Why run? Because you can. It's as good a reason as ever.

Marathon Monday ~

We’re watching the Boston Marathon. On TV. The day dawned and it was clear that I would not be up for braving the traffic to drive into the city, or anywhere in that suburban jungle along the marathon route, try to find a parking spot, a prime viewing spot, watch the marathon, and then somehow, make our way out of there and back home without losing my head. I felt terrible, TERRIBLE, that once again I was letting my boys down. Sure, it would be great to go to the Marathon. But we can’t. Mom isn’t up to it. Again. Blech.

Just yesterday I had to bow out of heading north to Chocorua, NH for my Uncle Herb’s service. I would have loved to have been there to help honor and remember a wonderful, warm, funny man, and to have given and received hugs from all sorts of Damon family members who, like most of us, as we all scatter deeper into our busy days, are harder to gather together in one spot at the same time. But it was not to be. Driving up and back three hours each way in one day would have undone me.

It’s frustrating, not to be up to speed. I think I’m golden, and so go about my usual flurry of activities--performing in the three ring circus of endless domestic wrangling, entangling, and finagling, half-baked home schooling lessons and the rush ‘n go sports schedule, while trying desperately to fit in daily walks, some quiet time to myself for reflection and repose, and those independent creative projects that keep me sane (which is why to so many I am utterly insane). But then I hit a wall of some serious heft and spiral back into the exhaustion zone. So, why is it so hard to find time in my day to just sit quietly, feel unfettered if for but a few minutes, check in with myself? Probably because I’ve never been very good at doing it, and maybe, too, it has something to do with the fact that I’ve got too many things on my plate, and really, as hungry as I am for change and adventure and something new, I’ve little appetite for what’s there.

Bob Lobel keeps cutting everyone off and I wish someone would just tell him to shut up. There are always amazing stories on this day, and we want to hear them. Each and every runner, or wheelchair competitor, has a story. This is where inspiration comes from: the Hoyts, the wheelchair athletes, the everyday runners who push through mountains to get to the finish line, Lance Armstrong and his LiveStrong spirit, and particularly this year, the Kenyan runners who have endured and defied so much to be here. We are curious about the personal stories of the wheelchair athletes, every bit as world-class as the elite runners, but there is not much revealed. We’ve recently watched the amazing documentary Murderball, and wonder if any of these marathoners ever trade in their streamlined chairs for the rugged battering rams of quad-rugby. The front pack of the elite men have separated itself from the rest of the group, and now run in a v-formation, a patch of migrating Canada Geese, working together to get to the finish line. I could watch the elite runners, with their long, magnificent, effortless strides, for hours. This is how to run.

When I was a kid, either my Mom or Dad would take us in to see the Marathon, and we’d jostle into spots along the curb, as part of the Screech Tunnel at Wellesley College, or at Heartbreak Hill, where we’d get an eyeful, runners either making it up or not, unraveling, cramping, swearing, vomiting, defecating on themselves before finding the strength to somehow battle on. A few times we made it to the finish line to watch, in amazement, the top runners cruise through, and then the everyday folk, who had climbed mountains to simply get to the starting line, persevered through the course, slapped 26 miles of hard pavement under foot and lived to tell about it. And there, we'd see the same souls we’d seen at Heartbreak Hill, now finishing the race, shorts defiled, tops emblazoned with their breakfasts, medals of honor, all. When I was a kid, I’d watch them and cry. It seemed a bit surreal--scary, moving, wonderful, and god-awful, all a the same time.

Today, we are inspired. How could we not be? Watching the marathon always makes me want to go out and do something way out of my comfort zone, set up some kind of training regimen, hit the streets in defiance, and just go. (sounds precariously close to Just Do It, and you get an idea of where that ad campaign had its nascent roots, some ad exec watching the marathon, perhaps?) Of course, it all depends on how you watch it. If you’re watching it on TV, the way we are, you see the elite runners, gliding along through the course as if they were out for a Sunday stroll through the park. But, go to the finish line, and stay, long past the elite runners have come in and been greeted by Mayor Menino and the parade of photographers, you’ll see the real people coming in, the ones who lost track of their bowels halfway up Heartbreak Hill, the ones sporting a touch of vomit on their shirts, the ones who look as if they just might keel over and die. If you watch it here, you might receive inspiration of a different kind. No thanks, I don’t ever want to do anything like this. This is the impression left on me when I was a kid. Maybe I'll play rugby instead.

When Luke was little, maybe 3 or 4, we took him to the Museum of Science in Boston to see the Everest I-MAX film at the Omni. After the film had ended, Luke turned to me and said, “Mom, I don't ever have to climb that mountain, do I?" Of course, I told him he had to, Sorry, honey, it’s required. When you turn 18, you’ll head up. Better start training, buddy. That’d be just the kind of horror you could inflict by teaching your baby all the wrong words for everything. Oh, the fun you could have. But at what cost?

No, sweet child, we told him, you don’t ever have to climb that mountain. You’ll have your own mountains to climb.

But today, since we are watching on the television, we hardly notice the chaos of the race. Ernst van Dyke cruises to an easy win, and we focus on the women’s race, which has taken an exciting turn. The two lead runners are running neck and neck, each pushing the other to extraordinary heights of athleticism, competitiveness, and drive. The boys and I are screaming along with the crowds as they each try to lose each other with less than a quarter mile to go. And then, it’s over. The Ethiopian runner has somehow unearthed a final kick that has propelled her farther faster than the Russian woman. Amazing. And we see, too, that if we had gone in to watch, we would not have been able to watch this drama unfold. We might have seen other dramas, the stories amidst the chaos, the chaos itself--but there are always trade-offs. For now, the women's race has made the day. The men’s race seems unexciting in comparison. Boston Bobby, having ditched the pack on the hills, makes his way to the tape, for his fourth Boston win. We watch for a while longer, while the focus shifts to Lance Armstrong and his posse. And this man, who has climbed more hills on bike and foot and in spirit, and who seeks the bigger and tougher mountain always, may have finally met his match in this marathon. We are moved, again, by the capacity for human achievement, the strength of the human will, the warrior spirit, and the grace of landing on one’s feet, only to start climbing upwards again.

WE, too, have chosen our next mountain to climb. When life throws unexpected mountains at you, sometimes it feels good to chose your own. We’ve decided we’re going to run our own marathon. It’s called the Breast Cancer 3-Day , and its held in major cities throughout the US in the summertime, and it benefit’s the Susan G Komen for the Cure Foundation. We’re working on putting together a team that will walk 20 miles a day for 3 days, for a total of 60 miles, and raise lots of money for breast-cancer research. Like any well-planned, reasonable hike, there are plenty of breaks along the way, for re-fueling, staying hydrated, changing sweaty socks, tending to blisters, cooling off, dilly-dallying, taking in the masses, and replenishing one’s resolve. A traveling village, filled with pink tents, greets each walker as each day’s final pit stop. Along with the pink tents, (not to be confused with the Red Tents), the village will be teeming with medical services, food, entertainment, and thousands of walkers, breast cancer survivors, supporters, fundraisers, people like you and me.

So who’s with us? We are in the process of naming our team (Hens, Hens, with our funny upturned ends? Team Lizard? Zilrendrag? Personally, I like the Blue Footed Boobies. We could all wear blue sneakers. And the logo will be, of course, way-cool, because boobies are so beautiful.) We’ll let you know the details as they develop. For now, click here for more information: http://08.the3day.org/site/PageServer And if you think you might want to be on our team, and actually walk with us, or be on our team, and donate money, please let us know!

Later in the afternoon, we head to the bike path in Turners Falls to start our training. Luke flies about on his bike, while Dominick and I walk along the canal for about four or five miles. 15 to go. And tomorrow is another day. 3 1/2 months to go.