Fashionable race wear.
I am a runner.
Anyone who has been reading knows that it's a big deal for me to type those four little words. And I really didn't believe it until after this weekend's River Bank Run.
After a few self esteem issues and near-disaster runs over the course of the last year, instead of giving up on running as a means of fitness, I sought to find ways of connecting to the sport.
First there was the "persona." I combined my nickname from skating with a little something from the Josie and the Pussycats soundtrack to become the Punk Rock Prom Queen. It made sense to me in relation to figure skating, as you adopt a character when when performing. It also helps me to think of putting an imaginary tiara on so as to hold my head high when the going gets tough.
The other thing I did to focus on being "in" the run was to notice 10 things along my route that I would not otherwise see or experience. What did I see?
I saw my friend Dante complete his 5k race.
I saw an old guy decked out in head to toe Polish garb. I dubbed him the Polksa Falcon.
Coming around Fulton by Grand Valley is the 10k's S-curve, a little switchback from Mt. Vernon to Watson to Front to Butterworth. From my perspective at the back end 12:00 miler pacer group, I was able to see a river of neon-colored humanity bobbing through the course. I even mentioned to the woman beside me "would you look at that..."
I discovered a few pieces of broken glass in a small pothole that street sweepers must have missed. I noticed the glint, like diamonds, in the morning sun. It also made me think of Say Anything, the moment when Diane Court fell in love with Lloyd Dobler, his gentlemanly gesture of kicking the glass out of her way.
The lilacs.
Running through the neighborhoods along the route, I was cheered by the neighbors watching the spectacle go by, and loved the first woman to offer her high five and "you rock!" to me.
The sidewalk chalk statement "YOU ARE HERE" prior to the 2 mile marker at the zoo.
Cold water never tasted so good as it did at the first station.
Winding through the zoo, a puff of wind had petals from the flowering trees raining down on me. Beautiful.
The flowering trees themselves in pink, purple and white.
Heading down Lake Michigan, I was startled to hear sirens behind me and prayed that there was no crisis. It was a fierce battle of the leads in the wheelchair/handcart race. They looked like cooler-than-cool sci-fi superheroes zipping by in their rigs, and they even made a super cool "zwinnnnng!" hum as they sped by.
The sea of humanity as the 10k racers merged with the 5k walkers and it took a little more effort to push ahead of the genial pack ambling along in jeans and flip flops. Still, it was entertaining to see the groups walking together supporting various causes, sometimes in homemade t-shirts. Congrats to the class of '78 on their class reunion and I hope Ariel makes it to summer camp!
The brutality of the last mile. Ugh. But the sight of the ladies I had stayed on pace with helped me make over the 6th street hill and Ottowa's hump. Rocker girl in splatter pants. Hot pink Hispanic lady. Indian woman with doe eyes. We didn't exchange names, but I'm sure glad we had that last mile together and shared congratulations over bananas at the finish line.
My other inspiration for the last mile? My two dads. I could heart Dave's dad saying "c'mon Melissa, you can do it!" and I could see my dad's grin and hear him say "good for you, I'm proud of you."
I came up on the finish line to the Beatles version of "Matchbox," one of the few Ringo leads. My last race? I finished to the Beatles "I Wanna Be Your Man," another Ringo lead. I think my next race has to be completed by hearing "Boys."
I did, however, tear my earphones off just in time to hear the announcer say "---a Garland, Comstock Park!" as I approached the finish line. Sweet.
Oh, that finish line was sweet, and I can't wait to see the pictures. I finished with a double fist pump while internally screaming "YES!" I'm sure I didn't scream it out loud because I had no spit left to form the words.
And tears. Anguish, triumph, sorrow all mingled into one. Dave's dad Phil had sponsored me for the race and was eager for me to accomplish this. He died that morning. Dave had said at 6am that no one would fault me if I skipped the race. Even with a heavy heart and little sleep, I knew there was no way I could or would skip it. I did last year's race for my dad; this one was for Phil.
It was the best run.
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On my way to skating on Monday post-race, I was listening to a podcast where figure skating coach Audrey Weisiger enthused on the creative process and how some of the best skaters she's ever seen weren't necessarily the ones with all the accolades. Listening to her words, it struck me: I successfully defined myself as a runner on my terms, by using my eyes as an artist.
I am an artist. And I am a runner.
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