Running and Paris and Cops
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I ran an easy 11 miles this past weekend, about a nine minute pace. It was sunny when I started, rained for about 15 minutes, then hailed hard for another 15 minutes, then rain again, and finally sun. I freaking love Chicago (and Gore Tex). So I got home from the run and my oldest son asked how far I'd gone, I told him and he shook his head "How do you run eleven miles?" I told him you walk out your door and go.
I'd actually been thinking about a moment with my own mom a lot of years ago. We were in a tiny little apartment, the rickety converted upstairs of an old farmhouse. Everyone could hear everything. The phone rang one evening and mom answered, I listened. After a long silence where she must've been listening to some sales pitch, I heard her say "Well, I'd like to lose about twenty pounds..." and then she listened more for whatever gym or diet plan they were hawking.
I never knew my mom as an active person, though I knew from pictures and stories she'd skied and been an avid sky diver long ago, when she was untethered to the awesome responsibility of raising two girls alone. This was the first time though, that I heard her voice the feelings she had about her body. She was soft, and that was about right to me, but clearly not for her. I saw her strengths, they were not physical.
I know though, that physical strength is an overall conditioner. Power courses through a mind and body that is sure and quick and agile. I never got to see that happen for my mom.
My husband and kids come to my races, we don't plan where they will be, I have no idea when I will hear them yell for me, when they will see me. I've told them that I never walk in a race, and it is maybe a fucked up point of pride for me to hold myself to, but knowing that they could see me at any point keeps me on my toes. I want them to remember that they saw strength in so many forms when they looked at me, looked TO me.
I ran in Paris last year. It was grey and cold, chilling rain spit down on me pre-race. I ran the half marathon, loving the gorgeous French signs cheering racers on "Allez, Allez!" So elegant, so demure. Pretty little girls in dark blue wool swing coats, men and women wrapped in scarves, the crowd was a living breathing throb of elegance.
In the midst of all of this, a sign that has remained my favorite for its burst from the timeless loveliness of Paris
"MOVE YOUR ASS!"
I picked up the pace. At the end of the race, we made our way to our illegally parked car. Parking in Paris...not so easy on the best of days. Parking when there are 25,000 extra people in town to run a race that shuts down large swaths of roadway? Pretty much impossible. Rob took Luke into a little cafe to use the bathroom, I brought the other two to the car. As I went into the trunk to get the warm dry clothes I'd started dreaming about pretty much as soon as the race ended, I noticed a cop methodically walking down the street, ticketing every car. He looked up at me and I apologized in French, told him to do what he needed to do, I was too tired to argue. He shrugged, as if to say, "Sorry sweety, but rules is rules and you my dear, are screwed."
Kids tucked into the backseat, I got into the front, holding my clothes, wanting so badly to strip my cold sweaty running tights and top. I sat and watched him take his slow, sweet Parisian time, waiting for him to hand me my damn ticket. Cold, waiting as he controlled the pace and eventuality of my comfort. Screw it.
I started to peel my tights down and the kids, realizing that I'd likely be half dressed when the cop sauntered up to my window, started pleading with me to stop and wait. I told them that I had no problem accepting the ticket, but I would not wait to take care of myself in the meantime. If he wanted to hand me the ticket, he'd hand it to me naked. I managed to slide into my warm, soft jeans, and had pulled off my top and running bra, turned my back to the window and was reaching for a t shirt when the cop came by with my ticket.
I looked over my shoulder at him, he paused, folded the ticket with one hand and kept on walking.
I ran an easy 11 miles this past weekend, about a nine minute pace. It was sunny when I started, rained for about 15 minutes, then hailed hard for another 15 minutes, then rain again, and finally sun. I freaking love Chicago (and Gore Tex). So I got home from the run and my oldest son asked how far I'd gone, I told him and he shook his head "How do you run eleven miles?" I told him you walk out your door and go.
I'd actually been thinking about a moment with my own mom a lot of years ago. We were in a tiny little apartment, the rickety converted upstairs of an old farmhouse. Everyone could hear everything. The phone rang one evening and mom answered, I listened. After a long silence where she must've been listening to some sales pitch, I heard her say "Well, I'd like to lose about twenty pounds..." and then she listened more for whatever gym or diet plan they were hawking.
I never knew my mom as an active person, though I knew from pictures and stories she'd skied and been an avid sky diver long ago, when she was untethered to the awesome responsibility of raising two girls alone. This was the first time though, that I heard her voice the feelings she had about her body. She was soft, and that was about right to me, but clearly not for her. I saw her strengths, they were not physical.
I know though, that physical strength is an overall conditioner. Power courses through a mind and body that is sure and quick and agile. I never got to see that happen for my mom.
My husband and kids come to my races, we don't plan where they will be, I have no idea when I will hear them yell for me, when they will see me. I've told them that I never walk in a race, and it is maybe a fucked up point of pride for me to hold myself to, but knowing that they could see me at any point keeps me on my toes. I want them to remember that they saw strength in so many forms when they looked at me, looked TO me.
I ran in Paris last year. It was grey and cold, chilling rain spit down on me pre-race. I ran the half marathon, loving the gorgeous French signs cheering racers on "Allez, Allez!" So elegant, so demure. Pretty little girls in dark blue wool swing coats, men and women wrapped in scarves, the crowd was a living breathing throb of elegance.
In the midst of all of this, a sign that has remained my favorite for its burst from the timeless loveliness of Paris
"MOVE YOUR ASS!"
I picked up the pace. At the end of the race, we made our way to our illegally parked car. Parking in Paris...not so easy on the best of days. Parking when there are 25,000 extra people in town to run a race that shuts down large swaths of roadway? Pretty much impossible. Rob took Luke into a little cafe to use the bathroom, I brought the other two to the car. As I went into the trunk to get the warm dry clothes I'd started dreaming about pretty much as soon as the race ended, I noticed a cop methodically walking down the street, ticketing every car. He looked up at me and I apologized in French, told him to do what he needed to do, I was too tired to argue. He shrugged, as if to say, "Sorry sweety, but rules is rules and you my dear, are screwed."
Kids tucked into the backseat, I got into the front, holding my clothes, wanting so badly to strip my cold sweaty running tights and top. I sat and watched him take his slow, sweet Parisian time, waiting for him to hand me my damn ticket. Cold, waiting as he controlled the pace and eventuality of my comfort. Screw it.
I started to peel my tights down and the kids, realizing that I'd likely be half dressed when the cop sauntered up to my window, started pleading with me to stop and wait. I told them that I had no problem accepting the ticket, but I would not wait to take care of myself in the meantime. If he wanted to hand me the ticket, he'd hand it to me naked. I managed to slide into my warm, soft jeans, and had pulled off my top and running bra, turned my back to the window and was reaching for a t shirt when the cop came by with my ticket.
I looked over my shoulder at him, he paused, folded the ticket with one hand and kept on walking.
I love you!
ReplyDeleteThat is awesome, Jenny! Only you, only in Paris!
ReplyDelete