Written April 2003
Cherries Jubilee
Today I ran a terrible race. Ten miles of Cherry Blossom ugh.
And as I ran the race, there was no doubt in my mind as to why the race was going so poorly. With my life routine recently changed, I was no longer in any one particular mode. Not running mode, working mode, chilling mode or love mode. And apparently, I run far better when my mode's firmly in place.
I experienced this epiphany somewhere around mile 4. But the critical moment enabling that epiphany occurred earlier - somewhere between miles 2 and 3.
My race performance had been off from the start. I was relying on a foundation of too little sleep, too little food and too few good preparation miles. When I set my clock ahead before turning in just five hours before I had to meet my running partner, I knew "spring forward" would this year be either a true learning experience or a cruel irony.
In the past, pre-race days were generally spent eating and sleeping...or at least resting. But these days, I'm one race manager down and consequently disorganized.
Dating a runner is good. Or perhaps I should say, dating a better runner than you is good. Two runners together are more likely to be disciplined about timely carbohydrate intake, frequent water consumption and the importance of avoiding evening events that cost one precious snooze time.
For this race, I was, of course, on my own.
But it should have been okay. I've been on my own a lot lately, in ways both big and small. And it's been a combination of all things good. It's been exciting and hopeful and stimulating and fun. Most of all, it's been promising.
On my own - professionally and personally - for the first time in a long time, I've gotten a taste for how much better my life can and should be. That's pretty good considering the fact that I liked my life a pretty good amount before.
But as much as the intoxication of new freedom has presented new opportunities, it has also compromised the familiar. And I realized today how sorely I miss the familiar.
I had just turned onto Memorial Bridge. Heading toward Virginia from DC. We would run the length of the bridge, turn around just before Arlington Cemetary, and then run the return length.
I was excited because, as a general rule, I love bridges. Bridges are wonderful during runs. They provide a landmark for progress, a break from the straight path and, usually, a change in scenery for the better. Most often, there's water under the bridge. So reaching a bridge is always a highpoint for me.
Today in particular, I really needed the bridge. The first two miles proved how empty my body was. With an absence of fuel to get me through the run, I was relying solely on mental energy. Never a good plan.
Heading toward Virginia, I opened myself to the wonders of the bridge. I looked ahead to the hundreds of runners before me. I looked to the right to see the faster runners returning on the opposite side. I set my sights on Arlington Cemetary, a picture of grace I knew from so many other DC runs.
But I just couldn't capture the energy of the bridge. I was just another runner in a sea of lycra and nothing compelled me enough to focus.
I ran the circle at the base of the bridge, prepared to head back into DC. I knew then that the bridge was a bust and turned my attention to thoughts of mileage. Mileage down and mileage to go. I thought about getting the Lincoln Memorial clearly in view.
And then I saw the sidewalk.
The memorial bridge is a tremendous bridge - big and strong. Its 2,163 feet of concrete and granite envelope you as you make your way down its length. At the ends of the bridge are two pairs of neo-classical equestrian sculptures. In one, the male is accompanied by a female holding a shield; in another, a female symbolizes the earth as she looks toward the rider Mars. The statues are made of gilded bronze and are just big and breathtaking.
I can't count the number of times I've run the Memorial Bridge. I began running the bridge years ago with my first running partner, Erika. The bridge was always magical, providing the lift we needed wherever we were at in our run. The length of the bridge and the bulk of the statues reminded us how small we were as we drank in the wondrous beauty and history of Washington. No matter what baggage we brought on our run, the enormity of the bridge reminded us to keep our pains in perspective. We'd begin our run in Virginia with problems related to love, work and life. By the time we crossed the bridge, we were just glad to be enjoying another good run together.
But the bridge wasn't always just beautiful. When we first ran the bridge it was difficult. The location over the Potomac provided a wind that we worked hard to run against. On cold days, running the bridge could be more torturous than pleasing. But still, we came to love that bridge.
And I knew the bridge by heart. Running down its side, I would alternate views of the river and Georgetown with pacing provided by the lines separating the concrete squares of the sidewalk. Three to four steps per concrete square kept me at a good comfortable pace. Once in that rhythm, I was free to let my mind wander.
And so it was today that I found myself breaking away from the stream of runners making their way down the Memorial Bridge and making my own way onto the sidewalk.
Once on the sidewalk, I moved all the way to the left where I could feel the river breeze on my face. Forgetting the runners to my right, I then looked down to find the familiar concrete squares. And it was in those squares that I finally found my pace. And a few moments of peace.
I wish I could have run all ten miles on the bridge. For those few brief moments, I was transported back to a feeling of familiarity. Something I knew so well enabled me to slip into a relaxed state. And in that relaxed state, I could do well.
But I know I can't stay entirely in the familiar. And I don't want to.
But in this time of significant change and constant newness, I think I might have to look a little more often for the familiar. And once I find it, maybe then I'll work on that greatest mystery: balance.
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