Staying Still

When Superman's grief for Lois Lane compels him to reverse time by spinning Earth backwards, there must be a moment when time stands still. Or actually two, since he then restores Earth to forward rotation. (Don't worry if your chrono-spatial-gravitational physics is rusty. I have the unfair advantage of my own little resident Superman.) Though this ultimate statis is not only fleeting, it's imaginary, it comforts me nonetheless. Because right now my life is a blurrrr of motion.

Which brings me to- THE MARATHON. Yes, I ran! Loaded up with homeopathics and mulligatawny soup (thank you, Cheri!), augmentin (thank you, David!) and two days of rest (thank you, husband!), I awoke Sunday, November 6th to a brilliant sunny day in New York feeling well and eager. Together with 47,000 runners I made my way via two trains, the Staten Island ferry, and a bus to the starting line on Staten Island. Frank Sinatra got me crying for the first of countless times to "New York, New York" as we crossed the start and began our ascent on the upper deck of the Verrazano Bridge, all of New York Harbor, the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, Brooklyn and the Atlantic below us. I was so thrilled to be there and so high on the enthusiasm of runners and the crowds that I ran too fast too soon, and I knew it, but I couldn't resist. Six miles in I found Jordy, Duncan, Reeve and our neighbor friends in the crowd, another adrenalin spike. A lull after parting from them, but another boost in Clinton Hill-Bed/Stuy where the crowds were spectacular. A gospel choir rocked us on. In Williamsburg I picked out two close friends from LA - another boost. Then a long hard road ahead... Are we in Queens yet? Finally the Queensborough Bridge - ugh. Like the transition phase of labor in child birth. Long, hard, the crowds gone, lower deck this time, the relentless rumble of vehicles passing on the level overhead. My right knee started to complain. My hamstrings were grouchy. At last - First Avenue in Manhattan. WOW, the crowds were suddenly many times as dense. Their voices exploded in my tired muscles like rocket fuel. God bless these strangers! I shot off. Briefly. Then remembered how far I'd come. By mile 18 I need to walk quite a lot. Living up to the meaning of its name, "the Hinterland," the Bronx felt like a purgatory from which I might never escape. And yet there were a Scottish bag piping troop, children with fruit and water, and a HipHop duo singing "Welcome... to the Bronx," over and over in the tone of a dirge, which somehow all comforted and amused me through to the final bridge back to Manhattan. From then on it was all low golden rays as the falling sun beckoned us to the final resting place. Harlem, Fifth Avenue, a woman who cheered specifically for me ("Go, Pink!") just when I needed it, a right hook into Central Park. Bare trees overhead, a fantasy of Frederick Law Olmsted (my guiding spirit of late) watching from a knoll with wonder at what his park has provided, winding familiar roads from so many races to bring me to this place, a final detour back out to Central Park South past my grandfather's New York Athletic Club, a surrender of my vain hope to make the New York Times as my time passed 5 hours, irrepressible cravings that this damn thing be OVER already, the finish line in sight, and suddenly - permission to stop.

But not. Like the relentlessness of time in general, we were not permitted to stop. The New York Road Runners Club knew what they were doing.  To stop is to freeze up.  They corralled us like so many cattle in a forced march that lasted about 30 minutes. Wrapped in silver plastic blankets that look like excess material from the lunar landing pods, supplied with bright orange "Recovery Kit" backpacks of energy bars, apples, and water, we shuffled toward the bivouacked UPS trucks conveying our personal gear from start to finish.  An hour and a half and two more trains later I was home to hugs from four boys, flowers, and champagne on ice.  (Lest I give the wrong image, I would be the one on ice, drinking champagne whilst in a bath of ice water.  Grim, but effective!)

The marathon generates a host of metaphors. Life's a marathon, not a sprint. We're in it for the long haul. I hit the wall. You've got to pace yourself. I'm a "finisher." Once upon a time most people employed such metaphors without ever having felt a marathon. But with so many people running them now, the marathon offers a common language, a short-cut. (Ask any NY finisher about the Queensborough Bridge - say no more!) Having run the New York Marathon in particular, I'd argue it has become its own metaphor. "You ran New York?" evokes the whole wild wonderful thing -- runners and crowds representing every walk of life, every corner of the Earth, together making the world's biggest party out of something really hard and inviting everyone to be a part of it. Thank God, I got to run New York!

I wonder how the day and weeks after the marathon felt to the other runners. I felt like I ran off a cliff. I had some regrets. I wish I'd run it better, yadayada. But mostly I had lost my guiding star. Many RUNNER'S WORLD magazine subscribers must run New York, as they had a special article on overcoming the "post-race blues." My friend and mentor, Jimmy Moore, would have done as they advised and plotted his next race (perhaps an ultra next time). But it didn't feel right to make a new "goal." After sitting with this unease for several weeks, I realized why. What I crave now above all is stillness. Is it an oxymoron to make "stillness" a goal?

I started running again three years ago to pull myself out of the rut I'd fallen into after giving birth to two kids, having given up exercise, feeling glum. Running has restored me in body and spirit, and I will keep the habit going forward. But as I reflect over these three years, I also ran to keep up. To keep up with my "Rocket Reeve," who kept me running through my pregnancy with Tucker whether I wanted to or not. To keep up with Tucker, who by 15 months was off like a shot himself. To keep up with the pressured schedules of 3 boys with 3 different school schedules, and an average of 5 miles of daily walking/running behind strollers to move bodies where they need to go. To keep up my energy when sleep is in short supply (always). To keep up with my advancing age, which I believe is governed at least in part by expectations. And to prepare for something as yet unknown - the next hard, long, important thing. But I'm frankly a little tired of being on the run.

Maybe it's the approach of winter. An instinct to hibernate. The immobility of things frozen. Nature's relief of obligation to grow, strive, change. Now that I feel I can keep up, I'm not sure I want to. Instead I want to slow the whole thing down. I don't want to venture so far. I want to be quieter. To escape time. The first step, I realize, is to let go of all this wanting and not wanting, of striving even not to strive. Instead I'm doing more yoga, attempting meditation (never been very successful with it, but then again, what is success?! Incense helps put me in the mood, at least, and makes the house smell nice too), writing in my journal, trying to move slower, breathe more, expect less. None of this comes naturally to me (as my friend Jonathan's "perfume" name for me, "Flurry," evokes). Would that it were as easy as halting the Earth's rotations!

Then again, I'm really starting to look forward to summer. By then the kids will be bigger. Jordy has saved up more vacation. Maybe we'll be able to hike Mount Moosilauke together for the first time! Or head east to Mount Katahdin... After all this stillness, I'll be ready for some action.