Boston 2014: Here's my starting line

I was about 2,250 miles and three months away from Boston, on a plane making its final descent into Albuquerque, when I realized I couldn’t put off writing about my marathon any more. The realization hit as I was in the process of shutting off my shuffle and unplugging my headphones. 

My fingers brushed against some unplanned wet on my cheek. I’d been crying. Tears of joy? Sadness? I still haven’t figured it out. In those last few minutes of my six-hour voyage, flying through turquoise sky above the glorious pinks, browns and purples of summer dusk New Mexico, I’d been listening to my personal go get ‘em theme song, Wrecking Ball by Bruce Springsteen, and had been remembering the last beautiful time I’d heard it, back in April on Patriot’s Day, during the last .2 of my 2014 Boston Marathon, the view just as heavenly, the feelings equally momentous.  

I’ve been putting off writing about that day, though I’ve written two pieces about events leading up to it, one about the Friday before and one about going in to pick up my race number. 

I kept telling myself I had plenty of time to write about Boston. Kept reminding myself that if I didn’t write about the day soon, I’d forget.One can become quite passive when one allows oneself to be pulled in such opposing directions. 

Now, as I think back, there’s a lot that's been lost to fogginess. But maybe that’s a good thing. Does anyone really need to know how many Gus I ate that day? (Three, I think.) Or how many minutes I spent in the port-a-potty line at Athlete’s Village? (At least two -- no -- four hours I’m sure, mainly because I have a gift for always picking the longest lines no matter where I go – grocery store, bank, Mass Pike, whatever.) 

Or how many times I remembered to be thankful for the Boston Athletic Association and its premier volunteers, my American Liver Foundation friends and donors, my Run for Research teammates, my mother and father and daughters, my friends? (It’s an infinite amount because the gratitude just keeps coming.) 

The gratitude, like the memories, overwhelms me even now, months later. Thank you thank you thank you!

Let’s call this the starting line. Let's keep moving forward. Ready. Set. Write!

No brainer: When someone calls for help, you help

So today I'd just come home from running errands. My front door and back door are wide open, as are all the windows. There's a gorgeous cross breeze and no indication that we just survived four days of 80 percent mugginess.

I'm making a salad, singing to myself while I mix up some spinach, radicchio, red onions, almond slices, dried cranberries. I even go so far as to whip up a quick batch of orange vinegar dressing.  I'm thinking, "I could live like this every day. I have the best life ever." I hear summer noises: the rustling trees, twittering birds, buzzing of a lawnmower, the hammering of the contractor next door. It's pretty idyllic. Even the hammering.

I feel at home. Safe.

Then comes the screeching. At first I think it's a kid, maybe with a water gun. I smile a little, remembering. Back in the day, I had pretty decent aim. The screeching changes pitch. From my kitchen sink I see out the dining room window that the vinyl siding guy perched high on his ladder has turned his head to the screaming. Because it's screaming and crying now and I'm beginning to make out words: "Stop! He's hitting me! Make him stop!

I rush around the corner to the bay window at the front, and see my neighbor bent over, her body making violent front then back jumps. From my angle, I can't quite make out what the man next to her is doing. But he's doing something. He's moving violently too. She's bent over. Screaming for help. For him to stop. For someone to call the police. I see the neighbor who lives next door to her. He is continuing to mow his lawn. He is watching her as he makes neat shaven rows on this already perfect carpet. I hear hammering. The man next door? He's back at work.

I grab my phone and run outside to the curb. I yell, "Do you need help?" which is stupid because I know she does. I dial 911. I scream over and over, "Stop hurting her. I am calling the police!" I think he heard me above the mowing and the hammering because he started yelling at me in this deep, booming voice, and at one point stopped and crossed the street toward me. Then he noticed the woman running back to the front door and turned around to grab her and hold her and hit her again.

I'm telling the dispatcher all of this, and giving her all the information I can as the women screams his first and last name to me and tells me he, the estranged husband dragged her down an entire flight of stairs by her hair, hitting her the entire time too. 

I had a hard time hearing and kept yelling for her to repeat because of the hammering from the burly man on the ladder just one house over and because of the loud buzzing from the lawn mower still leisurely cruising the velvet front yard just second away from where the tall, muscular loser in a gold golf shirt and dark tan khakis continued to hurt the the mother of  his two-year-old son and continued to yell at me too.

For all I know he might have been threatening to kill her or to kill me. I don't speak or understand the language he was using. I'm pretty sure that the Polish-speaking guy next door and the Greek-speaking guy across the street didn't know either.Though by the tone of the wife-beater's voice and his strong, fast stride as he crossed the street toward me for those few seconds, yelling non-stop, they probably knew he wasn't asking me for a cup of sugar.

I ran in the house and locked my doors and my windows and stayed on the phone with the dispatcher as the animal across the street got into his dark blue new Pacifica and drove away while the brainless automatons next door and across the street continued their apparently life and death-saving important home maintenance duties.

The woman had run into the house. I told the dispatcher that and did my best to give her a description of the license plate though the guy took off too fast for me to get all the numbers.

Luckily, within second of driving off, he was back on the street again. He pulled into the driveway and ran into the house. I called 911 again though had to repeat the plate number over and over because my voice was shaking worse than my hands and the incessant nail poundings and grass attacking -- as I've said already -- was pretty loud and terrifyingly misogynistically constant.

He was only in the house a minute or two and I stayed on the phone with the dispatcher during the whole hectic hammering, mowing, and who knows what the hell that piece of fuck was doing to that brave woman who screamed for help closed door time.

I know that name-calling and swearing can be an easy way out and maybe reflects laziness or lack of vocab or whatever on the part of the writer. One of my biggest writing issues is that often I edit too much/ sugar coat and end up with neutral white bread that doesn't reflect who I am or what I want to say. I'm a work in progress and so is my blog. Kind of scares me, how much I let my mouth wander. But today at least, the shit stays.

 

The ball-less wonder dirt scum coward exited the house seconds later and jumped into his top shop maybe compensating for being a real man vehicle and took off, while the equally subhuman hammerer and what-kind-of-a-spouse-and-father-of-a-daughter-would-ignore-that landscaper/ monster continued diligently not making a difference one breath at a time.

I walked over to the house telling myself that I was a coward because seconds might matter and I should be running, phone in hand, and for the first time noticed the curtain rod hanging askew in the front window. I pushed open the door and saw the clothes and shoes and other throwing types of objects everywhere on the floor.

I called her name, the name of the only other human on the street today besides me. There was no response and I stood there trying to gain the courage to walk inside. I called her again and she responded and came down the stairs, crying about her hair being pulled and him hitting her again and again and she thought she locked the door when she ran back in the house but for me not to worry because she'd been safe the past few minutes behind her locked bedroom door.

By now, the noxious bug had skittered to the back yard for more cutting of already perfect and apparently more precious than human life greenery. The hammerer watched me as I crossed back to my house. I still held the phone in my hand just in case the third cowardly piece of crap I'd seen the last few minutes decided to return.

The hammer not-man asked if she was okay. Yes, he'd seen the "man" -- his word for the thing I don't have vocabulary to describe --  dragging the woman -- a mother of four not that that should make a difference but she's a mother of four and has a son about same age as the hammerer -- had seen him dragging her by her hair across the front yard, right in sight of the equally penis-deficient insult to all humanity mower.

The police came. They'd managed to apprehend the opposite-of-everything-a-human-should-be a few blocks away. They promised the woman he'd go to jail that night. Turns out, this was not the first time there'd been a problem.

I told her I would go to court with her for a restraining order. She says she'll think about it. I told the policeman to please explain to her that she needed a restraining order. He did. She said again that she'd think about it. When her twenty-year-old daughter showed up at the house, I told her to remind her mom that I would be more than willing to accompany her mom to court for a restraining order. I told her to make sure her mom called me any time for any thing. Emphasis on ANY.

The wife of the neighbor next door who did nothing -- I don't have the words anymore to describe how much I hate this whatever the thing she's married to is -- pulled into her driveway, just a couple of quick strides from the attacked woman's front door. I ran to the car and started telling her what happened because as far as I'm concerned, when one of us is hurt, we are all hurt. Plus, I wanted her to know in case I wasn't home and the woman needed help. Or in case I need help if the deviant decides to go for a two for one deal. Or maybe I said what I said next because the rage kept coming in waves and I felt justified and still do. I used words like fucking asshole coward piece of shit to describe um. . . the grass for brains that she's married to. 

The spouse of the mower? She's not speaking to me right now.  In fact, I'm pretty sure she won't be speaking to me for quite awhile. I just hope if she ever needs help, she knows to call me. I'll be there. Anytime. Until I move, I guess.  I just don't feel safe here any more.

When I think this in terms of running distances, I chuckle. Today it resonates for different reasons.

Bathroom talk and other musings from today's run slash sauna

Life’s too short. Running makes it seem longer. Ha. Ha. Ha.

I barely notice hills anymore. Sometimes.

The world would be a better place if more world leaders ran, preferably on quiet wooded trails with nothing but their own thoughts and maybe some Springsteen who I swear must be a marathoner because he totally gets me. Plus, I think I ran next to him for part of Boston.   

Thinking about Boston 2014 is a great way to randomly burst into tears.  

It’s possible to cry and run uphill at the same time.

There are no hills at the beach. Wish I was at the beach.

The Maine Turnpike would make an awesome running trail, except for the traffic.

All highways/ main roads should have adjacent bike/ running routes. With shade. How cool would it be to say you ran up to Maine? Wicked cool. You know I'm right.  

Wouldn't this be an awesome 90-mile run?   Lots of smiling sweaty runners out there today.

 

When other runners smile back at me, I feel awesome. Double awesome when it’s a young hot dude. Triple awesome when it’s an old runner guy/gal.

One of these days I’m going to strap my phone and a couple of water bottles onto my waist pack and run until I can’t run any more. Then I’ll call home for a ride. That would be a great blog post unless I only make it a couple of miles, then not so much.

I have lately become a running bling person and I’m surprisingly okay with that. Yup. Running charms, running skirts, and even the occasional matched outfit, emphasis on occasional, and matched according to my own definition, i.e. the soles of my socks are the same color as the logo on my hat which clashes with my shirt but once matched my bleached out shorts.  Sometimes I even brush my hair before I run. I know. Such a diva, right? 

How could I not buy this Beecause Sneaker Charm? My shoelaces needed this and my wallet needed lightening because races aren't expensive enough. Said me never. So I bought two more. 

I haven’t bought anything at my local Dunkin Donuts in ages, though I can vouch, based on my weekly visits, that the bathroom is quite clean.     

I will always love the Papa Gino’s the next town over because when I was training for Boston I’d stop in there to use the bathroom and they’d offer me water and say I looked great, those sweet lying bastards.  

Speaking of bathrooms, there is absolutely nothing wrong with making sure your long run includes forested areas.

This is where my drinking water comes from. I run here too. As in run. Nothing more. No hidden messages. Just. Run. Really. Drinking water. Okay?

 

I dream of running cross country, as in literally running from state to state, so I’d appreciate it if you highway folks would get those trails ready for me pronto. Please throw in some pines, maples, bushes (nothing with thorns) too.  

The longer I wait to write about Boston 2014, the more I forget. Like, I think I stopped to use the bathroom, but maybe I didn't? Oy. Better get started soon. Here we go: Don’t postpone joy. There. I began. More to come. 

Date night on Vernon Hill

First there was dinner, always Spaghettios with marble-sized meatballs which Ma divided evenly: three and a half each. Ma would sip tea, nibble shortbread, because she’d eaten her big meal at midday, long before our parents dropped us off. Next came the dishwashing.  We’d help clear the metal table, but in early years Ma washed, while my sister and I played 

sidewalk games, like hopscotch, on the yellow and red-checked floor. 

 Our favorite meal. Until Stouffer's French Bread pizza came along.  

When Ma started shrinking, stopped sweeping, saying eh rather than what was that, I took over the dishes.  Ma read the newspaper or stared into space. T read Bobbsey Twins books, or traced fingers over the Dutch girl border above the tired pine wainscoting.

  

Then my sister and I would slip into our nighties and settle on the prickly couch in the good room, swathed in itchy afghans, handmade gifts from some long-gone relative. Ma, still in her housedress, stockings puddled at bruised ankles, sat in the rocking chair. 

We watched Lawrence Welk then sitcoms. We stayed still, except to stretch out legs, use the bathroom. Other than saying move over or stop tickling, we were silent. Ma too, though we’d hear murmurings, wet coughs, the clacking of rosary beads, creaking floorboards. 

 

Geritol, bubbles, and Lawrence Welk. Those were wild and crazy Saturday nights.

 

Ma switched off all the lights when she and T went to bed. The heat too, I think. Then it was just me, the flickering blue light of the Magnavox, the Carol Burnett Show laugh track. I’d move to Ma’s rocker, curl up tight, my yarn cocoon a shield against the shadows,  aware that strangers watched from metal frames: Grandpa Tim on his wedding day, center-parted hair oiled and combed flat; my aunts and mother as high school grads, porcelain skinned, red-lipped, cheeks dabbed with pink, wearing white mortar boards, pearls.

  

On one of our last nights, it was the usual: just me and canned laughter. Then there she was, a hovering specter, eyes wide, unbuttoned top revealing ivory flesh and things grandkids shouldn’t see. Her iron hair, always braided, floated loose, like shredded satin.

“Your nightgown is open, Ma.” 

“Eh?”

“Your shirt.”

“Eh?”

Embarrassed, I pointed.

She looked down then back at me. She smiled. She had no teeth.  

She kissed my head, patted my hair, shuffled to her room, top still undone. 

After Carol, I watched the news,  then stayed up until the national anthem played and the screen went snowy, and only then took my cramped legs off to bed. Even still, I couldn’t sleep. 

I'm so glad we had that time together. 

When Oreos attack

Should you have an Oreo? You know the answer already: No. Cheat day is Thursday. Today is Tuesday. Yet you stand there, refrigerator door ajar, compressed air cooling the stifling kitchen, heat-stupefied cats, your feverish skin, though all you notice are the delicate chocolate ridges beckoning to you from the torn cellophane package on the top shelf behind today’s snack, pomegranate yogurt, fat-free. 

You’d done so well the last few days, limiting your caloric intake to only that provided by berries, bananas and whatever your body leeched from the cabbage diet soup you’d been guzzling ever since the button on your fat pants popped. It didn’t even occur to you until today to take an Oreo, though they’d been hiding at the back of the fridge since you’d concocted that ice cream cookie pie on Friday.  

It was earlier today, just before your lunch of strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, that you’d walked into the classroom next door to borrow a plastic spork, and noticed the organizational chart taped to the wall: OREO written vertically, one letter for each stacked oval representing the four parts of a basic persuasive essay. You’d stopped and smiled. More double stuff than Oreo, you’d told yourself, noting the twin shapes between the sandwich ends. That’s when your mouth started watering. 

You scan the packaging now, search out the nutrition label. Knowledge is power and fat gram awareness might help you conquer this dark desire. O-R-E-O. O you remember stood for opinion. In your opinion, you’d done a great job avoiding Oreos these past five days. R for reason. The reason for avoiding sweets is because sweets are bad for your waistline. Right?  E, explanation. You’re sick of overdosing on fruits and veggies. You crave the sensation of sandy crumbs on your fingers, smooth center on your tongue. You yearn to rescue soggy chunks, insides still firm, from the bottom of your glass of milk.  O for obviously obsessed.  Shutting the fridge? Not an option. Your brain won’t comply. Your muscles won’t move. Your belly growls, which startles the kitty who claws your calf. The two of you exchange stares. She returns to licking the milk carton. You return to licking your lips. 

You force yourself to focus. Remember earlier that day. You went sleeveless and wore a loose skirt. Still, sweat covered your back by 8:30. You’d shut off the classroom’s fluorescent lights, pulled down the shades, shoved up all the windows that weren’t stuck closed, even propped open the doors to the hallway, ignoring the fact that the kids next door were having a furniture throwing -- or was it a swearing – contest, and one student outside your room was singing, off-key to boot. 

Six hours of broiling later, you exited that kiln into breezier 91 degree temps. You’d thought of second winds then, and how good you’d feel once you got home, changed, and headed onto that shaded five-mile running path, cool waters twinkling beyond the pine trees, canopy of elms, maples, aspen, protecting you from the relentless beating sun.

 

You try to convince yourself that the only reason you’re still holding open the refrigerator door is because the frigid air is preventing your insides from boiling up and suddenly realize that maybe running today isn’t such a good idea because you’re already half cooked. Plus that delightful blue package, temptingly torn, is flapping, winking, breathing with your breath, flirting with your taste buds, obliterating all rational thought. Too, the nutrition label is nowhere in sight. 

You push aside the organic peanut butter, the Greek yogurt, two quarts of blueberries, the Dutch oven containing another two days of that bilious vegetable swamp. You take one cookie. All you want is a nibble. But the Oreos are smaller than they were last week. It’s gone in two baby bites. You grab the bag, notice the chocolate syrup squeeze bottle hidden behind the grapes, and take that too. Clench the syrup to your heart, push the cat aside with one foot, the fridge door with one knee and just before the door slams shut, snatch the can of whipped cream for garnishing your evening fruit salad treat.   

You find a mixing bowl and a tablespoon. Tell yourself you needed a rest day anyhow and promise to run seven miles tomorrow and stick to water and salad for days, because right now you’re finishing all the sweets, so you’ll never ever be tempted again, or at least until Saturday, when you hit the grocery store once more.  

 My favorite food group