs and jackets on runs. She was not. Helping her out seemed like the mom thing to do.

By the time I hit mile 14, I was done. My legs were worn out and I was walking more than running. I’d just made it up an endless, sneaky incline which had started at Drake University, where we’d run for about a mile. We ran on the blue rubber tracking around the stadium and got to see ourselves on the Jumbotron.  

It was then that I saw that silly “your mom” sign and where I met up again with Dale, a runner I’d talked with a bit around mile five or so. He’d told me then that he was running his first marathon. He looked strong and left me behind after awhile. By the time I caught him again, he was walking, shoulders slumped.      

I reminded him of something I’d been telling myself: Getting to the starting line is a victory in and of itself. We talked about why we were running, about not wanting to settle, about our desire to never stop exploring. I eventually had to say good-bye. I'd started feeling better. 

Mile 16 I felt reborn. We were on a downhill entering a gorgeous bike/running trail. We passed horse farms, streams, wildflower fields. I ran for awhile with a younger runner wearing a great quote on the back of her t-shirt. I kept repeating some of the words as I ran: wild, precious, life.

My new favorite never-stop mantra.

Still, by mile 19 I wanted to die. Still on the trail, and could see behind and ahead of us how it meandered and seemed to take us nowhere. I was Sisyphus, pushing the same boulder over and over. Though at one point my brain got all muddled and I couldn’t remember if Sisyphus was the guy with the intestines that birds kept eating. My stomach was bothering me by then.

I was no different from any other runner out there. We were all struggling.  I saw a two-story high plastic cow, and met a fellow teacher wearing a green shirt that said The Long Walk on the front and 3-14-14 on the back. She taught American Lit and every year has her students read that story by Stephen King. Then the entire group goes on a 23-mile walk.

I ran the last few miles with a woman wearing a winter jacket and a wool cap. Don’t know how on earth she was comfortable, but she moved steadily and I did too.  Got passed at mile 25 by Jennifer, one of the I-35 Challenge runners. She was fast.  I yelled out that she looked good.  Her response, yelled back: “I can’t feel shit. I just had four beers and a Mimosa.”

Finished the run on the same bridge where we started. Met up with my daughter, who’d crossed the line 90 minutes earlier, gone home, showered, changed and come back to meet me.We celebrated with free pizza and chocolate milk from one of the marathoner food tables the next bridge over.

That evening, we drove to Ames, university town about a half hour away, and met up at Hickory Park with the parents of my daughter’s boyfriend. Barbecue never tasted so good. They’d driven 150 miles to visit with us. They said that in Iowa driving that distance isn’t a huge deal.

Post-race heaven in Ames, Iowa.  
  
My daughter mentioned the big plastic cow, near the mile 22 water stop. The dad asked what kind of cow. My daughter shrugged. “It was black and white.” 

“Ah, a dairy cow,” he replied. Then he named the particular type, but that information is lost to me now. I was busy licking barbecue sauce off my fingers and wondering what it would feel like to be able to say I ran two marathons in two days.  

Next morning, my daughter dropped me off at the airport and I had some time to kill. I wandered the corridor a bit, thinking maybe I’d grab a coffee. I was wearing my new race shirt, a half-zip, peach-colored technical deal with the marathon logo emblazoned over the heart. I met another woman wearing the same shirt. 

D is from California and as of tomorrow, when she finishes up the Marine Corps Marathon, will have seventy marathons under her belt. She’s shooting for one hundred. We got talking about Des Moines, Marine Corps, and other races. I never did get that pre-boarding coffee and almost missed my flight.
As I rushed off, D gave me her business card and we promised to keep in touch. She's hoping to do Boston someday. 

So yes, I would run Des Moines again. I love visiting with family.

Marathon:17
State: 8 


Monday, October 13, 2014

No regrets



I was cleaning my house yesterday and found under my bed, among the cats and cat-sized dust balls, a notebook from my senior year in college. It’s a rectangular, spiral-bound job, of a size that could easily fit in a canvas book bag or a crowded suitcase. 

The last half of the book was loaded with notes from Intro to Psych, one of my fall ’81 college classes. The first half of the book is a journal I kept while on a two-week family trip to Ireland that August.  

First page, dated August 11, I wrote this about our rental, a red Toyota mini-wagon: “The poor Jap car was  a stick shift and didn’t enjoy 4th gear; every time we began speeding up, it stalled. Father, of course, became somewhat apoplectic.” 

“Jap” car?

I called my dad Father? 

Apoplectic?

Wow. I was an idiot. Still am of course, and still overusing of course.

And I have to laugh at something else that hasn’t changed all that much, my frugality/ stupidity when it comes to spending money.

I imagine most folks who keep family vacation journals save them in special places like plastic bins or cedar chests. Me? I figured the notebook was only half-used so why spend a buck on a new one? Why not use it all up for something else? Like a class? I didn’t even waste one page. First day of notes starts the page after our last day, which was in Cork at the Oyster Tavern where per my notes, “the food was excellent and, according to my father, the cheapest meal we’ve had so far.”

I’m two weeks into an education class right now, one of those state-required things. First night, as I was headed out the front door for the five-minute drive to the class that was starting in less than three, I realized I forgot to buy a notebook. So I grabbed one from the stack of half-filled ones on the dining room table. Now my Sheltered English Immersion class is sharing note space with my writings from Les Standiford’s summer workshop on narrative and the hero’s journey.  

Luckily, I throw out next to nothing. So though my notebooks may not be excessively organized, they’re all alive and well and gathering dust somewhere, either here in my house or in the cellar at my parents’.

And now I have this online blog to add to my writing chaos.

Anyone who’s been reading this knows I write about all kinds of things. I know I should be more focused if I want to draw a larger reading audience. Like maybe I should write about marathons all the time. Or single motherhood. Or cancer. But sticking to one specific topic is not who I am right now. I have a lot on my mind. It’s enough of a struggle some days finding socks that match. If I’m going to write, I need to organize my way on my terms.  

Today I want to write about a conversation I was part of last week. Because it involves loved ones, I won’t be super specific, though if you know me really well, you’ll figure things out.

We were having some wine and somehow got on the subject of who we wanted to be when we were younger.  

I’d just gotten done showing off my awesome Maine Marathon medal and had mentioned I was headed off soon for yet another marathon. When I got asked why on earth I was doing this to my body, I explained that I was taking the runs nice and slowly and was doing my best to keep safe. I mentioned evidence that most studies say running does not ruin your knees, and that in fact running can enhance your life as you age.

I revealed my grand plan: fifty marathons, one per state, no deadline, no time goals. I said I had dreams about who I wanted to be, and there’s no time like the present to start working on them.

Me: Certainly, you must understand about goals?

E takes a long gulp from her glass and her eyes get big and thoughtful. “Of course. I always dreamed of becoming. . ."

Me, interrupting, because I think I know her so well, “A writer.”

E has always loved the written word. Her mother's cherished school books from Ireland are tidily stored in the bottom drawer of a polished cherry chest in her living room. Her father’s writing desk, a cheap nothing of a thing but here all the way from Killarney, is her most prized possession. Every waking minute of every day off from work, when she wasn’t napping, or playing for hours on her piano, she was reading. Even now, in retirement, books are her favorite companions. I was pretty sure I’d nailed it.

E shakes her head. “Pianist. I wanted to be a concert pianist. I wanted to play for Cornell.” 

Cornell? I shake my head. In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never heard this. I ask what she means.

Her mouth becomes an angry line. She drinks as she explains. Her voice is flat and low. Sometimes she laughs and the sound of that laughing is so bleak and joyless it kills me. She says that when she was sixteen, her father died suddenly. This, like breathing, I have known since before I was born.

E explains she was set to audition for some prestigious scholarship program connected with Cornell. I don’t know the details, but the way she described it made me think it was a gateway to bigger things and world-class opportunities, like Broadway, Carnegie Hall, the London Symphony Orchestra.

E says that after her father’s death, her mother wouldn’t let her play the piano at all. Not once. Tradition. No music for thirty days. Because E didn’t practice, she got rusty. The audition was sometime near the end of the thirty days. E ended up not trying out.  

E finishes with this: “I had dreams.” Her eyes are far away.

I feel like I’m at a wake. The room feels that heavy.

The other one at the table is silent this whole time. He’s watching me wipe my eyes. When E stops talking, he says to me, “What’s wrong with you?” His voice is harsh.

I shrug and avoid his eyes. I say that it’s just so sad. We should never give up on our dreams.

He usually laughs off these serious moments. But today he nods ever so slightly at me, which makes me wonder about his dreams. I wonder what he thinks about what E has just said.  But I don’t want to ask him. I don’t want to know.   

I take a sip of my wine to still my mouth because I’m afraid of other things I might say, layers worth of stuff that have no business being part of this conversation at this point in time. Even now my brain goes there. I think about what shapes us: love, loss, ethnicity, religion, our families, friends, our choices because we always have choices, don't we?   

I wish I’d written this down last week, when I remembered more. Glad I was able to get at least this much out. These are things worth remembering.  



Friday, October 10, 2014

Maine: The way marathons should be




I had a good run at the start of July, a twelve-miler where my legs felt so alive I daydreamed for a half second after about signing up for another marathon. I was near a computer at the time, and my credit card was within arm’s reach, so I did: Maine Marathon, October 5.  

The next eight weeks saw a crazy mix of running every day, intense speed workouts nine times a week. I ate nothing but spinach and lean protein. Managed to drop that stubborn twenty pounds I’d been carrying around my middle since forever.

Okay, so maybe that’s all a little untrue.

Here’s what really happened: I ignored warm summer temperatures and my natural vacation inclination to sit around and read. Instead, I spent every extra minute at the gym. Worked my way up to six weeks of running 65 miles, took two minutes per mile off my pace, dropped ten pounds, not twenty.

I wish.

Here's the truth. Seconds after I signed up for the marathon, my running mojo abandoned me. During most of my training, I pretty much sat around and ate. After a couple of half-hearted attempts at speed workouts, I decided it was too hot to push myself. Instead I went slow but long. I lost a couple of pounds by the end of August, probably all water, and gained all that back plus a little extra once school/ stress eating began.

But at least I stayed healthy and on track.

Portland, Maine, the home of the Maine Marathon, is just a two-hour drive from where I live, so the ride straight up 95 was easy and uneventful. The expo at Southern Maine University was quiet and oozed Hometown, USA. There were truckloads of free pretzels and animal crackers, a few folks selling running clothes, and the requisite running store stand with assorted Gus, gels, and foam rollers.

The volunteer who gave me my bib number asked if this was my first marathon. That immediately shook my confidence. Did I look like someone who’d never run a marathon before? I told her it was my sixteenth.

“Wow. You’re hard core,” she said.

Now I started wondering if maybe I was a little too obsessive. 

Um. Yeah.

Our goody bags were environment-friendly reusable grocery totes with the Maine Marathon logo on the outside and lots of treasures within, including five bags of gummy dinosaur candy, store coupons, several tubes of lip balm, a can of B&M baked beans, Larabars, Luna bars, a pack of dried cranberries, KT athletic tape, and some tablets for nasal congestion.

The night before the race, I spread my treasures out on the hotel bed and admired it all. For a minute or ten, it occurred to me that maybe I should quit while I was ahead, drive home fast with my stash, before I actually attempted this train wreck of silliness. I checked the weather report, hoping for a monsoon. Sadly, the weather was due to be perfect, 50s and partly sunny.    

Next morning, I’m at the starting line with all the other runners, 3,500 of us. About a thousand of us are signed up for the whole distance. The rest are doing the half or the marathon relay. I’m in the back, behind the 10-minute-plus pace sign. I’m wishing I’d run more this summer and eaten less. I worry that I’d bitten off more than I should be chewing.

I start thinking of a  conversation I had with my class earlier in the week. One of the kids asked if I’d ever won a race.

“I win every time I get to the starting line,” I said.

All twenty-three kids looked at me like I’d just grown another head. I explained that every time I put on my sneakers and headed for a run, I was taking a leap of faith. Training alone can be hard. Nobody cares that you’re running except for you. No one’s applauding you, or saying “Way to go!” It’s easy to quit. Lots of people quit.

“Getting to the starting line is a triumph in and of itself,” I said.

I remind myself of the truth of this as I wait for today's insanity to commence. There are snippets of conversation all around me. Some folks are asking about the course. Others are talking about injuries, the weather. I hear someone call my name. I turn to find a young woman next to me. She’s my height and wears her dark hair in a tight ponytail. She looks vaguely familiar. She says I had her brother in school. We talk a bit. I remember her. She was a student in the classroom one over from mine. I ask how she’s doing. She tells me she’s a college grad. She bought her first house last spring. It’s been fourteen years since the last time we saw one another.

I asked her how she knew it was me. She says she recognized my face. She remembered, over the course of all these years that I run marathons. She was looking for me. My eyes start to sting as it hits me that maybe this is why I'm here today, to receive this reminder that sometimes when I talk about my running, my students listen. Maybe, on some greater level, this ridiculous 26.2 mile endeavor does matter.

GF was there to run her first half marathon. We hugged and I told her she was going to be awesome.

She was. I saw her on the course about an hour later. She had a big smile on her face and looked fast and strong.

As for me? I just did my best to enjoy the day. My legs started off heavy and stayed that way. The course was hillier than I expected, but prettier too. The first couple of miles, we ran on a wide boulevard alongside a cove.  Then we turned onto a road surrounded by woods. As the hills began, the front runners of the half marathon started returning our way. In addition to my young friend, I exchanged thumbs-ups with lots of other runners in shorts and t-shirts, a mustachioed guy in a black top and hot pink leggings, and at least one runner dressed as a moose.

The rest of the course was hilly and quiet, though for awhile we saw marathoners headed back our way. Part of the way, I ran with a couple of guys who were in the habit of running marathons most weekends. Sometimes I ran alone. About two hours into my run, I got to give a big hug to Larry Macon, the remarkably gifted gent who holds the world record for most marathons in a year. Larry had taken the early start and was moving forward heroically. Last time I’d seen him was in Ashland, MA, at mile three of the Boston Marathon when, like me, he'd been running that day on behalf of the American Liver Foundation. He's an inspiration. I got to tell him that last week. 

The last part of the run was tough. Lots of uphills. I spent several miles trotting behind and next to a contingent of about fifty soldiers, who were doing the course in full gear, with heavy packs on their backs. Their presence reminded me to count my blessings. Really. Any ache that I felt was nothing in comparison to their discomfort.

The course finished on the same wide straightway on which we began, with the cove to our left this time. As we turned the corner to the finish, I decided to do something I rarely ever have the energy to do. I sprinted ahead of a couple of folks, and finished strong. 

It wasn’t my best race. I hadn’t trained all that well. I admit I was possibly relying too much on the training from my two spring marathons a whole five months earlier. But to be fair to myself, I’d never run three marathons in one year before. I was afraid that my body might rebel. I was worried about stress fractures, and other infirmities that tend to hit older folks who push the limits a bit too much. I guess what I'm saying is that for the most part, my laid-back approach to training this summer was cautious and deliberate.  

Only problem for me was a troubled tummy, most likely the result of being out on the course for so long. A nap in the car on the way home, and a couple of bags of chips seemed to take care of that.

My one regret: I wish I’d had another couple of weeks to train. I would have liked to have gotten in a few more long runs, though Maine was in fact a training run of sorts.

I have another marathon coming up in a few weeks, then another a few weeks after that. I’m working on a new dream: one marathon for every state. Maine was state number seven. Only 43 left to go.  No deadline for hitting all fifty. No time goals for any of them. I just want to run and see what happens. After all, every marathon gives me something.    

Maine Marathon: state #7, marathon #16.                 

Every single time.





The dudette endures, and for now that's enough



It was around mile six of the 2013 Providence Marathon when my ideas about long distance running and who I wanted to be began changing. My stomach wasn’t doing too well. My throat had been on fire since around mile 3. I still don’t know exactly why, but I suspect it had something to do with the five pounds of homemade granola I’d chowed down on the day before, an early Mother’s Day present from one of my daughters.

The music on my headset was doing nothing to soothe my tummy. There were high school kids running all around me, laughing and yammering, bumping into me, not paying attention at all to anyone else on the road but themselves. How irritating. It was obvious they were having a blast, which made me even more miserable because the only blast I was experiencing was the one from the furnace burning deep in my belly.

To take my mind off the annoying happiness all around me, I started talking with a curmudgeonly looking runner two decades my senior, who I’d been trailing for most of the race. Turned out, he was a really nice guy. He told me he hoped to finish in under six hours. He wasn’t too concerned about time. After all, he’d just done a fast marathon in DC the week before. We chatted together for awhile about other races he'd done. He dropped back after awhile. I moved on, marveling at the idea of being well past retirement age and running marathons every week or two. I soon met another older guy. He was limping a bit. He told me he’d run marathons in every state in the country except Nevada, and he was planning on getting to that one soon. I had to shake my head and smile. Yet another knucklehead dreamer. 

When I started training for Providence, I hadn’t run a marathon in more than two years. My previous marathon, Manchester City in 2010, had given me an even dozen, a nice solid number to finish with.  After Manchester, I’d pretty much convinced myself that my marathon career was over. I was done with the time-consuming training, the blisters, the foolishness of it all. It is pretty silly when you think about it, all the time and effort we spend chasing after these stupid dreams just so we can feel good about ourselves, drop one more piece of hardware into our medal shoe box, add yet another braggy post to our facebook page. 

I’d decided it was time to focus on other aspects of my life: my family, my friends, my writing. And guess what changed? Not much. Turns out, all those years of marathoning had gotten me pretty good at organizing the other areas of my life. Now, without a focus, I was a little lost. Instead of all that moving forward I anticipated, I was pretty much running in place. 

So after two years of mediocrity, I signed up for Providence and began training. As my long runs progressed to longer runs, I started to feel more like me again. I was moving forward. 

Then there was the horror at Boston.

Three weeks later was Providence. I remember the starting line at Providence. All of us thousands of runners wearing some symbol of our love and fealty for our Boston Marathon family, blue and gold ribbons, Boston hats and shirts, messages marked onto singlets, arms, legs, faces. I remember the sharp shooters on the roofs of surrounding buildings, heavily padded police officers and their sniffing dogs walking among us as we stomped our feet and waited for the starting gun, soldiers on the sidewalks, grimly watching the crowds, long rifles packed on their backs. 

I remember thinking that this was not how I wanted to live my life, guarded and afraid of what was to come. 

I think a lot about those two older guys I met at Providence last year. I remember cheering them on as they finished. Even though between the two of them their marathons numbered in the hundreds, the smiles on their faces were as big as the smiles on the faces of every other finisher that day. I think about all every runner I've known has endured while pursuing their own particular versions of happiness.   

Before Providence, I always associated the word “endure” with a spectrum of negatives, like boredom, pain, abuse.

The Providence Marathon, and the folks I met while running it, gave me a new perspective on endurance. I saw lots of runners, joggers, walkers, limpers out there that day. They saw me too. We didn’t have long conversations or anything. In some cases, our communication wasn’t much more than a nod or a thumbs-up, maybe a grunt every now and then. 

But now, when I think endurance I think something different. I think of sharp shooters and of who I do not want to be. I think of how life ends way too quickly. I picture weathered skin and squinting laughing eyes. I think of small kindnesses and big pictures. I imagine rising up to face challenges, one step at a time -- on roads, in classrooms, at the keyboard.  

A whole lot of hooey? Maybe. 

We all live within narratives we’ve at least partially created for ourselves. For now, my idea of endurance is part of mine. Last week I ran marathon number 16. The creaks and aches, what few there were, have passed. My legs are again alive and kicking. That finish line smile? It’s still here too. What can I say, other than what's true for me right now? I endure.