At one time in my life, I ran marathons. I hate to say it like that, like it's a door I've closed, and can't reopen. I can, and I might. But at this point, it's a small room in the big house of my life, and it's quite a ways back down the hall.
I ran three marathons: the St. George (2005), the Kentucky Derby Festival (2007), and finally the Boston (2008). I registered for a fourth, the San Francisco (2013), but nursing a strained piriformis, I elected just to do the first half. At mile 13, when the road for the runners-of-the-mill diverged from that of the elite, the most masochistic of the bunch, I took the one more traveled by. My bib identified me as a full marathon runner, and well-meaning race officials tried to steer me back on course. But I just smiled, shook my head, and headed for the free Bailey's coffee.
Today marks a year since a certain schmuck became President of the United States. Today was the day I planned to cross the finish line with a whole year's worth of weekly acts of resistance under my belt. I would be stiff and exhausted, but proud to have stuck it out. No doubt, after a little Bailey's coffee and a cup of Gatorade, I would be ready for more.
But today, instead of reaching mile 52, I'm only at mile 26. Halfway there.
My "race," over the past year, is a lot like how the Boston went for me. I qualified for the Boston unexpectedly, and by the skin of my teeth. As the daughter of a former Boston runner, I knew I couldn't pass up the opportunity to run the race. But as a grad student and single mom, I had only so much energy and attention to commit to my training. Mostly, I just went for runs, and trusted it would all work out.
The morning of Patriots' Day, standing there among all the lean, tight-jawed former track stars of the world, I realized I was an impostor. I watched them hop around in their expensive Lycra gear while I dumbly raised one knee, and then the other. I cut the shit and found the coffee tent, where no serious runner would go. I drank half a cup with a heavyset woman who was running for charity, and didn't have to qualify.
The caffeine helped. By the time the gun went off, I was excited. This was it! What a day! But then I started my usual routine of downing Gatorade at every station. I didn't think it through; there was math involved, and under the circumstances, it was over my head. In most races I've run, fluids are available every two miles. In the Boston, it's every mile. You are definitely not supposed to drink that much Gatorade. Fifteen miles in, I had a colossal cramp and a sloshing belly. I felt like a washing machine about to give out.
Not only that, but I was hitting my proverbial wall. With a four-year-old at home, it had been hard to make time for 18-mile training runs. I had only managed one or two of them before race day. Now, with Heartbreak Hill looming, I felt like I had nothing left.
I slowed down. I walked. I observed the passing Lycra.
Not only that, but I was hitting my proverbial wall. With a four-year-old at home, it had been hard to make time for 18-mile training runs. I had only managed one or two of them before race day. Now, with Heartbreak Hill looming, I felt like I had nothing left.
I slowed down. I walked. I observed the passing Lycra.
In the end, my belly righted itself, my limbs regained strength, and I finished the race at a jog. But I felt less than victorious, and certainly didn't re-qualify for the Boston.
This year, I ran hard from January to September. I organized meetings, placed numerous calls to my Senators and Congressman using numbers programmed into my phone, wrote emails and letters, attended rallies, and of course kept up my blog.
And then, without warning, I was done. It was like I had a finite amount of juice in my system, and I ran it down. Or maybe it was like I overindulged, accepting way too many cups of this and that, unaware of the impending slosh. At any rate, although I pulled off a few more actions in the eleventh hour, it was with a distinct lack of heart. As I've said previously, I couldn't make myself care anymore. I was ready for my Bailey's coffee, and a long nap.
To be honest, that's where I still am, to an extent. But today, in Lexington, Kentucky, I'll be attending a rally to commemorate the first anniversary of the Women's March. I haven't made any signs. I don't have a special t-shirt to wear. I don't have a megaphone, or any particular chants in mind. I do have a pink pussy hat, which I will don for strength. And I will gather strength from the women, men, and children around me, and try to return it in kind.
Despite my flagging pace, I'm not giving up my 52 Beads project. I'll keep plugging away. Maybe I'll reach my fifty-second action at the end of this year, maybe next. Maybe there will be an impeachment, and my actions won't be necessary anymore. Maybe they'll become even more necessary.
Sometimes I'll jog, sometimes I'll walk, and sometimes I'll nap. But I'm keeping this bib on, and I'm staying the course.
