They Had Strobe Lights: The Last Day of 40 Miles in 48 Hours

The first two days of our trip the sun blazed like it thought it was the height of summer, but overnight the weather changed to a cool autumn. Summer had broken like a fever.

I didn't really feel like running on the third morning. My muscles were holding up well but I was just tired. Weary. A bit used up. The running had diminished my appetite so I didn't have much in reserves and I was feeling it. Falling asleep in my chair during dinner probably didn't help either.

So I donned the shirt I wear when I require Super Powers and put one foot in front of the other, waiting for momentum to kick in. Instead of listening to podcasts, I listened to music and the songs lifted my knees higher and put a wind at my back. Everything loosened and the day cracked open for me like a geode.


This is it. Home free. Finish line in sight. Only 13 miles to go.

The dew steeped the oak leaves and iron-red earth just enough to let loose the smell of a California Foothills autumn. Dried weeds, gold, wet acorns, and rust.

I swear I am in this photo.

Anyone who has read this blog knows running with music is basically a religious experience for me. I let that music float me down the path like a cloud. I imagined all the gunk of the past 40 years kicking off my heels with each stride. Tiny pebbles of hardened regret slipped off my fingers, my wrists, and dropped without sound into the soft dust. Me, a lizard shedding layer after layer of used-up me. Me that no longer fit. Me that outlived its usefulness. I shoved my chest forward into all the good times, and let the wind blow away the rest.

A little bit of forgiveness for myself. Loosening the white knuckles of a clenched fist.

It felt quite spectacular. I mean, I was happy. To-the-bone happy. I was that asshole running with a smile  on my face. I felt grateful for just about everything.

Of course, it's times like these when my old lousy habits like to bitch slap me right off my unicorn.

And bitch slap they did-- in the form of a group of runners coming up behind me.

I'd seen this group the day before. Some of them were younger than me--okay, they were all younger than me (I still forget that if you're in your thirties, you're younger than me). I'd passed them on the trail-- and by "passed" I mean I came up on them while one of the guys was taking a pee break. I thought the trail I was on was going in the opposite direction from where he was; turns out it switchbacked me right down to him.

Awkward meeting for sure.

That night we camped downstream of them and while I was busy falling asleep in my dinner, I noticed they were all standing upright,  playing a game even, laughing, not looking the least bit tired. Sky had spoken with the river guides rowing their gear and found out they were on a commercial raft-supported running trip, doing similar daily mileage as me, running with two guides.

Basically, this was them. And yes, strobe lights followed them.

The next day while I was running in my blissed out state, I heard a man's voice behind me and turned to see this thirty-something coming over the hillock, followed by eight more runners, all decked out in the latest running gear, complete with fancy hydration vests. I stepped off to the side to let them pass, said hello but didn't receive much in return except for a few glances.

That's when the little knock came at the door, the little "scritch-scratch" of a fingernail on the roughened wood. And then, of course, those tiny voices in the back of my brain:

"Ahem, excuse me, but did you see how bad ass they were? I mean, those girls looked like serious runners. I wonder what they thought seeing you yesterday in your Old Navy running shorts with your gas station water bottle in your hand... well, never mind, I know what they were thinking... and let's not even mention your circa 1980s headphones...".

In mere seconds, instead of thinking of how great my life is, I was imagining how pitiful my stride must look to them, how very "mom runner" I must look, how slow and plodding. Embarrassed by what I thought they'd surmise to be my shortcomings. 

I passed the group again at Flora Dell and then spent the next twenty minutes looking over my shoulder, nervous about not knowing when they might pass me again.

Preoccupied with Them. Wondering what They  would think. Not enjoying the sunny, victorious, best-smelling autumn day in all of 2014.

My hottie support team

"Wait, wait, wait...  you're really going to do this in the next 40 too?" I thought. A louder voice this time; a grounded voice. "That's what you're going to take with you from the last 40?".

Nope, not a chance.

So I flipped a switch and chose better. Literally refused to walk down that path any longer. With as much effort as I was exerting to propel my body along that trail, I pushed the Crap Thoughts out of my head too.


It had just been a beautiful day-- and it still was that beautiful day! The only thing that had changed was my perception. And I could change it back.

Choose my thoughts.

Be an author, not a recipient.

I took off my shirt, let my "momness" out to play in the sun, and started enjoying the rest of my run. 

 40 Miles. 46 hours. Done.

I missed a link back to the trail and ended up here at the end-- oops. I got to run by some awesome cows though.

This is the real end to the trail, directly across from the gate. Mission accomplished.

P.S. As of this writing we have enough to build the 6th grade classroom! To afford the teacher's salary, it looks like we'll be applying for a grant. But we welcome anyone who still wants to be a part of the action. Go to: https://www.crowdrise.com/40Milesin48HoursforEducation/fundraiser/amystewart1

What's It All For?: Day Two of 40 Miles in 48 Hours

It's safe to say the Rogue River is a member of our immediate family. Both Sky and I spent years guiding there, we fell in love there, we took friends and family boating on it for our pre-wedding celebration. When my son, River, was one-and-a-half-years-old, his first multi-day river trip was on the Rogue. From then on, it became our yearly pilgrimage; the refuge we could always count on to settle us back  into our roots as people, partners, parents. Even when my daughter, Azure, was six-months-old, we still went-- I hiked on the trail with her strapped to my belly and met up with the boat at lunch and at camp. One of the top five reasons we moved to Ashland was to be able to be on the banks of the Rogue in less than an hour.

At three-years-old, Azure has been down the Rogue four times. At eight, River has been nine times (we went twice one year). Over the course of those trips, we have littered that corridor with hundreds of memories that make that river valley one of the most precious pieces of earth in the world to me.

So though Day Two should have been a whopper (I haven't run more than 15 miles in a long time, let alone 15 after running 13-plus twelve hours prior), the truth is the run was actually pretty enjoyable. It's hard to have a bad day when you're running through the last nine years of delicious memories.

 I can see little one-year-old River parroting his dad's sweeping foot movements as Sky levels a spot in the sand for us to sleep.

There we are, hanging our heads over the side of the raft, trying to spot tiny turtles sunning themselves on rocks.

There is Sky and River in the crisp morning sunlight as they watch a doe and her fawn foraging for breakfast inches from the toes of our sleeping bags.

There's us doing cartwheels on the sprawling lawn of the Rogue River Ranch.

 
There is Azzy--the one who eats like a bird, the one who has been on constant weight-watch with her doctors since she was an infant--opening the "snack box" yet again, thank God, to grab another goodie with her two-year-old fists.

There is eight-year-old River rowing our loaded gear boat through his first Class II rapid.

There is baby Azzy in the front of my Ergo, head tilted back and her little milk-glossed lips relaxed in sleepy open "O" as we hike the trail.

There is one-year-old River, falling asleep on me in the longest rapid of the trip. 

There we are in a meadow of wild irises, Azzy still tiny in my belly.

There are the rocks where Azzy and River learned how to jump into water.

That's the bridge on which we mark the kids height each year.

One of the best aspects of our Rogue trips is that they exist outside the realm of "Shoulds." When you become a parent, there are so many Shoulds. The ones with the capital "S"s. Your to-do list explodes because suddenly you are not just responsible for one person, but multiple people. And underneath the rattle and hum of all the daily routines and bone building, is this gnaw of "What's all this for? What are we creating? What are we trying to create?"; there is a desire for some sort of mission statement, piers to hopscotch on through the foggy valley.

Sky and I actually did that once online--made a mission statement using some annoyingly detailed yet somehow too general web program for such things. Later we forgot not only our passwords to get into our mission statement account but also what the site was even called. The irony of that is not lost on me.

But being out there on the trail with 15.6 miles to contemplate all the crumbs of "Us" we have left in that river corridor made me realize we have always had a mission statement, passwords or not. We created it oar stroke by oar stroke, dusty footfall after dusty footfall. It is a messy, scribbled on mission statement. It bears chocolate stains and dirt smudges. It has creases from being folded and shoved into back pockets too many times. It's not snappy, or concise, there is no logical flow, and there is a lot of blank space at the end for additions. It goes something like this:

Get dirty.
Open your eyes under the water.
Embrace. Embrace. Embrace.
Get stars in your hair.
Open the snack box.
Protect the little things around you.
Feel the sun warm your skin.
Know kindness as an activity.
Get callouses. Get cut.
Find church where you are.
Offer your open hands.
Notice the music around you.
Watch the water for clues.
Ask questions.
Listen.
Laugh deeply and often.
Let nature sustain you.
 

 The other day on the way to soccer practice River asked me "Do you believe in God?" as nonchalantly as if he were asking me if I liked potato chips. He always busts out with these Big Questions when I am elbow deep into cleaning a toilet or halfway through a grocery shopping trip.

"Well, what do you mean by 'God', what's your definition of God?" I volleyed back. We talked, back seat to front, about our views on God and religion. I told him my mom always taught me that church could be anywhere.

"I know what you mean, " he said, "because when I'm in the woods, that's when I feel most at home."

Sounds like he has seen the mission statement too.

So If This Doesn't Make You Feel Good...

Got an email from Nicole of Buiga Sunrise School today...

Yeah... it's okay to smile. 

There's your ripple, folks. Imagine how many times it might circle the globe.

GOOD JOB!!

WE did it folks.