Hill Yeah.

It doesn’t matter where they hit, they’re tough. Today I was asked if there was a way to get good at them without actually running them.

No, not miles.

Hills.

So it got me thinking. Scary, I know.

As runners, we find that with hills, we have a love/hate relationship. We hate them, but we love what they do to us. The more we run, the faster and stronger we get. And pretty quickly too. Unless we slack off and just ease up them. Bleh.

Whenever I run with certain people, ahem—you know who you are! – ahem

We run up the same darn hill. EVERY TIME!

The last time we did, she turned to me about half way up the hill and said, “I thought you’d miss this one, Megs.”

I feigned a laugh on a deep breath outward, noting we still had a few more miles to go.

There are tough hills, depending on where you live, some are tougher than others. And depending on where they hit you on the run, they can be the worst nemesis for that hour. Who knows.

In Gig Harbor, it has to be the bottom of Rosedale all the way up to the high school. Actually it is tied with the hill from the Fox Island bridge all the way up to the T- in the road on the island. Yikes. Every state champion from Gig Harbor, individual or team, has run either of these hills, over and over again. Makes ya’ tough.

fox island bridge. 

So where is the toughest hill in Spokane? I’ve run a few of them. And there is talk that Doomsday is the toughest. I mean the name in and of itself implies the difficulty of this hill. But is it really? Where it lands during the famous Bloomsday run (mile 5), and during the Spokane Marathon (mile 22), it does not make it the funnest hill I have ever run. Sure.

Running up the South Hill from downtown, isn’t exactly the easiest either. But hey, it makes you tough right?

Bloomsdayrun.org

gig harbor, wa

Put your head down and grind, was our motto in college. Empty the tank, also a classic on hill repeats.

But as much as I hate them, they make me stronger, and as much as I try to avoid them, they’re always there. Sometimes in a mocking tone, sometimes laughing, and always humbling.

I’m in search of it, because even though it is going to hurt, I just have to know. And hey, I’ll get something out of it in the long run.

Pun definitely intended.

ampersand.

“Make that loop a little larger. See like this”

His lengthy fingers wrapped themselves gracefully around the purple crayon. He looped and loped the ampersand. To the small child sitting next to him, it looked like the letter "g".

She couldn’t be sure though, she was still learning her letters. Her eyes set and her brow furrowed, chubby fingers grasping her own crayon-still purple, her favorite color. Brown tendrils fell in front of her eyes and she pressed her lips hard together. She leaned into the counter, putting all the strength she could muster into shaping that symbol the little muscles in her arms fighting fatigue and weakness, fighting for the creation of this masterpiece.

Eyes shining in admiration, he smiled, the deep wrinkles round the edges filling with joy.

He wanted so badly to move the young girl’s curls back from her eyes. His hands and fingers were like sandpaper and he was afraid to touch her young, immaculate, innocent skin.

His years shown on his skin and his experiences in his eyes. She still had so much to live.

He wrote out:

GRANDPA & MEAGHAN

I LOVE YOU FOREVER

&

FOR ALWAYS

The slanted letters capitalized and squared. His engineering career long over, but ever-present.

The scrap of paper nothing before, but now the most important document in these youthful hands.

She tried and tried to copy the words and the shapes just how he had written them.

But she was unable to capture the power behind those words. The impact they had,still have, to this day.

Not til many years, many books and many broken crayons and crumpled pages of attempts littered her floor.

She went so long with being unable to express her true feelings. And even now, as she writes her words in her bound black notebooks, some sentences slanted and capped, she can see his eyes shining down on her. If only he could still reach out and move that curl back, the roughness of his skin, polishing her radiant, now seasoned skin. 

March 12.

This was hastily written this morning. I woke up early, and the words just flew from fingers to keys. So i apologize for grammatical errors and run-ons sentences. I am going for a run now. And it has been exactly a year, and I miss him everyday. 

The whole bed was vibrating, and it should have been her alarm, but she didn’t remember it being this dark yesterday. Her phone was lighting up from underneath her comforter as her arm groped and prodded for the energy source. Her head was groggy and under-slept, and her eyes were swollen from the previous week’s happenings. It had been a tough road to follow. She had gotten the call on a Thursday, one of those Thursday’s that really meant nothing to anyone else, but in the back of her own mind she remembered another day almost nine years before. But that was another day.

Finding the phone, instinctively, even with closed eyes, she brought the phone to her face, taking more than just a second to register that she wasn’t turning of her alarm for a blessed nine more minutes of sleep. It was a phone call. One she had been expecting.

It was a night she had finally allowed herself to sleep; she had relaxed and gone to bed early. Only having been back in her own bed for less than one day, she had been sleeping on her maternal grandparents floor for the last few nights.

After that initial phone call, she had gotten in the car and drove straight to the hospital on the other side of the state. She had been at work, when she got the call. And her workplace was always bright, the windows shone against the sun that day, but upon hanging up that phone, things dimmed. And her drive across the state was a race against the sunset, the fading into night. When she walked into that room, the lights were turned off, there were no noises or beeps or tubes. There were the deep raspy breaths of her grandfather lying in the bed in the middle of the room, and the sniffling of her family surrounding him. Her uncle was the first to reach her. He seemed so much smaller that day, he was always a muscled man, but today his eyes were tired and darkened. His arms reached around her and he sank into her, too tired to stand up, but standing just the same.

The breath resonated through the room and down the hall. It hurt, it ached. Words would never be able to describe the pain that was rolling through that room.

She sat there for three days. Through the breaths. She brought coffee and treats for the family, as the reminisced and shared stories, some had never been heard. Through smiling lips, with raised cheeks trying to block the tears from falling. Barricades soon broken as laughter ensued from the time the breathing man, outran everyone down and around the block, in faded khakis, and untied leather shoes. He even turned and ran backwards down the gravel road.

Tears streamed down her face, but they all had them. Her uncle squeezed her hand.

It was not her alarm, it was her dad. She had gotten home the day before, and gone straight to work, needing something to keep her mind off of everything. She worked through, stacking boxes, restocking shelves, laughing with customers.

“Hey honey-bear, he left us. I walked out of the room for just a minute, and when I came back. It was very peaceful.”

She spoke softly in return, and hung up the phone. Climbing out of bed, she slipped on her shoes and walked out the door. Her legs floated down the street, the light brimming and coming up slowly. She wasn’t needed at work til early afternoon, so she could run all morning.

Her cadence increased and she round the familiar neighborhoods and down hills and through stoplights. At points she would sprint, keeping form, and flinching under the increasing lactic acid formation throughout her back and limbs.

She got to the tree, and leaned. She breathed deep and let the tears fall to the ground. And her knees soon followed. She stayed there until the light gleamed and glittered through the trees, against the dew and tear soaked grass. She stood up, not even bothering to wipe the dirt away, it caked her legs. Hands on her hips, her head swiveled around the park. And she ran, backwards towards the swings. Tripping over her feet, she fell to the ground again, and her tears came with it, but this time bordered with a whole lot of laughter. 

No longer dim and dark, she ran back home. 

Object Writing. Anchors 2.8

We do these writing exercises when we meet every other Saturday. This week we wrote on anchors. This may be me, or it may not be. That is what is so wonderful about writing. You never know the context fully, but you can place yourself in the image and find your own understanding. 

Deep waters run further down than my imagination can muster. I sat on the bottom of that floor once, the waters rushing round my head, spinning, and swaying as I tried to keep myself upright. I had no problem staying in place, I was tethered to that anchor you had given me long ago.

We always talked about getting them, you and I. You were the anchor to my life. You kept me afloat. We wanted them together. We wanted it painted, and scarred onto our skin.

And then all it really did was bring me down. You no longer kept me floating, you brought me down. You kept me in one spot. The heavy metal sank, down deep, dragging me further and further into the darkened sea of life, and love. And then you left the anchor there, sitting on the floor, blackened and bitter towards any and all help to cut me free.

We wanted them together, ya know. We wanted to be tied to each other for life. You asked me that day and I said yes, in the happiest of ways. We drew it in permanent marker on our fingers, tying us together, never floating apart.

You brought me with you, keeping me at your side. Never away for long.

Had I really looked to see, it was always bringing me further, deeper;  always holding me back.

Your love was just too much to bear any more. And it wasn’t even mine, but I couldn’t really share.

Torn and tattered, I sat on that floor, it was filling with salted water. Pools and puddles piling higher and higher until my lungs filled, and my breath just wasn’t there.

Listing and fleeting, I couldn’t get out from under that metal, the tether it held on me kept me close, never more than a few feet. I wasn’t strong enough to pull the weight. I wasn’t strong enough to let it go. The rust gathered and it bronzed and created it’s own scars. The salt eroding curves and sharp edges.

You anchored my soul, and I don’t know if I will ever get out from under it.

I found a way around it though; I used it as a crutch for so long, until I used it for my own good. I learned from it. I used it as a weight of my own. I used it for strength, for understanding.

I carried it up and through the dark, through the waves and fighting sea.

A slip back into the depths was easy, but I got so much more from climbing through. I gained it all and got my life back.

 You don’t have that control over me anymore. You can’t keep me going. You can’t keep me by your side. I can go as far as I want now. Not just a few feet, but miles and miles. You’ll never find me. I have the anchor now. And it is mine to carry. It is mine to keep me going. It is mine to keep me strong. 

A Bend in the Road

Sometimes you just have to take the leap. Grab your pants by the belt loops stick one leg out there and jump over the barrier, whatever that may be. You know when you’re trying to leap over a puddle, or a bush in a parking lot because you parked your car in the wrong spot, it’s just in the way. 

You have to look like an idiot. And you have to be willing to do so. Sometimes it is ok, to take the risk and reach for something, even at the chance of falling on your butt and scraping your knee.

That’s how I got to Spokane.

Have I never told that story?

So, I had been doing the post-graduation hustle: working four or five part-time jobs, living with my uncle and his daughter, barely scraping by. My friend emailed me and asked for my resume, saying they were hiring at a running store over in Spokane. I had been to said running store, maybe once in my life. Actually, yes, once. I bought my lucky spikes there. But that is another story for another time. Anywho… I polished up my overwritten, filled in, two-page resume, and sent it off to him. I was going over to Spokane in a couple weeks to run a race and visit my best friend at school anyways, so why not stop in then.

Didn’t hear anything back on the resume.

So I trained for the race, and when the time came, I got over to Spokane, and spent almost the entire day in the store. I ran from there, I met the guys who worked there, and the owner himself.

Tall, giant of a moustachioed man that he was, lumbered into the room, grabbed a bench and was fitting a nice young woman when he interviewed me. I was sweating bullets, not only because this man was much larger than I, he was gruff, stubborn, and a total hard-ass.

He asked me about myself, and I gave him the schpeel that I had practiced on the ride over, stating that while I may not have had experience in the running industry, I was lifelong runner, from a running family, and I was quick to learn, fast on my feet and was ready for anything.

“Can you be here in two weeks?”

Look, it was a job. I had little to no experience in the field, save the fact that I was a runner. I was the only girl in the room besides the customers at that point. And the guys were typical of their twenties. Awkward, lewd in their behavior, and hilariously funny—or so they thought anyways.

“Of course I can.”

I ran the race, I went back home and I gave my two weeks to all my employers. Some were sad to see me go, but others were excited for the opportunities I was chasing.

Two and half years went by, and I experienced a lot. Had my ups and downs like most do. And I became, in my own words, stagnant. I wasn’t taking leaps. I was playing it safe. Not living any kind of life. I was just going through the motions.

One morning I woke up, and I was pissed.

I can live whatever life I want, ya know. I don’t need approval. Sometimes I may need help, but I needed to jump.

And so I did.

I have been freefalling, with a chute right now, but I am ready to jump again. I landed decently on my feet. But I hit another ledge.

SO what do you do? Do you lean over the edge, and then shuffle backwards hoping not to fall?

Or do you back up a distance, and then run at the edge, shutting your eyes a little so you don’t halt to a stop, and cresting the edge, still moving your legs in that circular motion. And you just trust that you’ll land on your feet. Although you might fall on your butt too. But you’ll reach another ledge, and you should probably just take the leap. Because really, you’ll just never know what is at the bottom until you jump.