Dear John

Dear John,

You don’t remember me, but I’m the runner you bear-hugged in the finisher’s shute of my last marathon.

I saw you before the race when we herded into the starting corrals, and I blew past you at mile one.

I held onto 3rd place overall until mile 16. You were not in my thoughts.

I was still miles ahead of you when the hills started earlier than I expected.

I started to slow down, and dropped to 4th place.

I didn’t know it, but by mile 18, you were closing in on me.

At mile 20, I tripped on some gravel and knocked a pebble in my shoe.

I tried to stop so I could shake it out.

But my legs, unprepared for the increasing incline, told me that if I did, they wouldn’t be finishing the race.

So I lodged the pebble under my toes and I dropped to 5th.

At mile 23, you came up beside me and asked if I was okay.

I wasn’t.

You told me it was okay to walk up the rest of the hill. You told me to draft you, and slowed to a walk ahead of me so I could.

You reminded me there was free chocolate milk at the finish line.

When we got to the top of the hill, I told you to go on without me.

At mile 24, I dropped to 6th and watched you run off to finish.

I didn’t expect to see you again.

At mile 25, my foot was in shreds and I’d reached my limit. I forewent my signature sprint to the finish.

I limped along, and shed some tears as I dropped to 7th.

I don’t remember crossing the line at 26.2, and I don’t remember putting my medal around my neck.

But I remember a bear hug, accompanied by chocolate milk, and someone shouting “I knew you could do it!”

Dear John,

We were strangers; just names on bibs, separated by age, gender, and speed.

We were the unlikeliest of running partners.

You may have forgotten me, but each time I look at the scar from that pebble I think of you.

Thank you for slowing down.

And thank you for walking me up that hill.

But, most of all, thank you for the chocolate milk.

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Boston thoughts…

 

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Crossing the line

My neighborhood is a hilly one.

Over the years, I’ve cursed those ups and downs.

The truth, though, is that each finish line I’ve crossed has been thanks to those hills and valleys.

I don’t remember the day I stopped running, but I remember why.

Life stopped me.

It was sprinting downhill ahead of me and, no matter how hard I tried to keep up, I couldn’t.

A week went by.

Then a month.

Then another.

And another month until, one day, it felt like I was in a deep valley looking up a steep hill.

Sometimes, I’d stop and look at the pile of old spandex on the shelf and wonder, “how did I do it?”

But it didn’t matter. That part of my life was over.

I don’t remember the day I stopped running, but I remember the day I started again.

It was a dull winter morning.

Strangely, for the first time in months, I felt a twitch in my heels.

“Later maybe,” I said to myself, and turned on the TV.

The weather girl announced it was -7C with a windchill of -17C, and that a storm was on its way.

Not exactly a good day for a run.

I ate a donut, and thought about my options.

As I did, I felt an ache in my chest.

“Now.” I said to myself, and I went upstairs to battle the spandex.

I knew it would be cold, and I knew I wouldn’t get far.

I knew it would hurt.

Still, I laced up my shoes and opened the door.

It was a cold and windy 4km but, for the first time in a long time, I did some thinking.

I thought about finish lines I’d crossed.

I thought about the short ones, the long ones, the ultra-long ones and, tearfully, the last one.

Getting to them was never easy.

But I crossed them all.

 

My legs, surprisingly, chugged happily along as I worked my way around the neighborhood.

I looked at my feet and noticed my shoes.

They felt good.

They reminded me of dark, quiet mornings and long training runs.

Which reminded me of watching the sun rise over my sleepy city.

Which reminded me of count-the-buns runs.

My shoes reminded me of good things.

It was around this time when my lungs started to burn, and I realized I’d passed the valley.

It was time to push myself up the biggest hill in the neighborhood.

Once, I could sprint up that hill.

That day, it felt like I was crawling.

I felt the wind pick up as the storm closed in, and I could see my breath in front of me.

But to beat that storm, I was going to have to fight the pain and pick up my pace.

So, I did.

Some finish lines are crossed at a sprint, and others at a crawl.

But if you stop running, you can’t finish the race.

As for me, I don’t remember the day I stopped running because that day hasn’t come.

I’m still sprinting my way to the valleys, and fighting my way up the hills.

And the day I cross Life’s finish line, I know what I’ll be wearing.

I’ll be wearing my running shoes.

 

 

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SQUIRT and The Noise

SQUIRT, also known as runrise, is my Super Quiet UnInterruped Running Time.

I love SQUIRT. It means starting a run under the stars, and finishing it while the world wakes up.

It means silence, with only the animals to break my thoughts.

It also means cool, dry air.

And then there’s The Noise.

The Noise comes when the world wakes up.

It means traffic and crowded sidewalks.

It means zero opportunity for animal sightings.

It also means hotter temperatures, and hotter tempers.

So, when for the first time all year, SQUIRT encountered a rain delay, you could say I was unhappy.

I had two choices:

1. Run 19 miles in a rainstorm
2. Run 19 miles on a dreadmill

Neither option was appealing, so I did what any thinking person would do.

When I woke up a few hours later, nature gave me a third choice.

The rain had stopped.

It was muggy and humid, but I could run outside.

Not knowing how long the dry spell would last, I got on my running gear, and tore out the door.

Half a mile from my house, I looked down and saw my fail.

The thing about SQUIRT is that, sadly, I must take safety precautions.

I carry my smartphone and a bear whistle.

I wear really bright, reflective colors so cars can see me.

That morning’s SQUIRT ensemble consisted of neon orange shoes, neon pink compression tights, a pink running skirt, and my lime-green technical tee.

I carried on.

Cars roared past, and at mile 2, I upped the volume on my music to tune them out.

By mile 3, sweat was (literally) running off my face.

Soon, I encountered the first weekend warrior. I avoided eye contact, certain that he wouldn’t greet a demented rainbow.

“Long run day?”

I turned down my music.

“Huh?” I asked.

“Long run day?” he repeated.

“Oh, yeah, it is.” I replied.

“You have a great one!” he called out as he passed me.

“You too!”

I carried on.

At mile 8, I was greeted by a bald head wearing a feather coat.

Turkey vultures are enormous.  They have freaky pink bald faces and sharp pointy teeth.

Oh, and they’ve got large talons.

Now, one was directly in my path, staring me down.

Remembering previous fails adventures with his cousins, I slowed down.

He didn’t budge.

I reached for my whistle, but I’d left it in my SQUIRT pack at home.

Not wanting to become this turkey’s sandwich, I did what any thinking person would do.

I made kissy noises at him.

I carried on.

By mile 15, the humidity got to me. It had yet to rain, but the atmosphere was thick, and I was unhappy.

I was having trouble dodging all things human and machine.

For the first time ever, I considered breaking up my run and finishing my miles the next day.

But then, from behind, I heard “You’re doing great!”

Confused, I circled around.

Someone was on the sidewalk, giving me the thumbs up.

I carried on.

At mile 18, I was running down my last hill when a car pulled over on the shoulder ahead of me.

I crossed the road to get out of the way.

When I got to the other side, someone stepped out of the car and took my picture.

“I’m a photographer, and I love your colors!” He yelled.

“What? My colors?” I yelled back.

“You just look so cheerful against this dull grey day!”

Stunned, I did what any thinking person would do.

SQUIRT and The Noise both have a place in the runiverse.

SQUIRT means cool air, silence, and stars.

But it also means solitude.

It means pushing through on your own.

The Noise means traffic, humidity, and crowds.

But it also means sharing.

It means letting others push you through.

And, sooner or later, everyone needs a push.

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Running the hills

Some generations ago, my family scoured the Scottish highlands. By day, dressed in their finest plaids and hose, they leapt along the mountainsides like stags.

By night, sitting around the hearth drinking scotch, they told stories about the mountains they loved.

Then one day, someone told them a story about Canada. Jovial adventurers, they adjusted their plaids, rolled up their hose, and sailed across the sea.

But when they arrived, something was missing.

So, they traveled inland.

After trudging through an endless flat forest, they came across some hills, but they weren’t exactly the highlands of home.

So they picked up their suitcases and hopped back on the train.

But, beyond the wee hills, all they saw was flat.

They turned around, and when they arrived back at the wee hills, they unpacked their suitcases, peeled off their hose, and decided to stay.

They built houses.

They settled towns.

Eventually, the wee hills became home.

To my ancestors, they were just wee hills.

But to me, the day before an ultra trail race, they were mountains.

It had been years since I’d visited what were now known as “the hills” and, as my husband and I scoped out the race location the night before my race, I was humbled by what 2800ft of vertical ascent really looked like.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I was scared the hills would break me.

I knew that they could.

As I bounced between fatigue and panic, I thought about my history in the hills.

I thought of my great grandmother who, a century before, refused to say “obey” in her wedding vows, and I thought of my great grandfather who loved her for it.

They climbed these hills.

I thought of my grandmother who, having little, raised 8 children nearly all on her own while she kept the family farm going.

She worked these hills.

I thought about my great uncle who, despite crashing his plane 3 times in two world wars, survived with a just broken nose.

He walked home to these hills.

Suddenly, I sat up.

I pulled the covers back, and looked at my feet. I wiggled my toes.

Generations of my feet had scoured these hills.

“You’ll know what to do,” I said to them and, finally, I fell asleep.

The morning of the race, I put on my running skirt, rolled up my compression socks, and got ready for battle.

 

“How do you feel?” my husband asked as we pulled up to the race.

“Hmph,” I replied, staring down the hills ahead.

“You’ve gone monk, haven’t you?” he asked.

“Nay, I’ve gone Fleck.” I whispered.

The gun went off.

When the hills got so steep that I needed a rope for support, I climbed them. When my quads burned and my eyes stung with sweat, I worked through the pain.

I dodged wasps’ nests.

I ran through meadows and jumped over rivers.

 

Finally, I jumped the finish line.

Race complete, I grabbed a pint of beer and walked out into the meadow to look back at the hills.

Soon after, my husband walked over to me.

“Something tells me you’ve got a story to tell,” he said.

I adjusted my skirt and looked down at my feet. I wiggled my toes.

“No,” I replied, still looking at my feet, “this story belongs to them.”

 

 

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My shadow and me

They’re a funny lot, shadows are.

Always there with us, even when we forget about them.

As a kid, I liked my shadow.

When I was little, on a sunny day I’d often find myself trying to outrun it. I’d jump side to side, take off at a sprint, or try and spin around really fast.

I’d watch it mimic my movements, and I liked how it reflected me.

My shadow was always there, and I liked it that way.

But, as I grew up, I stopped paying attention to my shadow.

In fact, I forgot all about it.

Until one, not so specific day, my shadow started to grow.

It grew and it grew until, eventually, it outgrew me.

It was always there, and I hated it.

I could jump side to side, take off at a sprint, or spin around really fast, but there was no escape.

I tried to run from it.

But no matter how hard I ran, I couldn’t outrun my shadow.

All I could do was mimic its movements.

All I did was reflect it.

And then, one very specific morning, I woke up before runrise for a long slow jog.

Running in the dark, I knew my shadow was there, but I couldn’t see it.

I liked it that way.

But soon the sun rose, and my shadow started to grow ahead of me.

At first, it was just a blob of dark grey at my feet.

But then, it got bigger and bigger until, eventually, it was huge.

It just hovered in front of me.

Suddenly, I realized it would always be there.

Because, like it or hate it, my shadow was part of me.

I thought about stopping, and I thought about giving up the jog.

I thought, maybe, I should just quit altogether.

It was then that I came to a bend in the road, so I slowly turned around to head home.

And, as I did, a peculiar thing happened.

When I turned, so did my shadow. I watched it move around me until, finally, I couldn’t see it anymore.

Sun on my face and a clear path ahead of me, I thought about stopping, and I thought about giving up the jog.

But then I thought, maybe, I wasn’t ready to quit.

I glanced back.

My shadow was still there.

But it was behind me.

It was behind me because I’d put it there.

Suddenly, I realized I was the one in control.

Now, nearly every morning, I wake up before runrise and watch my little corner of the world change from dark to light.

As I run, my shadow grows ahead of me.

But I don’t mind that it’s there.

And I don’t ever want to forget that it is.

Now, when it grows too big, I know that it’s time for me to make that turn and run towards the sun.

Because, now, I know that I’m the one in control of our direction.

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The interloper

It took a long time for me to think of myself as “a runner”.

I wasn’t a runner.

Real runners were fast.

Real runners ran distances.

Real runners ran distances fast.

And I just didn’t see myself as part of the club.

But then one day, while moving out of a gazelle’s way, something happened that had never happened to me before.

As he passed me, the gazelle turned, smiled, and gave me the “runner’s nod”.

And, finally, I felt like I was in the club.

A few weeks ago, I found out that a race was happening in my neighborhood. Two races, actually; a 10KM and a 5KM, and the 10KM would follow part of my weekend LSD (Long, Slow, Distance) running route.

It was too late to register, but I still wanted to join in the fun.

So I decided to interlope.

The morning of the race, I laced up my shoes about 15 minutes before the gun time and trotted out in the direction of the start line.

It wasn’t long before the first gazelle pranced by on the road while I jogged on the sidewalk. Then, over the course of the next kilometer, a full herd pranced by.

I knew I had to maintain a slower pace on my LSD run but, lion that I am, I wanted to chase the herd. So, in an effort to hold my pace, after about 3 kilometers I broke away from the pack and changed my course.

After a few lonely kilometers, I decided to change direction again, and turned back towards my neighborhood. As I did, I approached an intersection.

I looked right, and looked left.

To my left, the 10KM herd was approaching, so I stopped and let them pass.

And, as they did, a familiar face glanced my way.

Gazella DeVil.

She turned and glanced at me, and I blinked back at her.

I smiled and gave her the “runner’s nod”.

But, wait. Was that a smirk? No, it couldn’t be.

It had been years since our last encounter, and I was a runner now. Surely she could see that.

Failing to return the nod, she just looked away, and increased her speed.

I crossed the road and continued on my LSD run, thinking of nothing but Gazella.

I watched as the last of the 10KM herd disappeared over the hill up ahead.

I wanted to chase them.

I wanted to beat them.

I knew that I could.

I was about to speed up when, suddenly, I noticed the road had become crowded.

I was so focused on my thoughts, I didn’t see that I was overtaking the back of the 5KM group.

Many of the runners were fatigued and slowing to a walk.

Some had even stopped.

I looked up at the hill.

There was still time to chase the herd.

But, then I looked at the tired faces around me, and remembered a kind face and a friendly nod from long ago.

I knew what I needed to do.

I let go of Gazella.

“You’re doing awesome! Keep going!” I said to the first runner I passed.

I repeated the phrase to each person I saw who’d slowed to a walk.

When I got to the crest of the hill, I looked back and smiled.

A few had started jogging again.

I crossed the road to get out of the way, and watched as runners from both races approached the finish line.

Some devoured it at a sprint.

Some comfortably trotted their way through, enjoying the warm sunny morning.

Some crossed it in agony.

But they all crossed it.

They were, all of them, runners.

And we, all of us, were in the club.

Interloping complete, I blinked back a few sweaty tears, nodded to them all, and jogged happily away.

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It’s time to lose the judgey tights

The first time I saw a running skirt, my husband and I were driving around town while running errands on a hot Saturday afternoon.

“Wow, look at her go!” my husband exclaimed, pointing at a gazelle on the sidewalk.

I turned to get a better look.

Posture – excellent.

Relaxed upper body – check.

Speed – at least Gazelle Mach 1.

I was about to (jealously) give her a two thumbs up when I noticed something strange about her shorts.

They were a skirt.

My husband, bewildered by my silence, turned to me expectantly.

“So?” he asked.

I slowly pivoted my head toward him and snapped the waistband on my judgey tights.

“Not a runner.”

“Wait. What? She’s running!”

“Runners don’t wear skirts. WE don’t wear skirts.” I replied.

After that, my husband did what a husband should never do. He pointed out every person he saw working out in a skirt.

“Tennis players wear them.”

“Not runners.”

“Golfers wear them.”

“Not runners.”

“Field hockey players wear them.”

“NOT RUNNERS!”

Eventually, he gave up on his game, and assumed my hatred of running skirts was just another quirk he’d have to live with.

Over time, my distances grew longer and I got pickier about what I wore while running. I got too hot in tights, but I hated the lack of coverage running shorts provided.

I just couldn’t find the ideal thing to cover my lower half.

One day, my friend and I went shopping on our lunch break.

“Oh, wow! Look at this!” she exclaimed, holding up what looked to me like a mini-skirt.

“Aren’t we a little old for mini-skirts?” I joked.

“No, silly, it’s a workout skirt. I wore one when I taught spin classes. They keep you cool, and they’re really modest. See?” She lifted up the front to reveal a set of shorts tucked underneath.

I blinked, flabbergasted.

“Know how annoying it is when you have to adjust your shorts mid-spin class?”

I nodded.

“Well, the skirt keeps you covered if they bunch up. I’m surprised you’ve never tried one!”

So I bought one.

A hot pink one.

“What’d you buy at the store?” my husband asked when I got home that night, hot pink running skort hidden deep in my purse.

“NOTHING!” I barked, and scooted upstairs to hide the skort.

The next morning at runrise, I snuck out while my husband was still sleeping.

It wasn’t long before I felt “slide-age”. Still skeptical of the skort’s magical coverage powers, I pirouetted a few times to see if I was still covered up.

To my surprise, I was.

I went on to have a great and, most importantly, comfortable run.

When I got home, my husband was awake. He met me at the door with a smirk.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Nope.”

The smirk became a smile. “Did you run… in a SKIRT?”

“Nope.”

“That’s a SKIRT! Did you lose a bet or something?” The smirk was now a toothy grin.

I sighed and whispered, “I was wrong.”

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

He leaned in a little closer.

This time, I replied a little louder.

“I like running in a skirt.”

“I still can’t hear you… you’ll have to raise your voice,” he said grinning ear to ear.

“IT’S A SKORT AND I LOVE IT!” I exclaimed.

I pulled up my humble skort and ran inside, my figurative tail between my legs.

Sometimes, we need to try new things.

Sometimes, we need to look beyond the surface before making assumptions.

Sometimes, we just need to lose the judgey tights and put on our humble skorts.

So judge me all you want, runiverse. You don’t know what you’re missing.

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Saying thank you!

This week’s post takes a slight detour from my normal story-telling and cartooning.

My lovely blogging buddy over at A Fast Paced Life kindly interviewed me about my blog this week. Head over to her site for a read (then stick around to read more of her great posts):

https://afastpacedlife.wordpress.com/2015/06/12/see-fleck-run/

In the spirit of paying it forward, I thought I would point you to some other great running/fitness blogs out there that I’ve found in the blogosphere. In no particular order:

Movin’ It With Michelle

Motherhood and Marathons

Out Running

Jogging Jeans

The Dancing Runner

The Old Fellow Goes Running

Natjtan

So Very Slightly Mad

Running Heartless

Tell Me About Running

Whether you’re just starting out, or you’re a seasoned pro, you’ll be sure to find all kinds of motivation from these blogs. Enjoy!

I’ll return to my regularly scheduled story-telling and cartoons next week. 🙂

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The case of the missing marathon

Remember a while ago when I mentioned it was marathon season?

Well, it seems my marathon went missing.

I looked all over London for it… from Tower Bridge to the Battersea Power Station, and I couldn’t find it anywhere.

I looked around the British Museum and the Tate Modern but, nope, no marathon there.

I walked through Canary Wharf, through Soho, up to The Mall, around Buckingham Palace and, still, no marathon.

Somewhere around Richmond, I saw some runners. “Hey, maybe they know where the marathon’s gone”, I thought.

I followed them into Richmond Park, but they soon disappeared over the horizon. I stopped to look at a herd of deer.

“Do you know where the marathon went?” I asked.

They just blinked back at me and turned away.

I left Richmond Park and entered Wimbledon Common, thinking maybe I’d find my marathon there, but it was still nowhere to be found.

Fully exhausted, I did what any thinking person would do. I went to the pub to have a pint.

In case you haven’t already noticed, I missed a run in London thanks to my recent foot injury.

At my last physio appointment before flying out, I asked my physiotherapist to level with me.

“So,” I asked, “what do you think? Can I run London?”

“Well, you could, but you won’t walk for at least a week after.”

Fully enabled, I tried smuggling my running shoes in my suitcase.

Unfortunately, I got caught by the no-fun-police (aka my husband).

“What are those?” he asked.

“Umm, just shoes,” I replied, quickly zipping up my suitcase.

“Which shoes?”

“Sensible walking shoes for people with busted feet.”

“They’re running shoes, aren’t they?”

He unzipped my suitcase, and removed my running shoes. “No running, Fleck. You don’t want to injure yourself any more. Don’t you want to run your other races this year?”

“Bu… but… but, London…”

He handed me my shoes, and put a hand on my shoulder. “If you run, and you get hurt, you’re going to ruin your vacation. What will you do if you can’t walk? Do you want to spend your holiday sitting in our friend’s flat nursing a busted foot?”

I snuffled and put the shoes back in the closet. “No.”

I spent most of our flight telling myself it was okay to miss the run. I reminded myself that I had other races lined up this summer, that I could run London another year, that I’d still have fun on our vacation even if I didn’t run.

None of it was helping my mood.

On what would have been run day, we woke up to a rare sunny London morning. Our friend’s flat was flooded in light.

“So, what do you guys want to do today, then?” Our friend asked.

“Run,” I growled.

My husband shook his head and snickered. “It’s a nice day. Let’s walk about the city and see where we end up.”

And so we did.

We walked the length and breadth of Central London, through 2 parks, past castles, in and out of museums and shops and, of course, a few pubs along the way. We walked for so long that before we knew it, the day was done and we were sitting in a pub in Wimbledon.

“What a marathon that was,” our friend said.

When we got home, my friend’s words still rang in my mind, so I went to the computer, and retraced our steps around the city. To my shock, we’d actually walked a marathon.

Case of the missing marathon closed, I laced up my shoes and went for a quick 5K around the neighborhood.

Afterwards, I poured myself a pint of ale, put my feet up, and celebrated my many marathons to come.

Happy National Running Day, everyone.

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