The Big Two Six

On…with…it…then…
On…with…it…then…
On…
with…
it…
then (sigh).

I am on my seventeenth mile and this is what my mantra has become: on…with…it…then. Mile one, where have you gone, my mile one? You flew by like a bird and we floated together weightlessly above the ground, sailing, riding the voices of the street-lined cheerers. Mile two became rhythmic, like a pulse. But I still didn’t have a mantra. I had no need for one at that point. I was still sailing. Somewhere before mile ten my rhythm became a voice in my head, what I imagined was Lance Armstrong’s, and the word he repeated was “Strong.” Simple. Short. Motivational. The voice became a drumming of strong! Strong! Strong! Strong! with every stride. I imagine the purpose of the mantra is to somehow create a rhythm and mentally mask the pain and fatigue you feel with positive language.

Unfortunately, I’ve never been one to get sucked in by propaganda.

Slowly my “mantra” transformed into a low, unearthly vibration of “on with it then.” The voice became bored, toneless and banal. Reminiscent of a recording of the Hopi Indian chanting we listened to in my ethnography class, it would sometimes stop repeating itself altogether and simply sigh with defeat. Then other times, when my hips and knees felt as rickety as two dried-out pieces of beach wood, the voice would come back, angrily: “You idiot! Why are you doing this? Who is this jerk with a Mexican flag on his shirt? Who is this sun-baked bimbo? She’s passing you? You passed her two miles ago! Say it ain’t so! Say it ain’t so. Say. It. Ain’t. So.”

Say…it…ain’t…so…
Say…
It…
Ain’t…
So…

Sigh…

It’s hard to think at this point. What mile am I on?
“Whatmileisthis?” I ask in one exhalation to the guy next to me. He shrugs. The sun is burning. I navigate my way through the other runners to the shady side of the street. I look back. Good, Greg has spotted me. As long as he knows where I am, I don’t have to think. Thinking exhausts me.

“Go Canada!!” I raise my hand in thanks as I pass an excited woman holding a little girl. I am really impressed by these people. I am much more impressed with the volunteers and the supporters than with myself. I would never set up a chair on the side of the street and cheer on runners for five hours. How exhausting! I suppose what I’m doing is exhausting, but it’s different. You never hear anyone telling their kids about the time they finished cheering on a marathon.

“Gatorade! Next block, both sides!” A guy yells.
“W-water?” I pant.
“Right after the Gatorade Ma’am!” Wow: “Ma’am.” How classy. He looked concerned. I have to admit that I like having people concerned for me. Just a little. And there is plenty of opportunity to have people concerned for me during this marathon. They are on the sidelines, with all the water and r ‘n’ r they can get. Meanwhile I’m busting my groin trying to finish this thing. People seem to look at us runners from the sidewalk with an expression of “I commend you.” Americans also love to cheer for us Canadians, and Greg and I are wearing matching Running Room t-shirts that have a sort of biker’s look to them. With a Canadian flag in the front and back, and the word “CANADA” written down the side, we are hard to miss. So actually people look at us with a mix of “I commend you,” “Are you ok?” and “cool! You’re Canadian.” I’m just a little, Canadian girl, and people are concerned about me. “Une Blondinette,” as Greg’s mom calls me.

Actually, I am twenty-six years old.

In my life B.R. (Before Running) I was a typical busybody: school, work, boyfriend, friends, etc. But for the last six months, my life A.R. has given a new meaning to work. I have learned how to squeeze eight hours of editing, three hours of reading, one to two hours of running and trace amounts of hours eating into each day. By 8 p.m. my morning coffee seemed like a distant memory. Or should I say herbal tea, since I had to give up caffeine due to my naturally high-strung temperament and lack of sleep. I began to consume enormous quantities of cereal, cottage cheese and pasta prima vera at any given opportunity. The purpose of lotion was no longer to moisturize but rather to prevent underarm chafing. I would like to cheerfully say, “running is a lifestyle,” but the truth is, running is work.

“How are you?”
“I’m okay Greg, but I can’t talk right now. My knee is killing me.”
“Okay, keep going.”

It’s true. My knee has been hurting since the 9th mile. It is a chronic problem I’ve had for three years since a huge Haligonian fell on me during noon hoops. I’ve never had an x-ray because the pain always comes and then disappears again. Just when I’m about to get an MRI, it goes away and I figure it is gone forever. But right now it has come back with a vengeance. Even my shin, foot and hip on that leg are in pain. It’s sort of a numb pain, as though I know there is pain, but I can’t really tell how much weight I am putting on it or how supportive that entire leg is. If I pay attention I can tell, but it is not working like it should. That I am sure of.

I also know that I can’t kneel on that leg, even when there is no running pain. Kneeling has always hurt since that day at noon hoops.

It’s hot. Normally when we ran in Montreal on days like today I would take off my t-shirt and hold it in a little ball with one hand. But there will be no t-shirt ball holding today. This is the marathon. No stopping. No nudity. No listening to pain. I have worked for today and there will be good results damn it!

Greg?

Oh my God. Oh my God OhmyGod. He’s gone.

No he’s not. He’s way ahead. I can see his right arm and some of the back of his head but there are too many people. Oh! He’s looking back! Hi! Greg, it’s me! I wave to him. My wave says, “It’s okay. You can go ahead of me. My knee is too sore for me to keep an eight minute a mile pace.” I look down for a minute at my knee. I look up. He’s gone. This time for real.

So far during this race my enthusiasm has come in waves. Right now it is at an all time low. The tide is out as far as my enthusiasm is concerned. The worst part is that I know I can go faster. My heart is barely beating. I have conditioned myself to go much faster than I am now and I am not even tired. It is just my knee that is slowing me down and that is depressing.

I barely remember my life B.R. You know, back when I was young. When my white skin was shocked by five minutes of sun. So shocked that it would scream in its strange, silent language writ in freckles.

MILE 19

What? Already? Somehow I ran the last two miles at a pace of ten minutes a mile and yet they seemed to go by so fast. How is that possible? I guess by slowing down I feel less pain, which probably makes it seem shorter because I am not agonizing every second.


IT’S NOT A COMPETITION!

People hold up all sorts of signs with encouraging words on them. This one is especially nice to see right now since I am feeling down about not maintaining my goal pace. But the problem with “It’s not a competition” is that, actually, if you want to win, it is. And who doesn’t want to win? There’s always someone you are competing with, even if it is yourself. Right now I am secretly competing with a man of about sixty-five who has been running beside me for the past five minutes.

I, on the other hand, am twenty-six.

Most women my age are having babies. In fact, the marathon is sort of like a baby. The training period lasts about as long as a pregnancy. You often find yourself eating a little extra, sort of like caloric insurance. You can’t drink or smoke. Your boyfriend shares the experience with you, and in fact, it brings you closer together. Then on the big day it is an excruciatingly long and aerobic activity to finish the thing. The pain is unbearable. You sweat and ache and moan. But then at the end, you feel nothing but joy. Allegedly. I have yet to reach the end, of course.

What is that? I stare at the back of two brown legs running in front of me. They are thin and wiry, yet somehow the skin on them is loose, as though it lost its elasticity ages ago. It’s the sixty-five-year-old! He’s snuck in front of me. And he’s picking up speed. I try to push my legs. I can’t tell if they are going faster. I look down at them as if to plea, come on guys! I know it’s been a long day! But they don’t seem to listen. Or maybe they are listening and are going faster. Everything is just kind of numb. Especially in my left leg. The injured leg.

Worse than the pain is the humility. “It’s not a competition,” they say. When the newspaper prints the race results, they say that everyone who finishes is a winner, no matter what your time was. But in my mind I can see headlines of a different sort: SIXTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD MAN LEAVES ONCE SELF-DESCRIBED “FIT” TWENTY-SIX-YEAR-OLD IN DUST. It’s only in my mind and probably no one will know about this man, but I can’t stand it.

I think about Greg. Where are you? Are you thinking about me? You are probably at mile twenty-four or twenty-five by now. I miss you. I miss you. I… Misssss…Youuuuu…

I…
Miss…
You…

I’m no longer going to look at my watch. Keeping track of my pace just stresses me out. I’m going to think about meeting Greg at the end. That is all the motivation I need.

“Thanks!”

I actually manage a cheerful grin. The volunteer on the sideline just gave me a Powerbar gel. It will be my third of the race. The drink, orange slice, wet sponge and gel exchanges have gotten simultaneously trickier and easier as the marathon progresses. Trickier because I am completely worn out and even coordinating my hand to meet theirs without falling has become increasingly difficult, and easier because I know better what to expect with each passing exchange. For example, I now know to stop pumping my arm upon reception of a glass of water.

I squish the gel in my hand to warm it up and make it more liquid. It helps it go down easier and God knows when we’ll get to another water station. I haven’t had to use the washroom yet, thankfully.

MILE 22

Wha?? I suppose I am not really paying attention since I stopped keeping track of my pace. Now I just want to ride out the pain until the end. I am sure my left leg is broken in half by now, but I refuse to look at it. I have enough of a visual in my mind’s eye. I know that I am barely going faster than some of the people I see walking on the shoulder, but I refuse to break my stride. I worked for this day and I will not give in to the pain.

I look around. I have been looking at the buildings and the scenery, but frankly there are so many people that it is difficult for me to focus on anything but not bumping into them. I like looking at the storefronts. The small businesses are encouraging to me. They are like warriors too. They never give up either. They are in it for the fight.

MILE 23

Something is happening. I can’t feel the pain anymore! I’m tired, don’t get me wrong. But the pain that has been throbbing for the last eleven miles is so numb that I don’t even feel it. There are only three more miles, if I go at top speed, I might be able to qualify for Boston. Three hours and forty minutes! Can I do it? My watch reads 3:19:23. That’s how long I have been running since I crossed the start line. Let me see. I ripped off my “3:30:00” pacing patch miles ago when I felt too much stress and pressure with it penetrating my back. I could feel it taunting me. But maybe I could still qualify for Boston. To make it in at three-forty, I will have to go at a pace of seven minutes a mile. I have done that before, the question is, can I do it now? In this heat? With a broken leg? After twenty-two miles?

People around me start getting excited. They say things like, Okay! Only three to go! Anyone can do three little miles! with huge smiles. I am running faster now. My breath is shorter, but not too short. My leg is, well… I believe the technical term is “Ow,” but if there is a chance I will make it to Boston, I can stand a little more pain.

Funny thing is, it’s easy to think three miles is a short distance, but now that I’m in the midst of it, I feel like three miles is an eternity. We used to do intervals on the 400 metre track in our neighbourhood and three miles is a lot of laps at our fastest endurance speed. I’ll just slow down a little and then for the last mile I’ll go as fast as I can.

MILE 25

Mile 25! Mile 25! I look at my watch: 3:36:10. Okay now is the time to give it my all. Now is the time to push it! PUSH IT! PUSH IT!

PUSH IT!
PUSH!
IT!
PUSH!
IT!

Can I run a mile in four minutes? Can anybody? Has it been done before? Surely somebody on the planet can run a mile in four minutes. Then it’s possible? As long as its possible, that means it’s within reach. My reach.

I feel lactic acid in my legs and for the first time in a few miles I look down at them. They look thin and white. I look ahead of me at a woman in blue about twenty metres away. It is my mission to pass this woman. I watch her t-shirt like a hawk. I shorten the gap between us little by little. She seems like a mirage, but I know I’m getting closer. With every person I pass I am almost there.

“Hunhoo,” I involuntarily let out a moan. My left leg has given way. I didn’t fall or trip, I just weirdly started limping without realizing it. My leg has become supportless. Come on, It’s only a little farther. I am now beside the woman in blue, but I can’t seem to get ahead of her. We stay like this, suspended in horizontal equilibrium. And then I realize that Greg will be waiting for me at the finish line. I don’t care about Boston. I don’t care about finishing. I don’t care about my leg. But I do care about him. How I’ve needed him this past half hour. I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my teeth. I pump my knees up with my hips. I pass the woman in blue.

I turn the corner and it is the last corner. In front of me the crowd is getting louder. I see the finish banner a couple hundred metres away and I sprint. My knee is bad, but I can still sprint. Once I pass the line, I briefly look at my watch: 3:43:44. I continue to jog.

“Water?”
“Thanks.”
“banana?”
“ok, thanks.”
“Medal?”
“Wow, that’s really nice!”
“bagel?”
“uh, that’s okay…”

The other runners look horrible. They are hunched over and hollow. I limpily jog through the crowd of them for what seems like another two miles.

“Where are the family meet-ups?”
“Just keep going straight toward the beer tent, you’ll see them.”

We agreed beforehand to meet at the “B” stand because Greg’s last name is Berge. He is probably waiting for me and I can’t wait to see him. He’s probably been waiting for fifteen minutes or so. I hope he’s not disappointed. I jog a little faster. I know I probably should relax and let my legs walk off the strain they’ve been under for the past three and a half hours, but in this case the end justifies the means. What I mean is, my emotional healing must come before, and perhaps even at the cost of, my physical recovery.

There it is! I see the “A-B” stand. Approaching it I see numerous runners wandering around, studying the faces of people in their radius, looking for their families, their true loves. I look around. I look around some more. He’s not here.

Not to worry… I’ll just si-OWWwww! S-sit down. Geez. My thighs are screaming. I awkwardly thump down on the grass without bending my knees. I finish my water and take deep breaths as I let the sun dry my sweat.

“First marathon?” A forty-year-old man is sitting beside me.
“Yes. Yours?”
“No it’s my eighth.”
“Oh that’s great. Are you happy with your run?”
“Yes. It’s the first time I’ve made the Boston qualifying time.”
“Oh good for you!”
“You must have qualified too if you got here now.”
“Well, not exactly, I-“
“Arrgh!”

The man is lying on his back, holding his leg up. He is in pain.

“I get really bad cram-aaaaah!”

I look at his calf muscle and can actually see the bulbous cramp jutting out from his leg. It looks horridly inhuman. Quickly I pick up his ice and hold it to the muscle.

“Take deep breaths!”

He breaths in and slowly lowers his leg. I think about Greg. Where are you?

A woman and an adolescent boy come over to us and hug the forty-year-old Boston qualifier. He gets up and slowly walks away with them, excitedly regaling them with the course of his run. He doesn’t look back.

Alone I look at my watch. It’s been twenty-five minutes since I sat down. Where is he? Oh! There’s James…and Greg’s mom…And his step-dad, J-P.

“Hi,” James says.
“Ohhhh ma Cherie!” Monica says.
“I am so glad to see you guys!” I say, “But have you seen Greg? He was supposed to be in front of me! He was supposed to be here waiting and now it’s half an hour and I don’t know where he is and a lot of people were falling down at the end and a lot of people were getting carried off the course of stretchers and I don’t know what to do!”

My eyes are wet and Monica looks concerned. She suggests we ask a police officer about fallen runners. James gives me a hug and some tears trickle down. I am feeling pretty weak at this point. It is hard to keep it together. And since I’m among family, why bother?

We stand in silence, looking around at all the runners… then, he slowly approaches us.

“Where were you! I waited and waited. It was the first thing I did, come here. I thought you would be here waiting for me so I jogged when I should have been walking because I didn’t want to keep you waiting. I only wanted to meet you and hug you and be reunited and you weren’t there!”

“It has taken me this long to get here from the finish line. I picked up my bag and got my photo taken and then I wanted to walk slowly to give my legs a rest.” His face was tan and tired.

Then we just shut up and hugged.


I didn’t qualify for Boston, and I definitely didn’t make my goal time, but I finished. My first marathon. My first twenty-six miles at age twenty-six. Sure, most women my age are having babies, but at least I will have a great story for them when I do have babies.

Monkey See, Monkey Do (In My Case - Like Camus)

It's funny how hard it is to write well. Every time I go back to a dusty piece of writing on my hard drive I am taken back to the time I wrote it. I relive the moments that led up to its production and I remember, particularly, what I was reading in those moments. Take, for example, a piece of writing I stumbled on this morning. It has Camus written all over it [brace yourself(ves), it's long]:

An Odor Less Serious

The clock is nearing noon. It is a cafeteria somewhere. There are noises and people everywhere. Some people are buying their lunches. One girl, one particularly serious girl, nears a row of splatter stained microwaves. There she waits her turn to warm up some macaroni and cheese. The boy ahead of her opens the microwave door and takes a forkful of a brown stewish substance. He eats it quickly, pauses a moment, then turns on the microwave for another minute or so. But during the instant the little door was ajar, between the time he opened it, took a bite of his stew, and closed it again, a strange thing had happened. An odor had escaped from inside the microwave. It was an odor like none other. Strong and grizzly, it had swept through the ten-foot radius in which our serious girl was standing. It had diffused the air from floor to ceiling within this radius, including, the air that had, at the time, been occupying space in our girl’s nostrils. The effect of this odor was not the same as that of a peppery smell, for no one was sneezing. The effect of the stewy smell was rather one that made a severe mark on one’s being, claiming any territory it touched, coating thickly and clinging heartily onto clothes, hair and the like. One can only imagine what that odor turned into upon clinging to one’s breath.

“That is a very strong smelling stew you have there,” Our girl said in a voice much more serious than was ever intended for cafeteria chatter.

The boy turned around, took a look at what he determined was a hot thing, and said,
“You know what they say about guys with a strong smelling stew don’t you?”

She looked at his face. It had a curious expression: playful. Yes, that was it.
“No, I don’t. What do they say?” She replied with a seriousness of tone that didn’t quite fit the cafeteriousness of their surroundings.

He dropped his playful expression and one could almost hear it clammer on the floor. He didn’t answer. Instead he went back to watching the little green light bulbs in the side screen of the microwave. They changed every second or so. They were numbers, descending in order.

Our girl looked at her macaroni and cheese with a seriousness much more serious than God ever intended for such gazes and did something she never would have done before. She lifted up the container of lunch high above her head. Then she flipped it over and dumped its contents onto the head of the playful boy in front of her. She watched it sink into his hair like yellow paint on a paintbrush. It was a rather saucy helping of macaroni and cheese and so the gooiness was thick and ready for dumping on heads. He turned around and she saw that he had globs of the stuff on his eyebrows and nose, parts of his face that jutted out a bit from the rest.

She raised her eyebrows in a less serious manner than usual and walked away. She walked out the doors of the cafeteria, down the hall, out of the building, onto the snowy sidewalk, down the street and into the metro station. When she sat on the metro, she noticed that the man next to her inched away slightly after a few moments. He had plenty of room so his inching away made no sense. What’s more, usually men, all men, are very happy to be near our girl. Normally men try all sorts of tricks and games and lines to get as near as possible to the serious thing. So it was quite perplexing that this man, today, was inching away.

She could only assume that it was the stewy odor still clinging to her person that was pushing him out of its occupied space.


Clearly this is autobiographical, and clearly this was written a couple of years ago, and, crystal clearly, I was reading Camus at the time. I'm ashamed that my writing style and its influences are so transparent. Living in Montreal I encounter so many people and experience so many adventures that I want to describe with words, but that end up expressed in the words of others. Even if I think I am writing in my own words, it becomes apparent that I am just using the same metaphor, the same structure or prosaic frame as somebody else and filling it with my own content.

I remind myself of Arundhati Roy. When I read "The God of Small Things" I felt like I was reading Rushdie's "Midnight's Children" for a second time. She even used the same analogy as Rushdie in referring to the discomfort of having stubborn mango hair stuck between two back molars. Do I do that? Are other people's analogies, metaphors, stories, stuck in my subconscious like the stubborn hair of a mango wedged between my teeth? Have other people's ideas penetrated my being so much so that they are a part of my physiological makeup? And now, for the life of me, can I not prevent from recycling their riddles and artistic structures?

A voice is something that is unique to each of us, but when mine becomes a chorus of Camus, Rushdie and whoever else is wedged into my subconscious, how can anyone isolate the sounds my personal voice box makes, other than gargles from struggling against being drowned out?

The only time I'm ever writing without thinking, without trying to sound clever or witty or funny or poetic, is when I am writing these blogs, or my diary. And frankly, I don't know if these writings are all that interesting.