Promise
442 down, 558 to go. Right on schedule.
I got to tuck about 30 miles away in Belgium, the trip was reunion and longing both.
I raced the 20K, probably my best race ever, felt great. It was cold and rainy, so I huddled in my standard ghetto issue pre-race garbage bag while I shuffled in a crowd of 30,000 toward the start line. I tossed my eco-unfriendly wrap to the side as I neared the official start (I do give a hoot, I don’t typically pollute, but in this case, disposability is divine) and dug in. I got going, found my pace and enjoyed the ride. I've run this race route four times, and I loved knowing the little dips and curves, loved knowing to hop a certain highway divide to stream myself into a less crowded section of a notoriously cramped tunnel, knew to pace myself based on where I knew water stations would be and how to mentally be ready for the killer hill near the end. I hit it all, finished stronger than I ever have.
(Note to those who run with music: somehow fit Arrival by Sun Kil Moon into whatever bass thumping, ass kicking mix you make. Trust me, you round a corner with 30,000 people, angling for a spot with twelve miles still ahead of you and the brief moment of introspection is well worth the digital space it takes up)
Post race, 3 am drunk tradition was nicely upheld (thank you Philip and Sue, I promise to bring Tylenol with me next time.)
I worried a little before I took off on this trip, that the bombardment of memories would ache and pull at me.
Moving abroad had come at what I had thought was the worse possible time. I was stuck in the hellish lethargy of a deep depression (why, still now, is that so humiliating to write?) I started running there to channel my ache, a blind shot at attempting to fix myself. I lived in Waterloo, and used to run along the fields where more than 72,000 men died in the last battle of the Napoleonic wars. Lush green pasture, fed no doubt by the blood and tissue of long gone soldiers. I’d breathe deep the grassy, acrid smell of cows, the sweet tang of grass, the earthy musk of new dug potatoes and try to push myself.
For years there, I took whatever had gathered in me over the course of the day, and ran it out, bled it out. The running is what broke me down and then built me back up. Hills, rain, cold - I used to get this masochistic surge whenever a big truck drove by fast and sprayed me with dirty, cold, gritty rainwater and puddles. I welcomed the abuse, I wanted to be broken down to pure mechanics, devoid of anything but the will to keep on and at the end of it to, to be able to say "But here I am now, I'm fine, I fucking did it" then shower, scalding water pouring down over me until I could feel my legs again.
So I’d left a little of my own blood in those fields too.
I began to feel the first twinges of joy then, not just the gratitude I forced myself to recognize, but firey shots of joy that flamed up in the deepest parts of myself. If you know at all the emptiness of depression, you know that those first flickering tendrils of feeling good are so sweet, so powerful, that geography can be indelibly linked to the renewal itself. Secretly, I was scared that I would hate the return to Chicago at the end of my ten days, would miss anew the unfolding that my expat life had finally afforded me.
But in the end, the trip was brilliant days of friends and wine, staying up too late, drinking too much, picking up where I’d left off, basking in the full round richness of a promise to myself and to people I love to BE there. Something intense did bubble up in me as I ran my old 10K route, but the new tears were a release, not a downward spiral.
One day, I did cancel all plans. I walked to the train station, rode into Brussels. I hit a few of my favorite spots, ate good things (well hell yes, waffles and chocolate!), took the same pictures I'd taken a hundred times before and then made my way to the Sablon, this gorgeous, ancient square anchored by a towering, beautiful cathedral. I sat at a little outdoor bar/café for hours drinking cold chardonnay under hot sun, watching people drink and flirt, listening to street musicians adjust the European mood to movie-set perfection and feeling deep down, hard core peace.
(In the interest of full disclosure and humility, I should mention that the long afternoon of wine was not without its pitfalls; that when I finally wobbled off and got my drunk ass on a train home, it was a slightly wrong train. I fixed the problem in my anemic French, and felt like a badass for doing so until I thought about the fact that the four year old I was staying with could’ve fixed the problem with greater ease in any number of languages)
So now I’m a couple of weeks away from the halfway point, miles wise and months wise of the 1000 mile project. I’ve dipped into every emotion and every physical state ranging from pain to exhultation. Some days suck, many are solidly great but so far I’ve kept this promise, maintained the vision no matter what and that in itself feels as good as anything possibly can.
x
I got to tuck about 30 miles away in Belgium, the trip was reunion and longing both.
I raced the 20K, probably my best race ever, felt great. It was cold and rainy, so I huddled in my standard ghetto issue pre-race garbage bag while I shuffled in a crowd of 30,000 toward the start line. I tossed my eco-unfriendly wrap to the side as I neared the official start (I do give a hoot, I don’t typically pollute, but in this case, disposability is divine) and dug in. I got going, found my pace and enjoyed the ride. I've run this race route four times, and I loved knowing the little dips and curves, loved knowing to hop a certain highway divide to stream myself into a less crowded section of a notoriously cramped tunnel, knew to pace myself based on where I knew water stations would be and how to mentally be ready for the killer hill near the end. I hit it all, finished stronger than I ever have.
(Note to those who run with music: somehow fit Arrival by Sun Kil Moon into whatever bass thumping, ass kicking mix you make. Trust me, you round a corner with 30,000 people, angling for a spot with twelve miles still ahead of you and the brief moment of introspection is well worth the digital space it takes up)
Post race, 3 am drunk tradition was nicely upheld (thank you Philip and Sue, I promise to bring Tylenol with me next time.)
I worried a little before I took off on this trip, that the bombardment of memories would ache and pull at me.
Moving abroad had come at what I had thought was the worse possible time. I was stuck in the hellish lethargy of a deep depression (why, still now, is that so humiliating to write?) I started running there to channel my ache, a blind shot at attempting to fix myself. I lived in Waterloo, and used to run along the fields where more than 72,000 men died in the last battle of the Napoleonic wars. Lush green pasture, fed no doubt by the blood and tissue of long gone soldiers. I’d breathe deep the grassy, acrid smell of cows, the sweet tang of grass, the earthy musk of new dug potatoes and try to push myself.
For years there, I took whatever had gathered in me over the course of the day, and ran it out, bled it out. The running is what broke me down and then built me back up. Hills, rain, cold - I used to get this masochistic surge whenever a big truck drove by fast and sprayed me with dirty, cold, gritty rainwater and puddles. I welcomed the abuse, I wanted to be broken down to pure mechanics, devoid of anything but the will to keep on and at the end of it to, to be able to say "But here I am now, I'm fine, I fucking did it" then shower, scalding water pouring down over me until I could feel my legs again.
So I’d left a little of my own blood in those fields too.
I began to feel the first twinges of joy then, not just the gratitude I forced myself to recognize, but firey shots of joy that flamed up in the deepest parts of myself. If you know at all the emptiness of depression, you know that those first flickering tendrils of feeling good are so sweet, so powerful, that geography can be indelibly linked to the renewal itself. Secretly, I was scared that I would hate the return to Chicago at the end of my ten days, would miss anew the unfolding that my expat life had finally afforded me.
But in the end, the trip was brilliant days of friends and wine, staying up too late, drinking too much, picking up where I’d left off, basking in the full round richness of a promise to myself and to people I love to BE there. Something intense did bubble up in me as I ran my old 10K route, but the new tears were a release, not a downward spiral.
One day, I did cancel all plans. I walked to the train station, rode into Brussels. I hit a few of my favorite spots, ate good things (well hell yes, waffles and chocolate!), took the same pictures I'd taken a hundred times before and then made my way to the Sablon, this gorgeous, ancient square anchored by a towering, beautiful cathedral. I sat at a little outdoor bar/café for hours drinking cold chardonnay under hot sun, watching people drink and flirt, listening to street musicians adjust the European mood to movie-set perfection and feeling deep down, hard core peace.
(In the interest of full disclosure and humility, I should mention that the long afternoon of wine was not without its pitfalls; that when I finally wobbled off and got my drunk ass on a train home, it was a slightly wrong train. I fixed the problem in my anemic French, and felt like a badass for doing so until I thought about the fact that the four year old I was staying with could’ve fixed the problem with greater ease in any number of languages)
So now I’m a couple of weeks away from the halfway point, miles wise and months wise of the 1000 mile project. I’ve dipped into every emotion and every physical state ranging from pain to exhultation. Some days suck, many are solidly great but so far I’ve kept this promise, maintained the vision no matter what and that in itself feels as good as anything possibly can.
x
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