Love is like Glitter

 I know, I know. I promise I tried but then life kept happening. But I am getting back on track and that's the key right? You don't have to wait till 01 January to start up again. 

I have been thinking about what to write about and I seriously have about 15 blogs started that just need a bit more to finish them-- the ADHD is strong with me. But I wanted to write this blog about communicating in our love. Now this isn't going to be the typical love languages- gifts, time, touch, acts, or words- no what I want to talk about this concept in application and in the moment. 

Now, first things first (or third paragraph at least), what I put here is MY love, it looks different than your love and that's OK, in fact that's fantastic!! Your love in action might look different than mine and to be honest I may struggle with understanding your love, but love is love and figuring it out is the fun part. 

So how did this mental loop all start you may ask? Well, I read a quote. I had heard pieces of this quote several times in my life. I have heard it said in many ways and in many applications. Recently this quote popped up through social media (yay for good things on social media) and it really stuck in my head as an ongoing reminder to really look at the moments in life for what they give back to you. Here's the quote: 

Stories in Life-- My Humanity Trinket

Due to school obligations, I haven't written for fun in a long time. To remedy that, I've decided to challenge myself to write at least one story each month for the next year. Think of it as a New Year’s Resolution made six months late—isn't it ironic, don't you think. Sorry, my inner 90’s kid couldn't resist. If you don’t get the reference, just know I'm shaking my head and judging you with all the feral angst the memes about Gen X warn you about.

So, let’s get to the purpose of this challenge. First, I want to write something creative again. Second, I want to capture our stories in hopes that others might laugh, cry, or find comfort in the chaos that is Patrick and me. Maybe we should come with a warning label: “A full life is stuffed in here; there may be sharp edges, blanket forts of wonder, swamps of sadness, or just Tuesdays and tacos.”

For the next 12 months, let’s buckle up in the Family Truckster and embark on a journey together.

All good stories start at the beginning, so let me warn you, I never said this was a “good story,” but it is our story, and I will start at the beginning-ish.

Have you ever seen someone and known they were going to be in your life forever?

At the prime age of 13, I had this happen to me. I was sitting in Algebra class, alphabetically slotted behind JH once again, trying not to laugh at our teacher’s mid-week Garfield tie and purple shirt. This was an every Wednesday thing, most of us had gotten good at not shaking our heads; at least we always knew what day of the week it was. I wonder if he still has that Garfield tie. 

Let’s take a moment to remember this was “old school” Middle School where the math problems were laid out on an overhead projector and worked through with a marker, making each mistake unmistakable when it was your turn to work the problem in front of the class. Our teacher, like many Algebra teachers of the time, had some difficulty balancing the clear plastic and the cover sheet as to not give us the answers. You know, that blank piece of paper that covered the easy path forward; the one you hoped would get caught on the projector fan and blow off long enough for you to gather a clue as to what was just discussed for the last 30 minutes. Deep breaths—if you know, you know, right?

Let me quickly get back on track. At no point did I think my Algebra teacher would be in my life forever. I was just trying to get through from 7 am to 7:55 am without hiding under my desk. This is not a story about Algebra. This is a story about the person who walked into that Algebra class—late. In walked this shaggy-haired, leather (or suede) vest-wearing kid. He looked like he knew what was going on in a time when I’m not sure any of us knew what was going on. And in that moment of him handing over his schedule and our Algebra teacher making a joke that his last name lined up perfectly with the empty seat in the back of the last row, I lost a piece of my soul, or my being, or my general humanity.

Now, you have to understand, I didn’t fall in love at first sight. I didn’t see hearts. I didn’t start writing our names in bubble letters on my notebooks. Instead, something else happened that would take decades to figure out. When a piece of your soul/being/humanity leaves and joins another, it feels... WEIRD. Really fucking weird, especially at 13. The best I can compare it to is that you lost your keys, but you don’t even know what keys are, why you have them, or how they got lost in the first place. But not in a bad way. UGH... right!?!? Four decades later and it still makes no sense, but it happened: a piece of my soul/being/humanity just pinged off, rolled two aisles over and three seats back, and found a new home attached to a guy in a suede vest. Yep, the universe is a strange and wonderful place.

Turns out, that guy in the suede vest was also my sort of neighbor. He lived in a house at the corner of our neighborhood about seven houses down from me. It's strange to think that I don’t really know how many houses were between us, even though in the coming months we would walk it thousands of times. His house happened to be across the street from my bus stop too. I guess at this point it was “our” bus stop. Now, to make things even weirder, and this probably has more to do with age, I don’t remember us ever really talking in the first few days or weeks or maybe months—teenage time is a strange place.

What I do remember is that others started to see that he had stolen a part of my humanity. They must have known because they started to push us together. Glances and notes grew into walks around the neighborhood (man, I wish I had a Garmin back then; I could have clocked some serious steps), which grew into movie dates. Again, I don’t recall the “girlfriend/boyfriend” moment, but I am sure it was there. Maybe I kept going back thinking my humanity would gather all the knowledge needed from him and jump back over to me better for the small adventure. Such did not happen. It was like my humanity was a trinket in his pocket, and I only got to experience it when we were near each other.

Right now, you might be thinking... “and they lived happily ever after.” Ummm... NO. LOL. Well, not right away and certainly not at 13. Much of that is for another story. What I really have been leading up to is telling you about “the meet, not so cute.” At this point, he holds, unbeknownst to him, a trinket of my humanity in his lint-filled pockets (because he’s a boy and boys have lint-filled pockets), and we have fallen into a “dating” status.

After a movie date, where his grandfather (whom I would adore from the moment I met him—I know, a whole family of humanity trinket thieves) had dropped us off at my house, Patrick walked me up the drive and walkway to my front door. (You can skip this cringe-worthy embarrassment if you have heard the story before; just skip a few lines down.) There, as he held my hand, he pulled me to him, and for the first time, we kissed. It was light and small and shy and... “not a kiss.” Yep, he told me our first kiss was “not a kiss.” As any woman with self-respect would do, I quickly turned on my heel, opened my front door, and slammed it in his face without another word.

Patrick’s version of this story is that his suave, suede vest-wearing self was about to say, “That’s not a kiss; this is,” and then proceed to kiss me deeply and with tongue. I am still not sure that would have been any better to my 13-year-old self, but the context certainly changes things a bit.

At this point, the meet cute is no longer cute, and damn him for still holding a bit of my humanity, probably getting lint and poor manners all over it! OK, 13-year-old self is going back in her room to blare some grunge music. But he really did still have that trinket, my trinket. As many times as I have told this story, I don’t know what happened next. Maybe Patrick will remember and put some words to this section of the story, but for me, the emotions are all I see when I look back at those memories. I don’t have images of the order of things. What I do know is that he still had that piece of me.

It has always been that way. No matter the doors slamming or the incorrect words being said, he holds that trinket of my humanity. I can feel it when I am near him. It is weird sometimes because people say that someone else makes them whole, and maybe for some that’s true and an amazing feeling, but for me, I am whole being around him because he has this piece of who I am stuck to him. If I am being honest, there have been moments I wish I could steal back my humanity trinket from him. Steal it and lock it away so it doesn't roll to him again. When I think about doing just that, I start to realize that it is no longer my trinket; it belongs to him. It always belonged to him. I just carried it for 13 years.

As I have aged, I have realized these trinkets of humanity that we all have get given to people in our lives. Some trinkets are plain and others ornate. Some are larger than others. Some are small but made of more precious materials. You might be thinking that the humanity trinket Patrick holds in his now less lint-filled pocket is made of the most precious materials and is the largest trinket I have, and has the most details. You would be wrong. I have had years to think about this trinket. It isn’t a glorious item. It is small and worn down in spots from years of being in a pocket. Instead of being made of something precious or detailed with precision, it holds a promise. A promise that while this trinket is away from me, it is safe and well-kept, and that if ever a time comes for the trinket to be returned, it will be given back with all the signs of a trinket once well-loved.

I hope every day that my humanity trinket that Patrick holds remains in his pocket, safe from the world and worn by love.

Well, that’s that. Maybe not a story. Maybe just a brain gone haywire. Maybe just a girl remembering when she lost a trinket all those years ago. Maybe just me trying to remember how it all started as we approach the future. But that's the first glimpse you get-- well not the first but the first in this series.

By the way, to my love, please don’t lose my humanity trinket like you do your phone. I love you, and Happy 21st Anniversary of Marriage and 30 years of a life spent connected.

 

 

Putting the EXTREME in Cheaha Extreme Triathlon

As Patrick has been reminding me, I haven't posted in a while (as Patrick has been reminding me), and I have 18 started blog posts, but I decided to finish number 19 first. I need a creative outlet before getting down to some more boring writing. So let me tell you a story about the Cheaha Extreme Triathlon.  

 

Let's start with--- YES, I know the title of the race has the word "EXTREME" in it, and yes, I know the definition of "EXTREME," and yes, for once, I actually read the full course description!!! I even read it out loud to hear all the words. 

 

I should have known from the beginning that everything about the race would be extreme, including signing up. Patrick and I were literally about to get on a seaplane to a remote island when the sign-up day went live. A friend quickly posted and mentioned there were limited stops in the race and that we should sign up quickly. I stood in a parking lot in the Upper Peninsula in Michigan, quickly signing up before all communication was lost. Turns out that while there are limited entries, we didn't need to jump immediately... But good news, I got bib number 4 (thanks Fitz). 

 

Unfortunately, training quickly went off the rails between the Fall and Spring race day. While I muscled through two 50-mile running events, we also battled illness, cold days, and, well... and just other excuses of life vs. training. The swim was what I was most trained up for, as we had committed to swimming twice a week as a part of our New Year's resolution. So there's that. I mean, it is 1/3 of the race. 

In an effort to focus on the positives or vent the negatives, I began to write notes to myself (Patrick added in too).

 

RACE DAY

 

Back it up the days before race day. We had been up to Cheaha Mountain before, and for those who don't know, it is the highest point in Alabama (this is important for the later part of the story) to hike and camp a few years before. This allowed us to have a small clue about the area. After a great lunch at the oldest running bar in Alabama, The Peerless Saloon, we headed up the mountain while scouting some spots for the sherpa crew to meet up. Also, we decided that the original plan of meeting up every 20 miles on the bike route would be a HUGE mistake--- super glad for that insight.

Additionally, with being there a few days early, we were also about to take a quick swim the day before, finding out the water was bath water temperature. The bonus was that we found another great place to eat, sitting under a willow tree on the water's edge. It was hard to think we had to leave this spot to return up the mountain and actually do this race. 

 

Race morning came EARLY since we had about an hour's drive down the mountain. Here's the thing when you are in a car-- you look out the window and think, "That doesn't seem so bad," and then you realize, "Oh shit, I am in a car." This being a small race with self-support meant the low-keyness of it all created a feeling of closeness, even knowing that I wouldn't see most of the people after we came out of the water. 

 

Bikes all set on racks, running shoes all set in the front seat of the car, and swim buoy strapped on-- READY to go. 

 

One thing I appreciate about this race is that the start was on time, even if everyone still needed to get in the water for the in-water start. To be fair, the race director gave a fair warning, "Race starts in one minute; get in the water." And HORN. 

 

The water was so warm there was steam coming off the top, making sighting difficult enough that I was actually thankful for the swim buoy on the athlete ahead of me and for her ability to stay on a good line; plus, the kayaker who paddled beside her for a little. The best part of the swim was the sign that somehow the photographer did not capture that said, "WARNING DANGEROUS, DO NOT SWIM." In the words of our friend Fitz (who was also dumb enough to race and the creator of this wonderful let's-sign-up- event), "This seems like a great idea." 

 

The swim was a good time. The water was a bit murky, as all lakes are, and the early race day start meant that the EXTREME part of the swim was heading into the sun. I am pretty sure if the race director could figure out an uphill swim, he would have. The waters were smooth and fresh (if not a little muddy), though seeing to your wrist was about the distance of underwater viewing. I managed on the sim to pick up two guys who decided to act like Remoras, attaching to my hip and feet in the swim draft zones. The good thing is, with the exception of when I purposely slowed down to see if one of them would pull (they didn't), there was no touching or bothering me. In transition, the guy who had stuck to my hip mentioned that I had a nice smooth stroke; I so badly wanted to tell him, "Of course, you noticed that because you were on my hip drafting the ENTIRE time." But at that point, I had not lost my mind and was being nice, plus not his fault for using opportunity well. And I think it is totally fair to point out that the guy who drafted off my feet would go on to win the whole thing; pretty sure that little bit of rest he got in the swim was the reason he could just zippy up the mountain multiple times. 

 

Out of the water and into T1. Given that it was a long race, I have no shame in admitting that I was towel-covered-stripping-down and dressing in the middle of a grassy area in an Alabama park at 6am. NO SHAME. Dressed and ready to go, I walked my bike out of transition; little did I know that this would be the first of many times I walked my bike.

 

Fair warning this part about the bike is probably just therapy for me because I certainly need it. The first part of the ride, about 40ish miles, is mild. However, the problem with mild at this location is that you are still going up. Everything that looks flat is a lie. Here we are entering a town; it should be flatter due to city planning-- LIE. Here we are near an open field; it should be flat for farming-- LIES. Oh... yeah, you get it ALL LIES. Do you know why it is all LIES? Because you are going uphill the WHOLE time. 

 

Before mile 30 (yeah, I don't really know exactly where everything happened), there was an incident where I got chased by 2 dogs. There was a collection of dogs at this house; several came out from the fence, barking and setting to pursue. Two of the dogs caught up to me and were barking and nipping. It was certainly not the "Hey do you want to play" type of barking and nipping. I am pretty sure this was the fastest I peddled all day. Yelling no and making noise to try to disrupt their forward motion. Nothing was working, but eventually, on their own, they stopped and turned off home. After this, the first time, my heart lit up at seeing Patrick and Paula (Fitz's sherpa). These two were amazing-- ALL DAY LONG, especially at this moment when I needed someone else to make sure I was OK with a quick one over. 

 

Shortly after this, two guys passed me, and after a quick "hi, how are you," I overheard their conversation. Guy 1 told Guy 2, "This ride is pretty much 68 miles going up to the top of the mountain, then 40 more miles going down and up the other side." Huh. You ever have those moments where you know something, but it made sense hits much later. This was such a moment for me. It wasn't the 68 miles to the top of the mountain the first time. It was the first realization that every bit down the other side of the mountain would make up all the bits of having to come back up the mountain. 

 

The sun began to beat down, and the roads that had seemed somewhat shady while in the car had clearly had the trees trimmed away from the road overnight. The sun on the blacktop and the lack of wind brought riding to a whole new level of hot, not the fun, sexy kind. To counteract this, Patrick was filling my water bottles at every 10-mile stop and setting an expectation in his best dad's voice that all of the fluids be drank by the next stop. In truth, I didn't meet this expectation; however, I am also sure that his setting this expectation got me closer to the finish line than I would have been otherwise. 

 

The first 68 miles of false flats, followed by about 10 miles of climbing the mountain, ends at the lodge, where our room is, and I really wanted to be done. I had already pushed my bike twice due to running out of ability to crank the pedals. These were the first tears. They weren't big tears, just tired tears. Patrick and I made the deal before the race: unless I was hurt or had a mechanical issue, he would tell me three times to get back on my bike. He swapped out my potatoes for grapes, refilled my fluids, patted me on the back, and sent me down the other side of the mountain. 

 

Now here is the thing about the other side of the mountain. It is steep. It is sunny. It is 20 miles down. None of these are really the problem; it is when for the first time on the first small climb, you realize that for every hill you go down, you will have to come back up. This is the first time in the race where overcoming a hill or enjoying some free speed means bringing little joy because the truth is your brain is figuring out what it will feel like to go back up. 

 

Upon reaching the top of an outlook, I found the support crew and my race buddy. The first thing I noticed was that he had flip-flops. Now, his story is his to tell, but most amazingly, he offered the truth of his pulling out of the race while providing support for me to get back on my bike. I will admit this was the second time I wanted to stop; I wanted to be done. I wasn't the pain to stop. I don't think I cried this time, but I did tell Patrick I wanted to quit. He handed me a pack of crackers, refilled my fluids, patted me on the back, and sent me further down the hill. 

 

At one more stop, up a bumpy hill, I met up with Patrick again. These stops were a bit closer than every 10 miles, thank goodness. When I pulled over, the tears started. Turns out the two things you can manage to do while somewhat dehydrated-- cry and have snot drip out your nose. Both of these things happened at this stop. There wasn't an uphill that I didn't have to walk at some point. The hardest thing to do mentally is to get back on the bike after pushing it up the hill a bit, knowing the hill isn't done with you, knowing you have a mountain still ahead. At this last stop, before the turnaround, I ugly cried, like thankful the photographer was not around kind of ugly cried. I told Patrick I was done; I wanted to quit. He refilled my fluids, gave me a few ibuprofen, stuffed a payday in my hand, patted me on the back, and sent me the rest of the way down the hill. 

 

Here is where Patrick and I tell a different version of events. The plan was to meet at the turnaround. I was sure I was going to be done for real this time. I had maxed out my three times and was ready to have it all over. Going down the hill, I hit speeds well over 40mph, and the only thing I remember thinking was, "Would it be so bad to miss this turn and go flying off the mountain." I didn't have the energy to be scared and only had a bit of mindfulness to think, "Holy hell, this is cool...and FAST." I was ready to call it; no need for a mechanical or injury. 

 

On many races, I talk to myself; some of you have heard my internal thoughts come out as cheers for you to keep going or push on, but in all honesty, a lot of times, those are messages to myself as well. I can normally bring up positive imagery or positive self-talk, but this was probably the darkest moment in my brain at any race. My mind was no longer focused on the beauty of the mountain, the trees, or the blue skies; instead, all I could think was that I would be good with going down the side of the mountain, bouncing off a tree, and seeing the blue skies as the helicopter comes in to find me. As I said, the thoughts went dark and well planned out. Of course, I also knew deep down I wouldn't make that turn but man, did I want to at the moment.  

 

I reached the bottom and was in the loop to turn when I noticed Patrick was not there. OK, everything is OK. Surely he is meeting me on the other side of the loop. And no, Patrick. As I started to climb out from the turnaround, here came Patrick. I was pissed thinking he was playing head games with me, just not giving me the option to quit. Knowing that if I started back up, no matter what, I would finish this bike. Well, I was going to show him "finishing this bike" if it was the last thing I did.  

 

Now rewind for a second because Patrick's version of what was happening was much different. You see, when we had last stopped to get me ibuprofen, Patrick had to open the car topper and pull from a bag up there. He sent me on my way and packed up things, including moving my race items from the front seat to eh back seats, so I would have a place to sit when I refused to go back up. After dealing with me and my emotional basketcase-ness, he forgot to close the topper and took off down the hill. When the realization hit, he stopped, fixed the problem, went back up the hill to see if anything fell out, and then headed back down to catch up with me. He was a little late catching up but waved and checked in as I headed back up the mountain. 

 

Turns out he wasn't playing mind games. And maybe it was best I didn't know what had happened or why he wasn't there. In the end, this was a motivator for me to move pedal by pedal or step by step up the mountain. On the bike, off the bike. On the bike, the computer dies off the bike. On the bike, crying, off the bike, crying. Back on the bike. So on and so on, the plan goes to getting to the top. Amazingly Patrick and our friends were at every overlook, offering support, cheers, and smiles. I can't tell you how much this is what kept me going. Each mile slowly ticked by until, all of a sudden, the top was coming into view. Patrick went ahead to the T2 area after I told him that I planned to make an attempt at the run portion. Paula and Fitz walked beside me up the last of the hill. I had to laugh when Fitz, a seasoned athlete, yelled at Paula, a more casual athlete, "Don't touch her or her bike." I am sure Paula totally sistered him with an "I know" eye roll. But after spending time with Paula, the reminder made sense as she is a helper and healer personality (which I adore that I could feel her wanting to help me along the way). 

 

The top of the hill was glorious. Not the end, but glorious. My calf was bruised from my bike pedal hitting it as I pushed it up the mountain. I would be glad to hand my bike over any minute now. Before that would happen, I did want one more moment on the bike. I hopped back up and gave a few cranks of the pedals. That was it. T2 (being the vehicle) was right there, and the bike was done. If you are wondering, yes, I cried... again. And yes, I made a second towel-changing event but this time at the TOP of the mountain. There is no shame.  

 

Off on to the run, well walk, well very slow walk. Oh... on a bit of trail as well. 

 

Patrick ran the top four miles with me-- thank goodness, or I may have sat down and finished crying by myself out there. This top terrain was rocky, with big rocks and sliding little pebbles. This portion took the last of the daylight. I was glad to have grabbed my hiking poles before heading out... and this would not be the last time this thought during the run. The benefit of having Patrick with me in this first part was that I didn't have to watch for the course; I just followed along. I needed a bit to reset my brain from the bike. As we passed the store, Patrick got me a soda, which I knew was a Dr. Pepper and "something," but all I really knew was that it was making me happy in the moment. 

 

We made the loop around where I would begin the steep, death-and-dying downhill. First, the race director did give fair warning about this one-mile trail downhill to a lake and then a bit of solid ground. The problem was the "death and dying hill" between me and that road. Again, I'm super glad I had the hiking poles, as this would be the only way on my shaking legs to make it down this section. Watching each step, I slowly began to make my way down. There were several big drops and tight foot placements. Additionally, there were moths and deer. 

 

Let me tell you about the moths and deer. My headlamp was awesome at covering and lighting up a large area for me to see the terrain. The problem with a bright light in the dark of night in the middle of the woods of Alabama is the moths go to the flame. I was swiping them away when they looked to be headed for taking out my eyes. This meant I was also trying to not fall down the mountain and not stab my eye or leg with my hiking pole while trying to live through a moth attack that could rival Hitchcock's birds. Then there was the deer. In my current mindset, the glowing eyes were freaky, like really freaky; then, they became my best friends. Oh yes, these deer were from a Disney movie. While they watched me thinking, "This one's lost it, wandering around in the night"; I was telling them about us being best friends and how they would journey down the mountain to tell Patrick where I was if something happened to me. They seemed to be in agreement with this plan and watched me just moving down the mountain again. You might be thinking, "Certainly, her mind wasn't this far gone to think these deer would save her." You would be wrong; me and the deer had an understanding, me and the deer were friends, and if we encounter each other later in life, we will acknowledge this moment with a simple head nod because nothing else would need to be said.     

 

What I wasn't planning for at the bottom of this "death and dying" path was kids playing in the bathroom by the lake and camping area. This is, in fact, what I did encounter. Kids can be creepy on a normal day; in the dark, when you are tired, and they are in an echoing bathroom with little light, they might as well be the children of the corn. Thankfully Patrick was in sight at this point, so if they came running out, at least there would be a witness. And Patrick would get to use our "save yourself" plan.

I approached the two vehicles and heard Patrick talking to someone. Honestly, I figured it was a race official or park ranger wanting me to call it a day and go home or to make sure they didn't have to go in search of my remains; no worries there because the deer would have known where to find me. Instead of either of those options, it was a buddy to the guy behind me. WHAT THE HELL!!! THERE WAS SOMEONE ELSE OUT HERE!!! I honestly didn't care about what was in front of me or behind me; just not feeling as alone was a huge moral boost. Again as had become the norm, Patrick checked my fluids refilled, offered food, and sent me on my way. A NASCAR pit crew has nothing on my husband regarding making sure I don't dehydrate or starve. 

 

You might now think the rest of the story is, "I walked and walked some more." You would be right, and you would be wrong. Because what you don't know is after leaving the lake and starting a few miles walk on the road, I was nearly kidnapped...runner-napped...let's just say there are a number of horror movies that begin this way: There I was lit up in my 360-degree vest and headlamp, walking at a decent pace on a curvy mountain road, when suddenly I heard the roar of an engine. Maybe not a roar, more like the loud rumblings of a truck that had seen one too many dirt roads. I was walking on the wrong side of the road for walkers, but it was nearly 10 pm, and in this direction, I could ditch off the road, which I would not have on the other side. The truck, which confirmed my dirt road thoughts, came past me. OK, cool, no problem. Then there were reverse lights. If you don't know me know this, I was not going to be taken in that vehicle. I had my poles ready and felt very stable on this dark mountain road. The guy rolled down his window and asked if a race was going on, to which I said yes. In my mind, I was thinking, "Yes, and they have a tracker on me (because we really did), and they know where I am at all times." He then proceeded to ask if I was heading up or down the mountain. Oh, hell no, I am not giving this creepy dude my itinerary for the next 3 hours. I kindly looked at him while moving my pole into a better stabbing position, "I am headed to where my husband is waiting." I then matched on like he wasn't there while he may have asked a few more questions. He finally got a clue and drove by. Thankfully shortly after, I saw my vehicle and safety. I could feel the adrenaline kicking in my veins, which really isn't the best thing on such a long day when you have already been chased by dogs, wanted to fly bike first off a cliff, and struggled to make it down the "death and dying" hill. 

 

As Patrick went through his pit crew procedure and got me a new pack of crackers, I told him about the events. He had noted the truck going by and, other than it being a late night, thought little of it. After affirming that I would go on, Patrick waited in the vehicle at this "intersection" where I was now on the dirt road. I was about a quarter of a mile from my vehicle when the same sound of a dirt road riding engine can through the night. I turned to look back a few times, noting that Patrick was still there. THAT DUDE CAME BACK!!!! Now I know as runners, sometimes we tell stories in a fisherman style, expounding on the danger. But I have no doubt that the dude was NOT just turning around after dropping hot soup for his ailing grandmother. Evidently, seeing the vehicle still there or my woodsy-looking husband, the guy got the message to move on. 

 

Patrick stayed, covering the turn until I could no longer be seen (we didn't know the road was in a condition where he honestly could have followed me). Again, I took to marching along. Thinking I was done with creepy events for the night, I focused on my crackers. Of course, that was short-lived when I saw a weird light up ahead. ARE. YOU. KIDDING. ME. How many times can a person have an attempt at kidnapping in one race? Let me take a minute here and explain that as a child of the 80s, there is a fear of white utility vans ingrained in our mindset; you see one, you don't park next to it, you walk by turning your head and body towards it at all times, and you never help find a puppy or accept candy from this van. Back to the dirt road with the creepy white utility van with semi-blacked-out windows (I think because of curtains) that was pulled over just before the turn to the long course (which I had missed the timing to be able to go down that direction). What was weirdly stranger about the van was that there was no noise besides the AC running. The lights were on, but there was no flicker of a TV, no music, nothing that would resemble normal life. I am unsure if a dark van would have been better or a person standing outside waving. I'm pretty sure I would still be writing about the creepy van I saw after the near kidnapping either way. The good news is, everything was fine, and BONUS, it may have motivated me to move a bit faster (at least in my head, I was moving faster). 

 

The end of the dirt road is a curse and a blessing. As in, "Yay, you reached the end of the dirt road," and "boo, you have to climb this damn mountain AGAIN." At this junction, Patrick informed me not to worry because I had already biked up this section and knew what to expect. This, while truthful information, was not uplifting. I smiled anyway for fear of crying. Since Patrick had scoped it out, he knew of two potential stops up the mountain where we could meet. At this point, it wasn't about finishing or not finishing; it was just about encouragement and feeling a little not-alone-ness. 

 

I started my trek up the hillside (the hill sounds so much better than the mountain). I was tired, and everything I attempted to put in my body wanted to come out. The good news is I only threw up once, and it was dark outside, so all you get to know is I only threw up once. Patrick was at our checkpoint a bit later and with a wave and an "I'll see you at the top," I kept walking, fearful stopping at this point meant having to crawl the rest of the way. After this encounter, I was passed by a guy who had come from the long course. And then the final weird thing happened; a car came down the mountain. Now alone, a Honda Civic coming down from the race site on a long race late in the night is not strange. As they passed, I saw a slight waveform in the car and waved back. Again, not strange. But then there were lights behind me, and in the dark and silent night, I knew it was the same vehicle. I was ready to stab at the car or jump off the mountain when a very nice female racer rolled down her window to tell me the top was near and there was a breeze up there. This was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me! She and her car companion offered a few more nice sentiments and then drove up the hill, leaving me again in a bit of darkness, only this time, there was also a bit of light. Yes, yes, the light in my heart for their kind words, but also the light of the state park. Two more turns, and I would be standing in front of the gate (granted, this is not the end, but it is a damn sight closer to the end). 

 

On tired legs, I hauled my exhausted body and incoherent mind up the last of the mountain. There at the finish line stood three people-- the race director, the photographer, and my husband. I had no tears left to cry at this point, but I was ever thankful for each of them being there at midnight o'3 when I finally took my final steps to be done with this mountain. Patrick hugged me, and I felt my body break apart at that moment. I was finally done, I was finally safe, I was finally able to quit, and there for it all was Patrick. How he manages to love me through the stupid things I want to do (and maybe do again) is nothing short of amazing. 

 

 

 

 

 

The night concluded in a comfortable bed... well, except for the part where I wasn't done throwing up. Turns out my stomach was the one part of my body still letting me know it was actively revolting from the body union and not in agreement with allowing bygones to be bygones.

 

Now, you may ask, "Teresa, will you do it again?" Still, a month later, my answer is, "I don't know." I want to do it again to do better and to complete the full distance since there are 13 miles left on the run that I still need to overcome. But then flashes of the dark thoughts pop into my brain, and I don't know how I feel about meeting the mountain again. Maybe this was enough to push through....but maybe, maybe there is more on this mountain to be discovered. 

 

I can trust one thing... there will be something else, somewhere else, sometime in the future.  

Forgot to mention this in the original publishing of this article. 

Total distances:

Swim 2,571 yd

Bike 108.5 MI with 10,143 ft of climb. My watch died at one point but I can tell you that for 11.87 of the back Mountain miles there was 2,363 ft of climb.

Run 12.46 MI with 2,124 ft of climb.

 

Ending note: Our support crews were what kept us going. For me, without Patrick there, I would have ended my day on the backside of Cheaha Mountain. The support crew is vital with not only nutrition when you can't think but with kind words and laughs. There wasn't a single stop that Paula and Patrick (and eventually) Fitz weren't laughing and cheering. It didn't matter that I was walking my bike. It didn't matter that I was crying. It didn't matter that I was cursing and apologizing. They just raised their hands up, cheered, and smiled, and told me some story that would make me laugh. We all create a tribe to get us through life, and I am ever, ever thankful to have met my triathlon/running/cycling/swimming tribe; they are amazing people doing amazing things. 

Photo credit to Greg Gelmis, who takes amazing photos, especially in water shots which you don't often get at events.

In 2021, We Took a Walk-- One Mile At A Time

     I am not one for New Year's resolutions. I sort of have the take on it that if you want to do it, you will, and if you don't want to do it, you will stop by February. I am more the type for setting short-term goals with smaller tasks to achieve the overall goal. But coming into 2021 was a bit different, maybe because of COVID, maybe because of where I was in my life looking at 40, perhaps because I just needed something. 

    So I made a resolution to walk one mile every day. Alright, some of you are laughing or confused right now. I know this because, as I told my triathlon and running friends, this goal most laughed or gave me that look where you tilt your head trying to understand the person a bit better. Not because I set a goal but because the goal seemed so small. This was not a goal to do a 5K every day, or to establish a running streak, or to PR an event, or to go an epic distance. Nope, this was one mile. One single mile every day.

    BUT... there is ALWAYS a BUT. This mile, while sometimes a part of a 5K, sometimes coming at the end of a triathlon or in the middle of a marathon, sometimes mixed in with 40 miles of wandering, had one component that I also had to honor. My one mile a day was not just about being in physical motion but also facing life's mental and emotional movement. This would be a year of the "Reflective Mile."  

    You may be asking yourself what a "Reflective Mile" is. Well, it is precisely what it sounds like, one mile to think, to process, and to connect. That's the hard part about this mile. It is why the mile is allowed to be a part of something bigger, like a marathon, but also why this mile is not a 5K everyday. This mile carried more weight, a weight found only in moments of purpose. And I am not sure that I could sit with myself and my reflection for a 5K.  

    In being honest about this journey I will tell you the miles weren't easy from day one, forged in tears of stress early in January. I wanted to quit, not because the physical mile was too hard or too far, but because I required myself to be there in the moment with myself and everything that I brought to the table. On bad days being with me can be a scary place to be. At times it is a place that is filled with doubt and darkness. It is a place that my faults and missteps meet to take over. A place where the overwhelming can become a blanket of misery. And here I was in a new year, faced with all of it from the very onset of this resolution. I had to make a choice to continue down this road or to stop.

 

   I had to take a step back very early on and think about why this was important, why I thought I needed it in the first place. What did I want to gain? I had to find my way through. A path that was easy in the thinking stage but difficult in action. I discovered that what I wanted, truly wanted, was to have one moment in the day that I was honest about all of it, all of me. One designated moment where the mask of "being ok" could fall, and I could breathe. I would find starting with day one that this would at times be the most strenuous miles I have ever completed, but it would at times come with a great reward.

    I never thought that one mile would matter. Honestly, when I started this, I thought it would be an opportunity to simply leave my desk between work and school. I wasn't looking for groundbreaking, and trust me, not every day was a revelation-- thank goodness. What I found in those miles was something I wasn't planning on. Those miles became my release from constraints of myself and the expectations of others. It was permission represented in steps.

    Without knowing it in the moment, I got something out of the miles I wasn't expecting and didn't know I needed. For many of the miles Patrick and I were together, even on the bad days. I say often that Patrick is there with me on my journeys, always in my heart no matter where I am, but to have him physically there for so much of the time where I felt vulnerable was a gift I didn't anticipate in these miles. Patrick will have to tell you about his reasons and thoughts on joining me-- I am pretty sure it started as us just being competitive. For me, it was nice to have someone there at the moment when the mask fell. I am not sure that Patrick will ever understand how he acts as a tether back to the good, back to reality, back to balance-- even when he frustrates me and makes me lose my mind. It may be weird that I walk with him some days to know he is there even if I want him to go away. These walks brought us closer and gave us a place and time to both live without expectations even from each other. We talk, a lot, in our house but some how out on that mile was different. On the mile it was also ok to just be silent, speaking volumes without any sound.

    My cup isn't always full, even after the mile; heck, let's face it, I am pretty sure there are days that my tea cup isn't even up right. Yet if nothing else, in the miles I have managed to at least find my tea cup under the dirty laundry of life.  

    As we close out 2021, I know this resolution made me better. Being a better doesn't mean that I don't get angry or that I don't feel sad or overwhelmed or frustrated; it simply means that I am giving myself permission to feel it even if it isn't understood or accepted by others. I also give myself permission to let those feelings go, not hold on to the negative thoughts, and instead replace them with a bit of happiness. The idea that one mile changed everything may sound extreme, but one mile changed me. 

    To those who didn't get it, I understand. To those who walked a mile with me, thank you; you may not have known your purpose in that moment but I assure you, you had one. To Izzy who held us accountable to "her walk", know that you always make my day better. 

    To Patrick who has chosen to walk with me in these miles and in life, there are not words to share my gratitude but I hope you know that you make my heart whole. Thank you for holding my hand. Thank you for letting me go. Thank you for the encouragements and the accountability. Thank you for knowing when I needed to yell or cry, and for being there in case I tripped. Thank you for making me laugh. Thank you for being as vulnerable as me. Thank you for meeting me at the mailbox and checking that I started my watch. Just, you know, thanks for being you and for loving me.

And yes, I am aware I have five days of miles left. But just in case you were planning your New Year's Resolution I thought you should know there is a lot to find in a mile of reflection.

The Grace in Failure- SCAR Swim 2021

 

I fully believe how we define ourselves is not rooted in the good times, but rather in the times of hardship. The times where your spirit is challenged. The times where success is not defined in mortal terms. The times where you cry, laugh, and yell all in hopes that your sanity returns. Those are the moments that define who we are and how we live. Those are the moments that the rest of the world wants to see failure but we find growth and solace. These moments come in MANY shapes and sizes-- for me is was spelled SCAR.

The SCAR event provided me with several moments of hardship. Hardships that my body gave into, that my mind could not process, and that left my soul feeling stampeded. It was a hell of a four-day adventure. One I will never look back on with regret.
Before I tell you the rest I will tell you two very important facts-- 1) I failed to complete the SCAR challenge and 2) I am every bit just as determined to go back.
For those of you not familiar with SCAR, here is the easy description: Four Lakes, Four Days, Forty Miles. The event takes place in Arizona, but do not be fooled one of the biggest challenges in this event is the cold waters.
Now, this story doesn't start with the shockingly cold water I jumped into on day one of the challenge; nope it starts two days prior when we left home and headed to Arizona. Patrick and I made it happily to Arizona BUT our luggage did not. Instead, our luggage was back home sitting at the airport and an hour shy of being put on a different plane headed... well, I wasn't listening well enough to know where it was going to be headed. We went into the luggage claiming area for United, where we encountered John. After me freaking out, shedding tears of frustration, and being told several times by Patrick to take a walk around and breathe, John informed us that our luggage would be found and he would get it to us. Patrick happened to notice that the name linked to our luggage tickets was for someone leaving the same airport but with a slightly different last name. As we waited for the car rental, which is a story with a lot more curse words that I won't get into, John called to let us know our luggage was going to be leaving home and on the 9 something PM flight to Phoenix. Trust me I apologized again to John, to which he told me that I was not the worst customer he had (even that day) and that he was just as frustrated with our experience. By 11pm we had our first confirmation of our luggage safely arriving and set for delivery the following day. In the meantime, I was a little thankful for my paranoia leading to me packing a set of goggles and a bathing suit in my carry-on bag. It was easy enough to find a sporting goods store to purchase an extra pair of goggles and jammers for Patrick so we could both swim the practice swim the following day. 

For the first few nights, we stayed at the Saguaro Lake Ranch. Side note here, if you want to visit Arizona and stay someplace unique and thoughtful you should stay here. The ranch provided boxed breakfast that was better than most hotels pre-COVID. And they did so with a smile, even at 6am. We still did not have our luggage in the morning and we weren't sure about a delivery time so we reminded the front desk that our luggage may be coming while we were gone. I am not sure if they say "bless your heart" in Arizona but the woman working the desk certainly said it with her eyes. I felt like she was going to grandma-hug the anxiety out of me.

Breakfast was our first encounter with a few of the other swimmers. We all know I don't make friends and I am certainly on guard when I feel I have to give a resume of my athletic accomplishments to sit at the table. Turns out this standoffishness was not necessary for most of the swimmer group (the others I did avoid a little because let's be honest I relate to the cacti of Arizona a bit too much at times). The breakfast friends offered us tangerines from their home city of Ojai. GO BUY THEM NOW!!! The couple was extremely friendly, insightful, and a joy to talk with during the entire event. The swimmer had completed SCAR previously but had also struggled at SCAR previously; which made him this pillar of compassion, unbeknownst to him. 

Then came the awkward part-- the practice swim. Some of my fellow athletes will not understand the social differences in SCAR and other events, and that's ok. But what you have to understand is SCAR is not an event you show up to, pick up your race packet, say hi to a few people, sleep, wake up, and race, then go home. You will see these people for the following four days. You will talk about struggles, life, and places to eat over the next four days; and you will be there and accountable every day (if you do SCAR right in my opinion). SO first impressions and all that!! 

Patty's Practice swim in Saguaro was a small gathering of swimmers and kayakers. For me, it was a chance to get in the water, feel the temperature, and get stretched out from the stressors of travel. Turns out the water was great, even after the rains. It was the first time I would notice the oddity of Arizona water. First, the water temp on top is not the same as the water temp two inches down. This means with every stroke or breath your arms and face are going from warm to cold. I didn't think much of it at the time, but later I would realize that this makes it a little more taxing to regulate body temperature (at least for me it seems). Second, the water sucks all the nutrients from your skin. I am not sure if it is the silt in the water or what but my skin felt dryer after the first swim than it does after hours in the saltwater. Between the swim and the "meet and greet" events we met a few other swimmers who were all very encouraging and entertaining. It is always a good time when no one really seems to be sure what is going on but we all follow along anyway. And BONUS, after the practice swim our luggage arrived at the ranch!!! There is just something about the idea of clean clothes and gear that is soothing!!  

Day 1- Saguaro (suh·waa·row) 

Not knowing what to expect from this event what I certainly did not expect was for the event to run on Key's time (the time we experienced when swimming in the Florida Keys, where time was sort of a flexible construct). Now, this is not a bad thing or a negative takeaway, it is simply an observation-- one that over the few days made more and more sense. This would also be the first day that we would get a feel for how the kayakers and swimmers meet up AFTER the start. 

Upon arriving via pontoon to the "staging area" our portion of wave one only had a few seconds to prepare before needing to be back on the pontoon to head a bit up the lake to the start. This was the same for the kayakers in getting ready to launch. In the rush and uncertainty my mind was spinning and unfocused. I hopped back on the boat and yelled to Patrick my goodbyes, as he quickly strapped up his kayak with gear. This would be my last smile for the day, well next few hours. 

I stood on the boat ready to jump, listening to the other swimmers make statements about the cold water. Even those who had done this year after year remarked on the cold this year. Upon jumping into the water, immediately my body reacted to the cold creating a tightness in my chest and tingle in my fingers. Let's be brutally honest right now, the only thing going through my mind was, "fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck." I held onto the buoy line in front of the dam, put one hand there and one hand in the air, then GO was the last word heard before my face was in the water.

My mind went to counting strokes and breaths-- one, two, three, breath; one, two, three, breath. Then I couldn't count and my breath was gone. I was focused forward trying to see when I would see Patrick. I will be honest, I was scared. I felt like my body was rattling and I was coming unhinged. I soon saw Patrick at the first bend but neither my body nor my mind would settle. I tried to get things back under control, focusing myself to push a little further, but I couldn't. I also couldn't or wouldn't communicate to Patrick what was wrong. It could not be possible that my swim was ending only moments after having started. It was embarrassing and frustrating. I was near tears; tears of anger and fear. When I finally told Patrick I was cold I knew it was too late to get warmed back up in the water. 

I took to the shoreline to a pebbled beach area. I made an attempt to dawn the wetsuit I had brought, but the cold made functioning on any level near impossible for me. I made three attempts to go back into the water before calling it. 

Patrick quickly wrapped me in an emergency blanket and gloves, while alerting for help from others. Meanwhile, I shook and cried until the boat came up to help me get to a safer spot. Here I was only a mile into a 9 mile swim and I couldn't go any further. 

On the way to the shore, the boat stopped to pick up another swimmer suffering similar physical and mental hardships. This was the moment I realized that at SCAR it doesn't matter if you know each other, it doesn't matter if you swim at the same pace, what does matter is being there for the victories and the defeats with an understanding heart. Sitting in the back of the speedboat that day I got to know a swimmer who was frustrated and sad and fearful, a person who I realized had a strength greater than her ego or her wants, a strength to call it on a bad day to go back in on a better day. If I could see this strength in someone else then I had to give myself a little credit too. 

That night I made the decision to not jump off the boat the next day, but then to try again on the last two swims with my wetsuit. It was a difficult decision made with heartbreak and defeat. 

 

Day 2- Canyon   

I debated my prior night's decision to not go to the start line at Canyon. But I stood by this decision. One of the race staff hugged me as I cried and told me, "you never know what you are being saved from." These were the most impactful words uttered to me that day. She encouraged me to take a kayak out and go see the lake, to just be there so that I could find peace in my heart. So as Patrick loaded up to go be support for another swimmer, because yes he is THAT amazing. I stood on the shore and let myself accept my decision. Accepting my decision did come with a caveat- I would go kayak and look at this day with appreciation AND I would swim in the lake, even if not the swim I had intended. 

After all the swimmers and boats had left, and I was committed to my choice, I hoped in the kayak to head out across the lake and into the Canyon. Once I was at a point where the canyon walls climbed to each side of me, I found something I was not expecting to find on this day-- a sense of belonging. 

It is funny to have a feeling of belonging when you are all alone. This wasn't about belonging to a group or a single relationship; rather it was belonging in the space-- here. I don't know any other way to explain the calm I found alone between cliffs as I watched the sun ripple off the water. I still didn't know, and never will, what I was kept safe from that day; but I do know that I needed this moment of belonging in this space. 

I don't think we often step outside of ourselves to celebrate what is around us. It doesn't matter what you believe in, when you look around you realize the power and grace of everything surrounding us. In watching the canyon there is an acceptance of the idea that those things we think of as bending to our will, such as water, has the strength to cut down mountains, to crush bounders to pebbles, and then to turn around and nurture life into a flower born in the cracks of those rocks. I have always related to the water, as it has always brought calm even in the storm; but here I realized we are all the rock, the flower, and the water. For me I realized the moments, even in that present, where I looked strong but was worn down over time like the rock; where I have been forced into the cracks of life with the goal of creating something beautiful like the flower, and where I have forged my path against resistance, even if I had to bend I never stopped driving forward like the water. It wasn't the message I had intended to walk away from on this day; it was the message I needed to give myself permission to accept. 

Alright, that heart-felt moment out of the way, I turned the kayak around, more determined to swim in this water, in this lake, on this day. Along the shore near the boat launch was what I like to call the "kiddie pool", a little shoreline for swimming plus a little more to get distance. I swam just over a mile that day and I was okay with redefining this as an accomplishment.

 

Funny story: When I went out to the water to swim, two older gentlemen, asked me if I was going for a swim. Now I am dressed in a swimsuit, swim cap, and goggles with a buoy strapped around my waist; it would be difficult to do any other activity in this getup. I answered, "yes." One of the guys nodded at me and said, "Well, if you see any fish scare them this way so we can catch 'em." I can honestly say this is the first time I have been asked to help a fisherman in his sport while taking part in mine. I laughed, said "will do", and went for a swim. 

 

Day 3- Apache
This would be the longest lake but the night before would be the LONGEST drive. Turns out when there are rock slides that take out roads you have to take the other "highway". Trust me the quotes are necessary. The alternative route seemed strange to look at on GPS, granted everyone called it the "long way around" and sure it was exactly that-- but why was the distance going to take so long, the math was not adding up. With only about 15 miles left to go, we still were 2 hours out-- why you ask. Oh because the last 12 miles were on a winding gravel-dirt road through the mountain landscape with twist turns and places that two vehicles could not pass in the night. Granted it did not take 2 hours, but it was an interesting drive into the sun!!!

While Apache is the longest lake, it was supposed to be warmer than the prior lake. This would under normal circumstances be true, according to those with the race and swimmers who had swum previously. But as we pulled out boat up to the dam rope where we would start there was a mist rising from the water. The cause? The damn dam was open to generate, pouring cold water from the bottom of the other lake into our course. 

As each swimmer jumped in there were a few choice words. It was cold, yep cold is accurate for 52ish degree water, but again in full honest disclosure, it was fucking cold. It didn't even take your breath away since when you jump in you just didn't have breath at all. At this moment let me give you a helpful hint on how to make friends- you swim quickly and with purpose to the start line, place your hands on the buoy and in the air so that everyone can get moving instead of listening to you complain about the cold that we are ALL experiencing first hand.

The benefit of the water flow was giving us some speed to the cold. Patrick and I met up and I was feeling cold but okay. Patrick supplied me with warm tea-- even though trust me when I tell you don't make the tea with Arizona water, it's weird to say the least. We moved along together, in sync with each other. Today was different than the first lake, because while cold my brain could form thoughts to communicate with Patrick about how I was feeling. The cold was seeping in, even in the wetsuit. 

Normally I would tell people to not focus on the factor that this day won't go as you planned, instead focus on moving forward. However, for me just being in the water was the accomplishment. The worry was getting back to where my body was that first day when I lost all control. I was afraid of what it could mean to get cold again, in an act of caution before things could go wrong I alerted Patrick that I was soon to get out. He let the boat nearby know. But told me to keep swimming.

When the pontoon boat came up Kent was on the front, what he said to me was a little unexpected, "I know you feel cold but give me five more minutes of swimming." Without doubt or reluctance, I went for five more minutes. When I popped up again Patrick repeated the message and pointed out a spot to focus on and swim. This would happen one more time before I called it for good. Those 15 minutes were short but defining and I was ever glad to have each of those minutes. Swimming may be an individual sport, but it is a team effort. After 3.6 miles and for the second time at SCAR, I found myself on the same rescue speed boat along with other swimmers. The difference this time was I wasn't mad or scared, I was over the moon thrilled (and shivering).
Patrick helped out for a bit while kayaking back to the boat launch. I had laid in the sun and taken a hot shower to warm up. He then in true Patrick fashion told me he wanted to go swimming, we swam another mile in the cold Apache lake. Like all of the lakes, the top inch of water was warm then turning cold. This may sound pleasant but this water changing makes it difficult to regulate body temp. 

Day 4- Roosevelt 

The shortest lake. The sunset, evening swim. The lake you should not underestimate. 

Funny Story: In order to get to start of any lake at SCAR there is often a pontoon boat involved. As they called swimmer names the swimmer and kayaker boarded the boat. On our boat, there were twelve people. Our boat may have been overloaded and under-powered. We had to travel from the boat launch to the start which was across the lake, around a peninsula. As we all chatted, we puttered across the lake. At an unexpected moment, a rogue wave took the front of the boat causing the front to begin to sink. People started to scramble to get gear and shift weight to balance the boat. As it almost seemed the boat was going to right itself it took a sudden pitch to the side causing the boat to tip at an angle, still headed in a downward trajectory to the bottom of the lake. With a little more maneuvering of people and making close friends, the boat finally righted. There was about 10 seconds of dead silence on the boat and then laughter. Now normally I would not be a fan of sinking boats, there is a long history of that now going well, but at this moment it was the true definition of SCAR-- sometimes you are sinking, it isn't bad or good, it is just a fact; what matters is if at that moment you shift weight and laugh a little. 

By the time our boat, the first to leave and last to arrive, made it to the launch point I was short one pair of goggles (I felt horrible that they were at the bottom of the lake) and depleted of a lot of stress. Having the unexpected hit you day, after day, after day, starts to simply become the norm. Of course, our boat almost sank, why wouldn't that happen. (Good news Kent kindly gave me a new set of clear goggles so I would be able to see at night.)

We prepped on a boat launch, unable to see around the peninsula to the expanse of the lake. However, what we could see, and knew from the boat ride over, was that the wind on the lake was causing a bit of a stir leading to what would be head-on waves that sometimes also came from the side. I was nervous getting into the water. It had nothing to do with the distance or conditions, those were all manageable. It had to do more with the fear of one more day of failure. In a nanosecond, thoughts flooded my brain-- the cold of the first day, the bald eagle on Canyon Lake the second day, the moment the sun touched my shoulders on the third day, but one theme acted as a filter to everything else. Inside the flashing of images was a constant seen every day, Patrick. Over the past few days, I had had worry and fear, faith and confidence, adventure and compassion. When I glanced at him now as I took a deep breath he stopped prepping the kayak and smiled at me, then asked if I was ok. Overwhelmed with the emotion of love I nodded my head. I was going to be just fine, no matter what because I knew every time I glanced up I would see him there. 

We popped the rest of the glow sticks, pushed off the kayak, and lined up to start. I again started in my thin wetsuit, worried that the toll of many months of compounding factors would again influence this day more than the here and now. It may have been embarrassing to be the only person in a wetsuit, in surely the warmest water, but this wasn't about them it was about me. 

The event started and into the water, we went. For the first time the sun was ahead of us and we were chasing. Once again my husband went to the "rescue" of a swimmer to get them back on track. So there was a bit of a delay in Patrick getting along side me. Once he was there I took a deep breath and began counting. No, I am not so obsessive that I count all my swim strokes for hours on end but I find it to be calming, in the beginning, to count and feel control. Every fifteen minutes Patrick threw out my fluids to me and asked about body temperature and how I was feeling. In the first section all I was feeling was that we were never going to make it around that damn peninsula. However, once we did the lake opened up to... well to more lake and more waves.

What many people don't understand about swimming is the pace at which you are moving. Even if you have a strong steady pace you aren't moving as a runner would. For me I can speed walk a mile in eleven and a half minutes; however, it takes me about thirty minutes to swim a mile. What this does in your brain is make you feel like you are not moving at all. That tree you saw on your last breath, guess what you are going to see it for the next twenty breaths--- THAT SAME DAMN TREE. This leads to me asking Patrick in the middle of the lake, "I am moving right." And while slow I was in fact moving. 

In the middle of the lake I suddenly noticed the sky change and the water begin to smooth a bit. The bright blue of the day was fading into orange and pink. At one feeding time, Patrick smiled and asked if I wanted to hold hands and watch the sunset with him. I told him no to which he supplied that I was missing out. He wasn't wrong, so I made sure to take a few extra sips of fluids during the feedings with the sun setting just to catch a glimpse.

After the sun starts to set night comes pretty quickly (well it feels that way). I watched as the glow sticks get brighter, the shoreline dimmer. On one breath to my right, I saw the stars for the first time. As the night got darker the stars shined with a brightness that offered calm and and sense of stillness. It may mean I am a science nerd to be in the middle of a swim and think of how small I am in this lake and how small this lake is on this planet, and how small our planet is in the solar system, the galaxy, the universe. It is sort of a harsh reality check during a swim to feel so small. 

As the stars got brighter so did the bridge we were headed towards, not so much the red light that we were really needing to head towards first. I was struggling with my left shoulder and so I was using that side to breathe more often and pushing harder with my right. This causes me to swim in a bit of an arch and in the night it is very difficult to self-correct; especially when it is already an odd sensation to figure out if your head is above the water or below because the darkness and light refraction is so similar. We don't swim at night back home because that's a good way to get eaten or nibbled on by something, so this was a little daunting. Patrick continued to guide me trying to get me to stay more left. When listening to him didn't seem to be working he swapped sides, moving from my preferred place for him on my left over to my right. This put him behind me in how I needed to breathe but was a very good reminder that "if you won't listen I will just run you over" (his words).  

Now in true fashion of SCAR when you think you are there you aren't there- be it the start line, the hotel, or the finish line. Crossing under the bridge was a relief. The damn thing had been taunting me for hours-- stupid big things that slowly get bigger. But it wasn't the finish line; no that would come in about a quarter of a mile. There ahead of us two pontoon boats sat next to the buoy line before the dam. One with a light shining on the orange rope and Kent on board telling you to touch the buoy then swim around to the other boat. I stopped five feet from the line. Some people would have taken the victory immediately but I needed a minute to consider if I wanted to touch that line. Let's be honest I hadn't touched one yet in the last three days, was I really willing to ruin my streak. Through all of the flooding emotions, I heard Patrick tell me to touch the line. It may have been because he was DONE. It may have been because he saw my hesitation. What I know it was, was a show of support for this whole crazy adventure. With that, after being cold, after feeling defeated, after finding a part of me, after giving up on my terms, after facing the fear to start again, after all the days of failure, I found grace for myself on a buoy line in Roosevelt lake in Arizona in the dark beneath a sky of stars that reminded me that I was small but I was mighty. 

For the last time I boarded the same speed boat that picked me up twice before when I couldn't go any further--- but this time the gentleman greeted me with a smile, "Glad to see you getting on my boat over here today." Me too, I was ever thankful. 

The moment Patrick met me onshore he wrapped me in a hug and he asked, "When are we coming back?" I laughed because of course, we were coming back. 

 

SCAR wasn't what I wanted it to be but it gave me everything I needed in a way I didn't understand and still am note sure I fully grasp. The strength you need for the adventure of SCAR is not made up of only your body but it is an adventure born of your heart and forged by your soul. If you don't walk away feeling this way, I am going to tell you that you are doing it all wrong. 

When SCAR ended a new adventure in Arizona began with petrified forests, volcanoes, ruins, deserts, grandest of canyons, bears, lakes, and bridges. It was an amazing trip-- that I can't wait to share more stories about. 

In closing let me say this if you are driving down Route 66 through past a goldfish pond into a ghost town run by donkeys and come across a biker named Stumpy, trust him when he gives you directions to a great little breakfast place.