I’m shitting logs this morning.
I was awake most of the night, tossing and turning. When I did snooze, I dreamed of my marathon. I was at the start line and realized I had forgotten to wear shorts! The menobelly was clearly visible. I was frantic; I looked like a pro in my underwear shorts, but I wasn’t a pro. I was an imposter, with a menobelly. I SHOULDN’T EVEN BE HERE; WHO DID I THINK I WAS?! People were pointing and shouting, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying! I COVERED MY EARS AND….. I woke up.
I started running to celebrate cancer survival. The five year “you’re gonna’ make it” mark was approaching, and I needed to do something special to say thank you. Ideas came and went, but trips and parties just didn’t feel like the thing. Maybe the thing would find me lying on my back in the grass, watching the clouds roll by dragging my survival date behind them. Then I would stand back up, brush myself off, and live. Yup. More and more that was starting to feel like the thing.
Then I saw her. I didn’t know her. But I loved her.
She was running along the side of the road, labouring. In pain. Big pain. I could feel her pain. Her stride was barely a shuffle, and both shoulders bent toward the earth. The earth that tempted her to fold and melt into its dust. But she refused. And forged on. Dragging her ample form. To survival.
And I loved her.
Beep! beep! beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!!! I honked! And waved!
Thumbs up. Times two! I rolled down my window.
“Wahoo!!!! You rockkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!!!” I screamed. Beep! beep! beeeeeeeeeeeepppppp!!!
She looked scared.
But there was nothing to fear. I loved her. She was me. And I was she. Survivors.
And I had found my thing. Ten months later I ran my first marathon.
Now here I was again being tortured by the wild pre-marathon nightmares! I’ve had some huge highs. And depressing lows. But of course I have. Running is just like life. Not long ago, I was running the marathon in beautiful Vancouver. It was a disaster, and I found myself at the very back of the pack stumbling along, desperate to finish.
Then she saw me. She didn’t know me. But she loved me.
I heard her shout. Saw her wave. And the thumbs up … times two. Mr President thought I was hallucinating! But I wasn’t; she was there.
And she loved me.
She’s coming on Sunday too when I wield my shoes and don my shorts to face the foe.
Me and she. She and Me.
Note to self: Pack three pairs of shorts!