Going Long

I wrote an 80 in the snow today, for no other reason than the mere fact of its existence amazed me. That's 80 as in miles, as in number of miles in a week. For me, an average trail runner with a very average body and very average race times, this was the equivalent of "discovered a comet," or "finally found El Dorado"---ethereal, incomprehensible, ridiculous. But it occurred.




Of course, I knew others did this routinely; I would see their Facebook posts and Strava entries: "25 this morning...13 at lunch....feeling a bit tired, so only did 19," and on and on in some kind of new language of Crazy Land, where running for five hours was easy, joyous, empowering. Of course, I would use all of these adjectives myself in the month of December, and not think it was at all weird to, say, get up at 4:15 to leave for Afton by 5 in a snowstorm, in order to get 5 extra miles in before the group run at 6.




It all started innocently enough.




In an attempt to remedy my long-standing functional inability to record any of my runs in any way, whether via a spreadsheet, run-tracking site, or a piece of paper and a purple crayon, I joined some of what I would affectionately refer to as the Run Every Molecule of Every Nanosecond of Every Day in December challenges. There were three of them, and they all required some kind of daily reportage of one's individual and cumulative efforts. One was all-business and supportive, one featured numerous "shoofies" (photos of one's running shoes in the snow, sand,or asphalt), and one was uplifting and cheering. I liked them all, and began to look forward to documenting my exploits at Hyland, at Lake Harriet, at the magical River Bottoms. Those who know me know I don't need much encouragement to wax rhapsodic about the light through the trees, the sparkling necklace of headlamps in the dark, the comforting sound of many shoes running together in new snow. With my new challenge memberships, I got to write this stuff every day...heck, it was a requirement.




What happened next remains a bit mysterious. Somewhere between the joy of talking about a hawk near the semi-dangerous log crossing and my natural propensity to get up super-early before kids and work, these twin enthusiasms formed a single thought in my mind: What if I tried ____ miles today? The number started at 8, then became 10, then 13, on and on up to 20, in closer and closer succession. I did them all pretty slowly, and I did almost all of them with friends. There was no intense speedwork, only a few tempo-y Lakes runs, and a whole lotta bonding going on.




Over the course of the summer and fall, I'd expanded my running network to include a greater number of friends from a wide variety of groups, and it had made my life so much warmer and richer. I was shocked at how many of them agreed to get up at insane hours and meet me as I tested my body in this weird new challenge. I looked forward to the alarms, to the silent dark, to the thrill of unexplored territory. I also found myself minutely aware of all the small pleasures of each run, maybe because I had more time to savor them: the peculiarities of the light reflected off Lebanon snow, the ever-changing colors of the Lake Harriet bandshell at sunrise, the stately grandeur of the mansions on Lake of the Isles.



Also, things began to feel good. Really good. Weirdly, inexplicably good. The pace felt both stretching and refreshing, like a good massage or a relaxing yoga session, the conversations funny and revelatory, and even the hills--the hills, the dreaded hills, those spectres that had waited around every turn to pick me up and throw me down and jump on my quads without mercy--suddenly, they seemed, well, okay, at least. Even Roxanne (the name we gave to the front of the ski jump hill at Hyland, in a fit of delirious predawn hilarity over a glowing red headlamp light that would not turn off) was a cheerful challenge to be attacked, rather than a monster to make me question the validity of my existence on the planet.




I felt joyful, fearless, and resilient. I also felt confused. Time and again, people would ask me, "What are you training for?" expecting a long list of races, or a qualifying time, or a far-off hundred miler. Some dear friends even confessed that they were sure I was secretly prepping for a big ultra, not wanting to reveal myself until the last moment. "Um, nothing..." I would answer lamely, feeling silly. "I'm just...seeing how it goes." Because I was born to over-analyze anything, myself especially, I was not really satisfied with this answer. Truly, why was I doing this? Yes, it was somewhat thrilling to total up the numbers and enter things like, "19 today, 314 since Thanksgiving," but it wasn't just about getting on the Mildly Insane Person's Leaderboard.




I think I was testing a theory.




Since the dawn of the One-Chick Henhouse era, I had faced many obstacles. Money, work, children, relationships...so often, I had doubted my ability to succeed in any of these areas. Did I have the tenacity, flexibility, and strength to make everything work? More importantly, did I deserve the success? I had rocked the world of everyone in my family when I went out on my own, and now I was falling down repeatedly in my attempts to make it all perfect. Every bill that was late, every silly sibling argument that marred what I wanted to be a Norman Rockwell moment, every 50k race that crashed with a body meltdown at mile 19...I interpreted all of these as clear signs that I was blatantly not cutting it at life--that happiness was something experienced only by people with intact families, mansions, and large trust funds. (I live in Edina, remember...) Of course, this was absurd, but at the time that I began the holiday mileage challenge, I was drowning in these errant beliefs.




The intervening weeks, however, showed me the fallacy of these convictions. I was suddenly experiencing happiness, peace, deeper friendships, and a greater sense of wonder simply by...running more? Yes, as Glinda the Good Witch said to Dorothy, "that's all it is."




By letting myself run more, by giving into it, with no strings attached, I let so many of my demons go. I didn't have to be the fastest. I didn't have to be in front. I didn't have to race. I didn't have to win at every aspect of life. All I had to do, really, was show up.




And, strangely to me, others reacted strongly to what I viewed as this very weird and very private quest. Every day, I got emails from people (some whom I knew, some whom I didn't) who had viewed my posts and found themselves inspired. I, who had never felt worthy of any title expect perhaps Chaos Queen, was now motivating other people to get out the door, to show their sparkle, to cheer their fellow travelers on. It was bizarre, and humbling, and quite wonderful.




Now the days are, minute by minute, lengthening again, and 2014 is on the wane. The challenge will end, and I will return to a saner (but still, I think, slightly higher) weekly mileage level. No doubt the Superior Hiking Trail will have its way with me this spring, and skating will cost as much as a small yacht, and the dear progeny will bicker, and the heart will yearn, but this time, I will be ready. I can call upon the strength of my running tribe, the silent beauty of those mornings, the fortitude of the second hill and the additional two miles and the fifth repeated loop. In short, the secret to my triumphant arrival is rooted in the passion of my initial steps.



Anyone want to start early with me?