This is where I will dump them. You’re welcome.
12/12/20
I’ve been thinking a lot about gratitude. Followed by some dark days (weeks) a few months ago, I’m extraordinarily grateful to be feeling like some weight has lifted. I believe there are a couple of rasons for this.
For one, I’m on medication. This was a long time coming—surely overdue. I had a rocky start. There were some issues with getting my prescription right, but it was worth it. I’m feeling more like myself, and feel that I’m present in a way I haven’t been for years.
For two, I’ve started living more authentically. As it is said: giving fewer fucks. I can be great when I am me. Trying to fit into someone else’s (or my own, self-imposed) box, just doesn’t work. It never did. So, it was time for me to shed that bullshit box.
For three (and each of these are inextricably and critically tied to each other), I’m lucky enough to have some amazing people in my life. They WANT me to be me. They want me to succeed. They want to encourage me to grow. And it’s not because they “feel bad” for me or want to “rescue” me. It’s because they genuinely care about me! And I care about them! It’s because deep down, we’re all amazing magical human unicorns who work to foster mutually beneficial relationships because we know that’s what makes beauty in a dark and cold world! And sure—we’re flawed. But we do our best. And we’re there for each other.
And so, for all of this—for all that I have, I’m intensely grateful!
And because I’m flawed, and it’s easy to get lost, I’ve been working on my practice of gratitude. I’ve been doing this through reflection: saying “Thank you” more. Asking the world for what I need and actively acknowledging the largesse the world offers up to me. I can think about this, the bounties I reap, as remuneration. I am a good person. I’m doing the “right things” and thus, I deserve my great fortune. And, in a sense, I believe some of that is true. But, I KNOW that there are mechanisms functioning just below our societal surface, silent to my ears, that feed these thoughts. Sure, I may have planted some seeds, but I KNOW that the fortunes of my family fertilized their roots. I KNOW that although I don’t come from literal wealth, that my white womanhood in America is my weighty endowment. My white womanhood in America is the rain that allows me to grow. And as I reap those fortuitous benefits, I must acknowledge that much of this trust is unearned. I must acknowledge that not all lives are as blessed as mine.
And because I want to be absolutely crystal clear here and name what it is I’m talking about—yes, I am talking about race. The mere fact that I just pointed out that I’m talking about race is evidence of ONE of my many privileges: for me, talking about race is considered “optional.”
And because of my privilege there are a lot of things that I don’t have to think or worry about or face if I don’t want to. There are burdens and baggage that come bound up with the centuries of colonization and exploitation that other Americans are required to carry every day. It’s worthwhile for those of us who identify as, and are identified as white to explore this in depth, and follow the far-reaching tendrils of systemic racism spread throughout our great American dream. They invade every last corner.
My thoughts today, however, are on the issue of homelessness. And although homelessness is not a “race” issue, everything in this country is a “race” issue. We created social inequalities that we pseudoscientifically passed off as biology, and through that, we made them biological reality. We created and fed the Frankenstein. And disproportionately sacrificed black and brown bodies to the monster so that the white “we” could thrive. So, although people along the entire skin color spectrum can be homeless, the people who are identified as white can often chose to think about it less.
I’ve been having these thoughts for a while, and working through them while I run, and I’ve put down a lot of solo miles this year. Over these nearly 3,000 Chicagoland miles, I’ve come face-to-face with a marked increase in homelessness. For a long time, I’ve wondered how I could help.
How can I possibly effect change in the system that leads to and perpetuates such radical inequality between the haves and have-nots—between the homed and the homeless?
Why is it what I have SO much more than the people who struggle to meet the most basic of human needs—a warm, safe, dry, reliable place to live?
Survival means something altogether different when it’s a daily struggle to find shelter, and one that is so foreign to many of us, that we can easily “other” the un-homed as we walk by them every day on our way to work or school. Their lives and labors so invisible and visible. Perhaps because we’re afraid to acknowledge the thin veil that really separates our stations.
Because the truth is, we’re all precariously perched on that precipice. Some of us, closer to the edge than others, by no fault, action or inaction of our own (see above).
A global pandemic, loss of health, of a job, or family, the fraying of some fragile threads of support, easily opens the channels that allow us to permeate that membrane. Bricks are made of sand, after all.
My point, is that it’s important to understand how close we all are. How fortunate we are—those of us who are funny homed. And to understand that we are not better than those who are not. We are simply more fortunate.
Social problems and inequalities often seem insurmountable and overwhelming. How can I make a difference when I’m a small part of a larger system?
I don’t really know the answer to that question.
But I know that I can take action. Small actions. And I know, that many small steps, repeated frequently enough, lead somewhere.
So, as Thanksgiving approached this year, I was thinking about missing out on things like spending time with family and friends, and I wanted to reframe those thoughts with gramercy. In 2019, I ran the World’s Longest Turkey Trot from Chicago to Milwaukee, raising money for ALS. I wanted to do something like this again, but by myself. The spirit of the WLTT, run in honor of Alfredo Pedro Perro is to stay together, to help each other through, to be thankful for our health and to acknowledge that our fortunes are transient and our comforts impermanent. Of course, also to raise money for ALS.
It occurred to me that I could do this again, inspired by the spirit of the WLTT but instead of raising money for ALS, I could give some of my own.
So, over the long weekend, starting on Retail Friday, I took out $100 from the ATM and set out to run 100 miles around the city, with the intention of giving $10 every 10 miles, to someone who needed it more than me. As an expression of my gratitude to the city of Chicago and to the people who live here. For all that it gives and takes. I routinely take. So for the weekend, I gave.
I know that my $10 s a drop in the bucket—I’m under no illusion that my small pocket changed anyone’s life. But maybe it changed their day. Maybe it meant that someone had food in their belly to keep them warm that night.
And I know that my actions were motivated by my won desires to connect and feel connected. To keep myself warm during the cold, dark times. I was motivated by self-interest in part, for sure, but it made my fun run seem bigger than that. Like it could bring some light into someone’s life other than just my own.
I wondered whether running 100 miles spread out over 3 days would be more or less of a challenge than running all in one go. But you know what? After 35+ miles on Friday and 35ish miles on Saturday, it was easy to ignore my fatigue and head back out in the cold because I knew I had more work to do! I still had $30 in my pocket!
Some closing thoughts:
I had never really thought about being uncomfortable during long runs as a tool for deepening empathy for other people’s struggles. I know that I have a nice warm, safe place to go back to. I got out of a soft, warm bed and if I get injured, I can seek treatment and then go back to it.
In the end I ran all around the city and through some northwest suburbs (~108 mi) and I gave $110 to people I met along the way. I wanted to end by giving to someone in my neighborhood and as I headed towards a spot where I knew I’d find someone in need, I passed a women I’ve walked passed before. Two men had just told her they couldn’t help.
I’m not sure what she thought as I changed course to run back across the street towards her, but when she saw me, she asked if I could help.
Yes. I can.
And when she saw that it was a $20 I was handing her, she exclaimed, “You found me!”
I did. And you found me–Thank you.
Better than any medal.
Waking up at 3:45am hungry and cold. In my warm bed. I listen to the wind rattle the windows of my lakeview apartment.
Perspective.
I have so much. I am so grateful.
11/26/20 It recently occurred to me that I sometimes use Facebook as a blog. But Facebook is not a blog. And the things I say there will eventually go away. So, I’m going to share some of them here. Or, maybe I’ll actually start using my webpage as a blog.
I’m going to enter my thoughts all in this post, as a stream, with dates. More recent thoughts will be on top. So, that was my intro. Here are some thoughts I had today:
I just learned that Chicago is the city with the third largest population of Indigenous people in this country.
Many of us, myself included, tend to apply a historical frame to Native American life. I guess forcing people to leave their ancestral homes has a way of making their descendants invisible to those who perpetrated the crimes and now want to forget those brutal historical truths.
So, in Chicago, there are over 65,000 people whose relatives lived here before ours. Some of those people are descendants of the Council of Three Fires, some of them were “voluntarily” relocated here in the 1950’s and some relocated here recently, like I did, for work or school.
Our city is home to the American Indian Center, which is the oldest urban-based Native membership community center in the US, and several other Indigenous community action groups and youth councils. Reading about some of the local communities led me to the work of artist SANTIAGO X. His work is quite provocative and often touches on the reclamation of colonized spaces.
Of particular note, to me, and I presume my local Chicagoloand running and trail community friends, are the earthworks he has installed in Cook County Forest Preserves and other local parks. One of them, Pokto Cinto (Serpent Twin) is in Schiller Woods. This mound marks one end of a proposed interpretive trail museum, connecting the Des Plaines and Chicago Rivers along Irvin Park Road. When completed, 4000N will be a 9 mile route and another earthwork, Coil Mound, will offer visitors views of the city and river.
Tomorrow, I’m going to run for as long as I can, and I’m hoping to go check out Pokto Cinto in Schiller Woods.
Today I’m going to contribute to the fund to support the project, so they can build Coil Mound and complete the trail. Here’s a link to more info on the project:
http://www.chicagopublicartgroup.org/northwest-portage…
And to Santiago X’s website: https://santiagox.com/
7/26/20 Saying, “this year has been weird,” is the overused understatement of this weird year. I’ve been going along, trying my best, but not feeling like that’s good enough. Truthfully, I’ve been struggling with depression for a long time, but this year, the elaborate toolkit of coping mechanisms I’ve accumulated over the years, has been locked in a COVID cage. It’s nearly impossible to employ those coping mechanisms when they involve running for days on end with friends in often remote places, requiring travel, the support of and close physical contact of amazing friends, family, race directors and volunteers. Now, perhaps my toolkit for living and functioning with depression and anxiety is weird. But, 2020 has been weirder.
So, since March, I have been nearly every mile solo. My usual maintenance mileage has been about 50 miles per week, but understandably, I found myself needing to put down more and more mileage to maintain some semblance of sanity. Basically, this has meant that if I’m not working, I’m outside with my mask, running along alone for as many daylight hours as I can manage. This allows me to think, but not think. To gain perspective, to feel like I’m doing something and to remind me that I can breathe (through my mask). With the lakefront closed, I’ve had to get creative, and with a new COVID era maintenance mileage goal of 50 miles each weekend, I’ve explored many streets and neighborhoods of Chicago that I’ve never had reason to venture before. This city is beautiful and terrible and so much more than Michigan Avenue, Hyde Park and Lincoln Park.
The leadup: So, this is how I’d been getting by. I woke up early on a Saturday morning in July. It was raining. I had planned to run 30 miles that day, and 20 on Sunday to meet my 50-miles a weekend goal. But, I wasn’t feeling it. I wasn’t feeling anything and I just couldn’t shake it. I just couldn’t bring myself to get dressed, ready my pack and lace up my shoes. I decided to take the day off. Maybe my body needed to rest. I was recovering after a recent fall on the trail. And, after all, I had been running nearly double my old mileage volume for weeks.
This was a bad idea. I still couldn’t shake the feeling on Sunday.
And Monday was even worse. I took that day off also. And the monsters came roaring out of their dark cave.
“There’s NO WAY you’ll meet your running goals!”
“You’ll never meet ANY of your goals!”
I got angry. “I’m going to run 100 miles this weekend”
So, on Monday evening, I started planning for the coming weekend.
Running in the city solo, overnight, seemed like a bad idea. I knew that my friend Jessy had been thinking about planning an epic urban ultra, so I asked her if she wanted to join me for the overnight portion. And, because I know I can count on her to join me in epic ultra-distance shenanigans, I asked Maritza also. They were both in!
I had four days to “prepare.” Running 100 miles on urban and suburban streets would be challenging under “normal” circumstances, but after running the World’s Longest Turkey Trot last year from Chicago to Milwaukee, I knew it could be done. But, what did I want from the experience?
My planning started with a list of requirements:
- I didn’t want to run loops
- I wanted to take care of myself. I didn’t want my partner to give up his entire weekend to drive around to support my sorry ass.
- I wanted to test my limit in a different way. This wasn’t just about the physical challenge of running 100 miles in one stretch. It was about survival and perseverance of a different sort. And, as always, lessons learned through running apply to life. The pandemic complicates everything. There are things that are out of my control. I can’t change that. But I can change how I react to those things.
- Could I think/plan/modify on-the-go?
- How flexible can I be?
- Could I run an ultra without the analgesic of fresh mountain air and glorious wildflower-flecked vistas?
- Could I walk out my door and just do it?
- Could I work with what I have?
Added challenges would, of course, include:
- Maintaining social distancing
- I was confident that I could do this because I have been. Quiet streets, sometimes running in the street. Staying six feet apart from the occasional person I meet or run with and wearing a mask.
- Dealing with closures:
- I’d need to find bathrooms (or discreet trees)
- I’d need to find food and knew this would mostly be at gas stations, because many businesses were closed, even for take-out, or had limited and/or inaccurate hours of operation listed online.
I picked a route to follow the lakefront north at sunrise and stop at places that I had wanted to try in the before-times, that said they were open for curbside.
This included some of my favorite food groups: Pancakes, ice cream and Chicago dogs.
I would also incorporate some trail to provide some foot relief, since I’d be spending a long time pounding the Chicagoland concrete.
The journey: I left around 5am—my favorite time on the lake. My journey started out pretty uneventful. It seemed like just a normal Saturday. It was peaceful and quiet on the South Side and got progressively busier as I made my way north. After stopping to pick up a donut at Do-Rite downtown (just as they opened), I Facetime’d with Mom. I told her what I was planning for the weekend and I was open about the struggles I’d been working through lately. It felt good to be honest. My next stop was for pancakes. I thought I could eat them while walking and I called the Pannenkoeken Café to place my order about 20 minutes before I expected to arrive. I was ~20 miles in. It turns out, their Dutch pancakes are delightful, but not really something you eat while walking. After chatting about running for a few minutes with the waiter outside, he convinced me to sit and eat my sausage, mushroom and cheese pancake at the patio table. I was the only one there, so I agreed. It was the right call. I had a long way to go, and it would have been a shame to gobble that pancake haphazardly while trying to navigate my way along the route. It was already starting to get hot and while I was eating, the kind waiter brought a fresh pitcher of ice water to fill my hydration bladder, which was amazing. Fifteen minutes later, I was crossing the street to meet Maritza and heading to the North Fork trail.
Maritza led me down streets and trails that she runs with her Canine Varsity team. I had no idea that these hidden forested single-track gems existed in the city—we even jumped some logs!
I noticed that my legs were getting tired (already), which seemed strange. My legs don’t usually get tired after 25 miles. I was also feeling nauseous, which is also unusual. But, it was very sunny and we’d been running an exposed route for a while.
I was quite hot. And I needed more ice.
We tried the only gas station, which sadly has neither cups nor ice (or a bathroom). We tried to find the Starbucks Maritza remembered being up the streets, but it had closed. We tried asking at the pet store that Maritza’s friend owns and asked Chuck, a friendly employee. He suggested we try Happy Foods, the grocery store up the street. I wondered if we needed an entire bag of ice. We did.
That bag of ice made me happier than I had been in miles!!!
After getting as much ice into our packs as possible, we pressed onward as I lovingly cradled the remaining ice in my arms. To the Glenview Dairy Bar!
To get here, we would need to take a “short” out and back detour. This is where we met Nathan for the first time. We went for the soft serve, but feeling like I needed something more substantial, I got a hot dog and soda, which would leave me burping for hours. I got a small cone for dessert, but was too full to finish it. Uncharacteristic, to say the least. While we were at the Dairy Bar, we re-supplied with ice. I had started the run with some already worn out, minimal road shoes, so I changed by shoes for the first time to slightly less worn out, slightly more cushioned road shoes. I also dropped some things from my pack to lighten my load. We did a little planning to figure out how to get Jessy and headed back to the trail. I noticed that our mileage was a little longer than I had expected by this point (~39 mi), and started considering route modifications for later.
We decided not to go as far north as I had planned. Instead, we would cut over on Willow Rd towards Superdawg, where we would meet Nathan, Jessy and Maritza’s husband Kurt, before heading south on Des Plaines Rd.
My original plan had us running the Illinois Prairie Path overnight, because it’s open 24 hours, and then run back east through Austin/Garfield, but I wasn’t sure if this was a good idea. Thinking that we could get most of the way back south before or close to nightfall if we cut out the IPP, we decided to change course. Sadly, it was my understanding that the Forest Preserves were closed an hour after sundown, but I figured that we could run on the roads flanking the preserves instead, if necessary. But the super-hot weather slowed us down significantly, so our timing was way off.
Willow Rd, we soon discovered, was not exactly made for pedestrian traffic. There were sometimes sidewalks, strewn with trash. Traffic was fast and close, and we tried to seek a quieter route, leaving Willow Rd for the Milwaukee exit, despite the large “RAMP OUT” sign. My mileage was ~53. Surely, that warning was for cars and we’d be able to walk around any construction. But as we picked our way through the detritus and weekend idle heavy machinery, it soon became apparent that the sign should have read “BRIDGE OUT.” Spanning the river below, were a few metal beams. Widely spaced, relatively narrow, and pretty high above the water (in my memory). What now?! Do we attempt to cross? Or do we go back to Willow Rd, where it basically becomes a freeway, and cross over the river on the freeway?
It was getting dark. We were hungry, and Superdawg was calling. Cursing, and with our safety lights flashing, we made our way back off the ramp and over the river on the highway. Adventure!
After running past a suburban air field, from sidewalk to no sidewalk to sidewalk again, at ~55 mi we finally arrived at Superdawg, where Kurt, Nathan and Jessy were waiting for us. Maritza changed her clothes, we ordered food and resupply in preparation for the overnight section of the run. I’m feeling pretty rough already. Although I’m famished, I’m indecisive trying to order because everything and nothing really sounds good. I settle on chicken fingers and fries and I manage to eat about half while sitting in a campchair in the parking lot, drinking a cold seltzer that Nathan brought. I put my leftover chicken fingers in a baggie to stash for later snacking. Before we leave, I tell Nathan that I probably won’t need anything overnight, unless there’s an emergency. Then Jessy, Maritza and I are off towards the Des Plaines River Trail, to see if we can run the gravel trail through the forest without getting kicked out.
This s my favorite section. It’s the part of the 100 when I really feel at peace—overnight, on a trail, under the trees with only the sounds of the living, breathing night and my own footfalls. It’s a little scary, but that’s another reason why I like it. I’m running from my monsters, and in the dark, I can’t see how closely they stalk. Lightening bugs twinkle all around us and I’m completely enchanted, reenergized, and I find myself running more than walking again. One more mile. Two. But I can tell that Jessy and Maritza are uncomfortable and our quiet conversation takes a creepy turn. I find myself trying to convince them that this route is safer than the alternatives, but when it becomes obvious that they’re not buying it, and that I’m putting them in a situation that makes them feel unsafe, I let them convince me to take the roads around mile 63. It will, after all, make it easier to resupply.
This might sound like I’m stating the obvious, but Chicagoland roads are hard. We run and wak miles of concrete, through empty parking lots and along rocky, overgrown shoulders and drainage culverts. The combination of unforgiving surfaces and my worn shoes is doing a number on my boxed-in feet. And we find that nothing is open. Even the 24-hour gas stations and fast food chains, that I planned the route to pass, are closed. We run out of shoulder and run sections on the road itself. The suburbs are not made for walking. Finding food and water is a problem. Finding bathrooms is a problem. Being less populous than the city, the suburbs have few businesses open at night to begin with, before Covid closures, but not rural enough to pee behind a tree without being caught on someone’s ring camera.
Our saviors, are big chain hotels. The overnight staff seem perplexed but delighted when we explain our trek to them, and they graciously let us use the lobby bathrooms, vending and ice machines. One gave us bottles of water. We were so thankful!
For most of the night, I’m walking, with some spurts of running. I’m achingly hungry, with nausea coming in waves. My feet are screaming at me and I know they’re a mess in there. When we see a 24-hour Denny’s, that’s open, I’m elated! Craving a simple grilled cheese, but thinking I need more substance, I order an Eggs Over My Hammy sandwich and use the bathroom while they prepare it. We sit in the parking lot on a concrete wheel stop in a distant parking space, and I’m so uncomfortable that I can’t eat much. Sitting so low to the ground, with my torso and things flexed, compresses my abdomen in a way that does no favors for my nausea. It’s disappointing that I can’t eat much, and I choke down as much of the egg as I can.
Here’s the part when I lose details. We carry on. It’s the middle of the night. We see a possum. There’s no sidewalk. We narrowly avoid “a hole.” We run on sloping, overgrown margins of roadways, causing my feet to evert and invert around in my shoes. We are yelled at/creeped on by some weirdo white dudes in a convertible. We pass a disconcertingly busy casino with unmasked, drunk patrons mulling around in the parking lot. Is Covid happening here?! A group of three men are leaving the casino and they walk closer than we’re comfortable with. I hear one ask, “Do you guys have a rubber?” EXCUSE ME?!! I see Jessy’s eyes flash with anger to meet mine as we turn to each other in the dark. Maritza, replies coolly “Yep,” and we decide to run a bit again. A little way up the road, I tell Martiza how impressed by her chill retort, and Jessy and I learn that the weirdos asked if we were runners.
As the night wears on, I’m needing to take breaks to sit, a lot, mostly because my feet are in really bad condition. A little way past the casino, we come to a little park with a concrete clock and benches encircling a fountain feature with lilies planted all around it. This is the first time I decide to attempt a foot repair job. When I take off my socks to survey the damage, I’m not sure what I’ll be able to do to make this better. I’m usually blister-prone, and have learned to prep and maintain my feel for distance events, but this is next-level stuff. Considering this somewhat of an emergency, I text Nathan to tell him I’m going to another pair of old, but my cushiest shoes. And perhaps some fresh fruit.
I remember even less of the next section. For the first time, I enter what I’ve heard other ultra-runners call “the pain cave.” My mileage was somewhere in the 70’s. I try to observe it without being sucked into the darkness, but fail. The pain and hunger are all I can see, and it occurs to me that the pain cave is remarkably similar to depression. When you’re in the cave, it seems like you’ve always been there and you’ll never get out. How can you hope to escape if there’s no light to guide your way? When despite your best efforts to escape, in the blackness, every turn you make leads you to another realm of the shapeless, tasteless, hopeless abyss. This is the lair in which my monsters live and breed. I had come to find them and drag them, out into the light. You’re coming with me, f*ckers.
As we near Irving Park, my perspective begins to shift. I know that Nathan is coming to meet us, bringing me another pair of shoes and something refreshing and mild to eat. When we get to Dunkin’, he’s nearly there. And although they won’t let me use their bathroom, we set up the same chair in their parking lot and I again, “fix” my feet and change my shoes. I greedily and messily devour some watermelon, filling a baggie with the fresh cut fruit for the road.
And we carry on.
The sun comes up along Irving Park Road and I’m not a fan. It’s getting hot. Again.
As we walk, I eat a cold cup of Chef Boyardee spaghetti-o’s with meatballs. It is amazing.
At around 7am, Maritza needs to head home. She has been with me for nearly 24 hours, and she needs to get some sleep before work. I complexly understand but am sad to see her go. Kurt picks her. Jessy and I wave goodbye and soldier on.
For the next two hours, Jessy keeps me moving and in moderately high spirits. Because she used to live in the neighborhood, she tells me how it has changed since the before-times. We pass closed restaurants and shops, cool graffiti art and at least one disapproving Lori Lightfoot cardboard cutout.
Around 9am, Jessy needs to head to the lab to check on an experiment. Travis picks her up, kindly gives me a Gatorade, I wave goodbye and soldier on.
As I enter the city, I expect that more places will be open and that finding food, water and bathrooms will become easier, but as I approach Wrigley, I realize I’m wrong. I’m getting desperate though. From a distance I see a Burger King.
Oooh—a $1 milkshake! That will be good! Closed.
A gas station across the street. Closed.
A biscuit shop just ahead. Closed.
And then—finally! A Walgreens! I wait with, my full bladder behind a women trying to exchange something, so I can get the code to the door. But I get it! I also get a kombucha and a prepackage turkey wrap. And I soldier on.
When I get to Lincoln Park, I find a quiet, shaded picnic table where I can sit and eat my wrap away from people. I look down at my watch to see that I’ve now covered 85 miles of Chicagoland streets and I cry for the first time. As I eat the wrap, my hunger pains begin to subside and I notice that my thighs are bright red, chafed and covered in heat rash. I finish my breakfast. Put my pack back on, and I soldier on.
The Lakefront trail is busy, hot and exposed as I continue southward. I soon need more food, water and ice and I text Nathan to confirm that he’s going to meet me in the next few hours.
Should he come by car or by bike?, he asks.
He’s asking: Do I want a way out?
I do not. I WILL F*ING CRAWL IF I HAVE TO. Please, come by bike.
Nathan and I play “hide & seek.” He expects to meet me on the lakefront, but I flee the exposed trail in search of a cold, sugary, caffeinated Starbucks drink and shade. People rush past the homeless man outside. I give him $10. With my frappuchino, I head down Clark and when I pause at a shady bench to see where Nathan’s ETA, I realize that my watch has died. My phone battery is also low, and I’ve already drained my power bank.
Am I going to need more miles? How will I know? Will I be able to find Nathan? Am I still coherent enough to fuel and hydrate myself enough to get home?
Finally, I meet Nathan near the Mag Mile. It’s an absolute shit show and feels like complete mayhem. I’m often overwhelmed by this part of town, but right now everything is amplified. But, there are bathrooms and food and Nathan. Nathan is amazing. Really. Just the best partner anyone can ask for. I’m filled with gratitude and my circuits are overloaded. I cry again. One the f*ing Mag Mile. Under my buff and sunglasses. Dirty, limping, masked, while people stream past, ignoring me and distance. I think about the saying “Nobody cares you run ultras” and am reminded that it’s true. But then I think about what ultra-events really are in “normal” times. In normal times, everyone is there to cheer you on! People volunteer to help you on your journey, you meet fellow travelers and share your most intimate thoughts. The experience leads to deep connections between self, community, joy and pain. Here—I was the only one who knew what I had just been though. A good reminder to be gentle and kind to others. I do not know what they have been through either. This brings me back, again, to thinking about invisible wounds. Things like grief, pain and mental health struggles at first, but the metaphor can easily be extended to race, gender identity, addiction and poverty. Be kind to self and others. The work weakens the monsters.
After another Walgreens stop for a cold drink and pickles-in-a-pouch (hell yes!), we decided to take the most direct route home down Michigan Ave through Prairie Shores. I know that I’m so close, but at my current pace, it will be a slow slog. I’m past the point when many people quit, and reflecting on the excruciating distance remaining, drives the best of us to bail. Can I savor this and persevere? I know the pain will last for the rest of my journey and that it will likely take hours. I haven’t slept. I’m underfueled and my gait is a mess. Every step is painful and yet every step gets my closer to my goal. I know that despite the stiffness of my joints, I’ll need to remain flexible and to take care of my basic needs, so when we pass The Spoke and Bird, I decided to order a soup and sandwich. It is, indeed, the hottest weekend of the year, but that tomato soup is now stuff of my dreams! I split the sandwich with Nathan, slurp down an entire bowl of soup while resting my feet in the Women’s Park and Garden and I soldier on.
I know this route. I’m almost home. From downtown to Prairie Shores to McCormick Place to Lake Park. I’ve done it before. I’ve gone this way many times, exploring the city off the lakefront since the pandemic began, and I know I’ll get there sooner than I think.
Since I know the landmarks and the mileage, I count down. And I think about how far or close it is, is only a matter of perspective.
At the Jewel-Osco, we stop for ice and wrestle with the bag in the parking lot. Some of it in our packs, some of it simply nestled again. It is heaven. And it’s melted within a few miles. But at this point, there’s only ONE mile to go.
This mile is the longest, shortest time.
And then we’re home. And I cry.
We are not greeted with bells and cheers. I am not met by a smiling RD with a gleaming buckle and a hug. We enter our lobby to be met by people exiting the elevator, maskless. And just inside the front door of our apartment, I sit on the bench, take off my shoes and cry again. I can’t put my foot on the floor, or any hard surface. I need ice water. Food. Horchata. And a handwashing.
And recovery begins. Or continues.
“That wasn’t too bad.”
I eat an entire steak burrito.
I drink a beer.
I sleep delicious sleep.
And in the morning, I bandage my feet and reflect on what I learned. From a logistics running/racing perspective. From a life endurance perspective.
How can I use this experience to grow and to endure?
Can I be the boss of my monsters?
Can I get a short run in today with my feet like this?
6/19/20 On Tuesday, I made it across Tennessee (in Illinois), finishing the 635 mile Great Virtual Race Across Tennessee in 47 days. I forgot to take a pic at the “finish” to share with you all, but here I am in my mustard yellow shirt, contemplating my BAT journey, just begun.
It’s been an interesting few months to be sure.Had 2020 been different, I’d be somewhere on course at the Bighorn Mountain Wild and Scenic Trail Run right now.Instead, I find myself just north of the Virginia/ Tennessee border, checking out Taylor’s Valley for the second time this week.
In Chicago, our lakefront has just reopened, so I’ll be spending some time out there this weekend—fending off buzzards, seagulls, dive-bombing red winged blackbirds and probably, a stiff wind (aka, The Hawk).
It’s not Wyoming, and it’s not exactly Tennessee, but I’ll be happily logging my masked miles while keeping an eye out for glints of gold, cheering on my fellow runners.I appreciate that as a group, we’ve raised several hundred thousand dollars for food banks!
I appreciate the sense of camaraderie and motivation that participating in this event has given me. I appreciate the work of the organizers and crew who’ve been working hard to keep us tracked, updated, educated about TN, and decked out in our snazzy gear!
Thanks fellow RATs, BATs and CATs (or BRATS or GNATS) for keeping me/the rest of us company (and motivated)!
See you out there!!!!
Oh…also, we bought a car today.
6/19/19
Hard to believe this was a week ago!
This photo was taken by Brian Gard at the summit of Old Tom, during the Scout Mountain Ultra Trail 100 mile race. It was our first big climb to about 8,700’ and only 20 miles into Scout Mountain 100. From the start, my heart rate was elevated due to the altitude and I struggled to get up the steep snowy and rocky sections leading to the summit. I couldn’t feel my hands at all by the time I got here and welcomed the opportunity to warm them on the backs of Brian’s eight pups while I thought about the challenges that lay ahead. At the top of my list: course sweepers and sundown were just at my heels. I had left my small headlamp at the last aid station and knew that I’d be slow as I worked my way back down the “ball bearings” and slick snow. Surely it would be dark before I reached my next bag.
“If it’s this hard already, how can you possibly get through this?! You are in over your head! You are not going to make it!” My monsters screamed.
Embarrassed and nervous, I asked some fellow runners if they had their lamps and said I had left mine behind.
Thats when Brian unzipped his bag and said, “I’ve got some extras with me. You’re welcome to borrow one and return it at the end.”
I quickly accepted, thanking him and hurrying to gain some distance from the sweepers.
I made my way back down the mountain cautiously, reminding myself and repeating : “It’s your time. Take it. You’ve got this.”
Step by step.
And on I went…
Thank you, Brian! I didn’t need to turn the light on (I reached my next dropbag by dusk) but knowing I had it gave me the confidence to continue on into the unknown. Your kindness and enthusiasm are part of what made this race so special.
Amanda L. Smith 