The Breakdown

Today was just one of those days. I had to do the work of two people today and the kids just drove me crazy. If they weren't crying about hurt fingers or itchy eyes, they were fighting over books and spots at the breakfast table, or too busy caring about Tyshawn calling them a name than my improvised lessons in Math. Then we ended the day with a birthday party that brought more screaming and more crying as chips were fought over, juice was spilled, and games of musical chairs were not won. Why do I work at this school?

On my way home, zoning out from the chaos around me on 96th Street, almost near the safety of the solitude and serenity of my teal-painted bedroom, a woman grabs my arm and says "You need to help me." I am startled and frightened to be grabbed by a stranger, yet I notice right away that this woman truly is in need - she's in her 60's and dressed in what I quickly decide are normal clothes for a woman who can afford rent on the Upper West Side. "I'm going to faint, you need to help me," she pleads, still grabbing my arm. Now invested, I say, "Ok, calm down, I'll help. What do you need?" "I need to get home." "Ok, I'll get you a cab," I say, and then spend what feels like ten whole minutes trying to flag down a cab. Hundreds of people walk by. Don't they see me frantically trying to help this woman? Don't they see her nearly collapsing on the sidewalk. It's rush hour. No one is paying attention to me - including the cabs. Why did this woman have to pick me? The girl who was already having a rough day and so desperately wanting to get home. But I can't leave this woman now. Two different cab drivers refuse me. I ask a man getting in a cab if he can sacrifice it for this woman who is a stranger even to me. (I definitely sound crazy, and if I were that man, I might have ignored me, too.) Finally I convince the fourth cab to take this woman home ten blocks away and guide her over the cab and close the door. Did that really just happen? Why do I live in New York?

I get to my apartment building and open the elevator door to find the scariest dog in my building - the one who doesn't have pupils in his eyes - coming right at me, growling, and it's owner screaming "Close the door!" as if it is my fault her unleashed dog was about to bite my leg off. This is the icing on the cake that sets into motion my flood of tears. Why is this my life?!

I call my boyfriend, crying, and he tells me to "Relax, calm down, take a deep breath" --- as if those weren't the exact same words I told 20 Kindergartners and a fainting woman all day long. Why couldn't I tell myself this?! Sometimes when you've spent the whole day being patient and strong for other people, it is hard to be patient and strong for yourself.

I have tons of homework and chores to do. But I put that all aside, switch my iPod to the playlist called "Weekend," ...and I run...

I run away from my problems. Away from this stressful, emotional day. Away from myself. From the girl who is literally crying over spilled milk and scary dogs. Am I the five year old? I run and I run. Distancing myself from her. Mile one. Mile two. I am looking for something. Or someone. Someone who is not so selfish or weak as to cry over petty problems. Where is that girl who hiked a mountain in Arizona with her mom just last week? Where is that girl who made audiences laugh and feel as The Velveteen Rabbit? Where is that girl who told her graduating high school class to persevere through life's hard times?

Mile three. Mile four. I ignore the cramp in my side and the ache in my knees. I'm determined to find her. That girl didn't cry over a hard day, did she?

And somewhere, between breathing in the fresh air of this absurdly warm March day and running past a dog who looks exactly like the one dog she has actually grown to like (yes, that's you, Rocky)... I find her. There she is charging up that hill. There she is breathing through the pain. There she is smiling as she catches a glimpse of the setting sun over the Hudson River. There she is remembering this is just one day of many, and yes, she can do this.

I hope that woman got home ok and has someone there to look after her. And I hope my Kindergarten kids grow up to care about more passionate things than their spots at the breakfast table. And I hope the white-eyed dog (or its owner) doesn't bite anyone.

And I hope that the next time you are having a bad day you can find your run through Riverside Park. We shouldn't be so hard on ourselves. We already have everything that we need to face life's challenges - whether they are big or small. But I suppose sometimes it takes breaking down a little bit to grow up.

Why I Run

I was doing intervals at the track the other night. Yea, I’m crazy. I'm not training for anything at the moment. And tonight, I'm tired. I've worked all day. It was a blah day. I'm thinking of stopping, walking home, and eating lots of icecream. Just as I'm about to veer off the track, I hear a Coach say "On your marks, get set, go!" And out of habit…I’M OFF!

I start picking up my speed, lengthening my stride. I feel great! And then, some 8 year old punk comes up on my right and passes me! What?! You are 8 years old! I can’t let this happen. So I pass him, remembering Dad’s words, “If you’re going to pass someone, PASS someone.” So I’m sure to keep my sprint up. Well punk apparently heard this piece of advice, too, because up on my heels he comes again, with his buddy, and they PASS me! I can’t let this happen. There are probably cute guys on the sidelines who are watching me. I PASS the little kids and reach their coach first. “Good job boys” he says to them, but I know he means “Good job, woman” to me.

I’m glowing with pride when Coach shouts, “Ready! Set! Go!” And…I’M OFF! Again?! I can’t help it. My legs keep going as 2 different punks are riding on my heels now. And these hot-shots are chatting! Unbelievable. I’m not letting THEM beat me. I hold off my lead on these losers, again reaching Coach before them, and just in time to hear “Ready! Set! Go!” And…I’M OFF!

Dear Lord, what am I doing?! I’ve haven’t ran a faster 1200m since…well, since I ran the darn race senior year of high school. I can’t believe I’m holding off round three of the third graders. Must…keep…going…I…am…strong…Cannot…let…8…year…olds…cough…beat…cough…me…cough…

My heart is pounding. My lungs are burning. My breath flew out of my chest at around the 200m mark. And my mind is flooded with thoughts of inspiration. My tough little sister who was Western Mass champ in a few different events, my other determined little sister who used to beat me in Cross Country races, my brother who plays sometimes 3 or 4 sports games a day, my mom who ran my first half marathon with me, and my dad who is running his 10th or so marathon this Sunday in New York City (sorry, I lost count around 7…). I start thinking about Dad. And Boston 2009. We were all waiting for him at Mile 20, and he was running behind schedule (pun intended).

He should have ran past us by now. Where is he? Did we miss him? Is that him?! No. That’s not him. He should have been here 3 minutes ago. Do you think something happened to him? I’m worried. He should have been here 6 minutes ago. I’ve never felt so anxious. My dad, who is always there for us, is not here. This is not like him…

To train for a marathon, especially Boston and NYC, is no small feat. Months of training, mentally and physically, take a toll on you and your family. Your whole lifestyle is affected by your training. Scheduling in long runs, what you eat, when you eat, when you sleep, if you take the elevator or the stairs. And if you don’t perform well on race day, well, you’ve basically thrown away the past 8 months of your life. So where is Dad? I want him to get his PR. I want him to finish. Now I just want him to be happy. We are standing outside Kristen’s dorm room at Boston College. The same place Dad went to school. Where he met Mom, too. He usually achieves his PR with each marathon. He's a Boston qualifier, which is a mark of success for any marathoner. But today is colder than anticipated. Something wrong must have happened this one time...

“There he is!” shouts one of us. He comes around the corner and I cannot remember a moment I’ve felt so relieved. He runs right up to us and we all wrap our arms around him. Hold onto him for dear life as he says “I’m so tired, girls.” Something you never hear Dad say. And we shout “You can do it!” And we run with him for a few moments. Giving him our strength and energy and love until he crowd envelopes us and there he goes off onto the next 6.2 miles and we get back on the sidelines, tears streaming down our cheeks, overcome by so much emotion that I’m exhausted and feel like I’ve just ran the 20 freakin miles.

People scream and cheer and yell and run alongside their loved ones and cry and jump up and down and this is such a crazy thing to experience and I love it with every ounce of my being. Kristen and I stand out there for another 2 hours, cheering everyone on, reading their names on their arms or shirts. Isn’t this the least we can do for these people? We can’t go inside now, the rest of the runners need us! We lose our voices. We lose our energy. Seriously, being a spectator at this sport is almost as draining as being a participant.

“Ready! Set! Go!” I’m snapped back into reality at lap 4. These punks looks a little bigger and faster. Have they saved the best for last? Well, they’re not beating me either! And I pick it up a little more.

I'm not sure what I'm running towards. Or what I'm running from. Living on my own, running makes me feel connected to my family because we all share a passion for this sport. And living in this crazy, busy city, running makes me feel at peace and quiet with myself. Basically, I run because it makes me feel happy. I run because it makes me feel good. I run because it makes me feel.

And now I feel like I have to puke…but at least that’s feeling, right?!

So go get ‘em this weekend, Dad. I’ll be cheering you on with the other 44,000 runners who remind the rest of us that there are truly inspiring people out there. Each running at a different speed, each for a different reason. And someday I’ll be one of them. That is…if my legs can ever move after this 3rd grade track practice…