"Running in the slowest form was torture and ironically, preparation. It was only days later I found myself in ICU witness to my daughter dying, and it all landed. That pace. That biomechanical movement. It all landed when there was no control to be had. When I would sit to pray in the chapel all I could think about was the moment she would die. Somehow, the biomechanical movement broke everything down to the present moment and it was the only thing I could do to keep myself from hurling into a future without her."
Before my grief life commenced I was a lightning bolt on the trail, at least in my mind. As I pushed past my mental capacity towards my athletic attainments, I was a force built out of persistence in weathering the minds thoughts over my body's capacity to run up switchbacks on a steep short gain, and then barrel back down the mountain leaning into the descent fearlessly to shave precious time off my race. My daughter, sometimes waiting at the finish line, to take the post race shot with that orange peel in my mouth. I was proud. I lived to train. When it got to cold, I got up at 4 am to run on the treadmill, maxing it out on it's incline, a photo of a mountain next to the time as I envisioned racing through the headlands with my headlamp. My first ultra on the horizon was the North Face Endurance Challenge. 25k throttling myself up above the Golden Gate was a dream about to come to life. The race got cancelled as NorCal was on fire and as I saw it, it just gave me more time to look at a 50k instead. I hired a 1:1 coach and the first thing she did ....was slow me down.
I was so frustrated despite knowing that it was in my best interest as she was teaching me pace. Yet, I found myself on the trail feeling that release taken away. I would do as she said, then turn my watch off and hit the summit as hard as I could anyways. It seemed that sport running was my thing and stopping to smell the flowers wasn't. I resisted. My friend and fellow athlete Simon told me, "All you need to do is what makes you happy." So, I did both and enjoyed the overtraining and undertraining my 50, as though life knew what was around the trail even though I had no clue.
On December 7th I found myself standing for the first time in walking meditation. On a short Vipassana retreat I was introduced to one biomechanical movement at a time. The only way to move slower was to do nothing at all. As I lifted my foot in the stillness my mind was screaming. I couldn't wait for the bell to ring so I could just sit back down. Running in the slowest form was torture and ironically, preparation. It was only days later I found myself in ICU witness to my daughter dying, and it all landed. That pace. That biomechanical movement. It all landed when there was no control to be had. When I would sit to pray in the chapel all I could think about was the moment she would die. Somehow, the biomechanical movement broke everything down to the present moment and it was the only thing I could do to keep myself from hurling into a future without her. While it didn't save her, it saved me in taking the time to be there instead of running away with my fear. I had trained for a life ultra. Not a race.
Life after her death was a new world and there was no pace and no biomechanical movement. My eyes were closed to weather the axis of death spinning around me. Basic survival was acute.
Wake up.
Try to eat.
Try to put feet on floor.
Try to parent youngest.
Try to parent oldest.
Try to sleep.
Try.
My life was shattered.
In eventual efforts to reclaim my "self" months later I would lace up my shoes. Before I even tied a bow I couldn't. I just... couldn't. Some days, though almost never, I would get to the trail. Some days I would just stand there. Others I would walk and turn around and go back to my seclusion. Sometimes I would run and it was all different. I wasn't on the same feet, in the same body or feeling from the same heart. Running was somatic and as soon as my first stride landed, I would cry. My body couldn't be a container and find that thunder bolt. It was just a rain storm of release. I would battle myself as to who I was as a runner and who I had become. A km felt like a hundred. I had no ability to find my way as grief was rushing out of my body. It was messy and real. Life had slowed down so far that it had retracted and morphed into someone and something else, and I didn't like it. I wanted my daughter back and I wanted my ignorant bliss returned. Life, it had other plans. I stopped running and my piles of Salomons sat in the closet and then, my heart let me know there was another big problem. With a resting rate of over 100, I landed in emergency. Soon thereafter, diagnosed with an autoimmune disease that would leave me on the bench for a long time. Life put running on the shelf and stopping at my feet.
Trauma is one hell of a coach.
Race day became rest days. The in between was remission training. Stress reduction, healing the body and most importantly healing my spirit and honouring my sadness became parallel. Much like running in a pack, my support became the peloton. My coach helped with specialists that got to the bottom of injury being a result of holding my breath. Counselors and friends who honoured that holding my breath for a year was an experience needed while adjusting to life without her. My body and mind became the race without a finish line. My trail became gentle and kind. There were no shoes, just bare feet in the ocean. There were no orange peel photos, just growing fresh vegetables of my own. Importantly, there was forgivness of self. It was ok to be slow and it was ok to stop and it was also ok to try again. I received the green light to run again and on May 5th of 2023, I ran for the first time in three years. 3 beautiful km in the Okanagan valley. I have been running ever since.
While I still feel my feet are new, my body certainly different, and my heart still in it's autoimmune dance, I feel strong. My mind has a better understanding of pace and I stop often to smell the flowers when I run. I have managed to still hang on to my competitive nature in it all and I have stuck to getting my 5km time down to 23 minutes. When my heart rate gets too high I walk into the moss and sit by the lake for a while until it slows down. When my heart is in cooperation, I thunder bolt.
There is a beautiful balance between then and now and for this, I thank her. I thank her for all the heart rocks embedded in the trail along my way, and I thank her for being my Peloton.
With Metta,
L.
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