Afterwards

It only just occurred to me that I didn't write any update here about the marathon. Probably because I didn't finish, and was okay with that, and had other things I was thinking about... But here's what I wrote to a friend who asked about it.

I haven't blogged yet, but when I do it won't be a play-by-play of the marathon as in the past - more a meditation on pain and privilege. Stuff I've been thinking about all season, actually.

This is what I wrote donors:

"If you were tracking me you'll know already that I didn't finish. I'd been in pain from the start and at mile 17 it was too much to continue and I dropped out. Nothing serious, just an unfortunate combination of long-term structural imbalances and unresolved past injuries - stuff I'd struggled with all season but just came to a head during the race.

      This experience has strengthened my resolve to "retire" from marathoning, so I'm especially grateful for a super-successful fundraising year - together we all raised over $1700 for Chicago Lights! (Or $100 for each mile I finished.)"

What made this year different (in terms of going on despite pain) is that 1) this year my back was hurting as well, and it was actually worse walking than running, and 2) I really didn't have anything to prove to myself or anyone else. Last year, once I realized I could continue, I wanted to keep going as long as I could. This year I realized the only way I could possibly continue was an extended break at the aid station, with no guarantee that I wouldn't have to stop again. And I decided that the pain was worse than my pride.

I'm putting a hold on marathoning, though oddly enough, the first half, despite being painful, went well. I kept an even pace and felt stronger than I had all year. But that made me realize how much I've missed that kind of racing (at distances of 15k - 13.1m), and how in the future, if I were to do a marathon again, I'd want to know I could run it that way - strong, steady, and able to push harder as I went along. But for that kind of running I would need to train for at least a couple of years - purposefully, eyes on the prize kind of training - and not until after I've gotten my shoulder and back taken care of. And honestly I don't want to train that hard, I have too much else I need to focus on.

So that's the marathon.

Some of what I plan to focus on - what I already am focusing on - is writing, and increasing my activism around anti-racism and trans rights. NaNoWriMo begins next week... *rubs hands*.

Still running though, I've been loving my short early morning runs in the dark, watching the sun begin to rise (it's still dark when I get back!) and seeing who else is up that early. A lot more people than you'd think.

Contentedly,
Annie

There They Are

I heard them before I saw them. Two geese, honking in the cold early hours. The sound came from below me, so I looked over the railing to the river - all darkness, the trees on the shore seeming to melt into the water, except for the steam rising from the surface.

At first I couldn't see them, and then they honked again and I saw the smear of their bellies reflecting bright against the surface of the water, the steam making space as their bodies slipped through, black shadows indistinguishable from the water except where defined by their edges.

And then they slipped under the bridge and I ran on, looking up at the stars and across to the awakening lights of the city.

Breathlessly,

Annie

Night People

An unexpected pleasure of running in the early morning are the people I encounter at that time (weekdays). Some are regulars:

• The older Latina woman, her hair in thick braids, out in all weather, walking with effort but energy and purpose, and greeting everyone she encounters;
• The sporty/outdoorsy white woman my age with her golden lab, looking like she takes no nonsense from anyone, whom I often see in the park with her friends (and their dogs) but sometimes also on the street on the way;
• The Italian gentleman walking alongside the park from the other direction - we say hi but he doesn't seem to recognize me if I run into him elsewhere in the neighborhood;
• My next-door neighbor at the bus stop, waiting for her bus - she doesn't seem to recognize me out of context either or maybe her coffee just hasn't kicked in yet.

Then there are others who I may or may not have seen before but we recognize each other as fellow early morning denizens - waiting for the bus, or on their way to school or work.

There are a few other runners out there that early. The mixed-gender pairs will usually greet me. There's an older gentleman I see closer to sunrise, a very serious runner, who gives me a tight nod. Women in pairs are usually talking to each other and the young women on their own are usually very serious with their gaze fixed firmly ahead.

Then there are the people at work already. Bus drivers and trash collectors - I wave at them as we pass by. The construction workers for the new Aldi going up. The bakery on the other side of our block is already open, light spilling out into the street and people driving up to grab their coffee and breakfast. There are a few gyms and a dance studio on my longer route and depending on when I pass they may be open, all glass and mirrors and determination. Islands of light at the gas station corners and 7-11s. And the food carts as I head back into Albany Park, on my last blocks before home.

A whole secret world out there in the morning, still and hushed.

Quietly,
Annie

Grateful

It was a rough summer.

It was a rough summer, and it's only recently that I feel we've gotten through it, though some things linger on...

Some of it was the usual craziness of scheduling with two kids - and next year we plan to do less of it - and some of it was family drama (not mine) - and that goes on. And other stuff as well.

Oh, and police shootings and coastal floodings and immigrant/Muslim/refugee bashing and heat waves beyond what has been recorded before. Zika in Brazil - no, now Puerto Rico, now Miami. (Oh, and now Haiti is being hit with cholera - yet again.) My head was swimming a lot of the time.

I find it hard to write about the things I sorrow over, or struggle with, or haven't managed to come to a conclusion on, along with all the random scraps of interesting, exciting, curious, even joyous things that come my way. My head is a very busy place, much of the time, and I am always seeking out still more.

I do want to learn how to write (here, not just in poems) about the things that trouble me, or puzzle me, and some of the connections that I find as I range around the world, via other people's words.

But for right now, I want to share with you one of the things that lifts up my heart, day after day: running in the early morning. To see the sky turn from a clear star-dotted black to a soft velvet deep deep blue (I swear the texture of the sky changes in these moments) and then as it goes through various changes as the sun rises, dependent on cloud cover and where I'm headed... it never fails to astonish and enchant me, invigorate and strengthen me. And I get to experience this over and over again. For this I am grateful.

With a deep love for the world and all that is in it,
Annie

Takes My Breath Away

Such an amazing sky this morning. The clouds were moving rapidly as the sun was rising so every time I looked things had changed, layers of layers of different kinds of clouds sliding over each other in every color, no matter where I looked. I was afraid I might trip, all I wanted was to look up and watch the grand show.

At this time in the year all my runs start off in the dark and soon they will return in the dark as well. So I am grateful every day I get to go out and watch the skies change as sunrise approaches. And I am grateful as well, again and again, that I get to go out and run in the mornings. Every day I do I get to go on a journey, exploring the world and seeing what's new. And then I come home to a house slightly stirring, and I look forward to the day and to the next run.

I live a good life,
Annie