Running Commentary: #13

Running Commentary: #13
Sunday, October 14, 2012


     It was still dark; the cold morning air held hostage by a strong, unfriendly wind. Welcome to the world of age group running.

     What in the world was I doing in this IBM parking lot, already filled with hundreds of vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and models? Still too dark to determine colors.

     Laura was sitting in the front passenger seat. She pulled out her I-Pad and announced, "There was no way she was getting out in that cold! The race didn't start for another hour." I got out of the car, though, scoped out the parking lot, and played like I was running. It had been a year since I'd run a 10K, and I thought a bit of warming up was warranted. Beside, I had to decide what 'visual' would run alongside me this morning. Sometimes it's Eric; sometimes mother; sometimes I focus on my Indian self, and run across the plains like the old days; remembered scenes from The Man From Snowy River, with the fantastic Australian Brumby horses careening down impossibly steep mountainsides, creating a pictorial visual rush could be a selection; the number of times Laura has yelled, "Iron Will! Iron Will," so mental toughness would emerge to get me up a hill, are uncountable. Scenes from the movie, Iron Will, capturing the misery of a young boy completing the suffering of the Iditarod, are responsible for keeping it in the selection of possibles. Of course, the pain of a run, regardless of its length, are inconsequential compared to the horrific physical pain Eric and mother withstood, the last days of their lives. If they could stand it, so could I. Their stories are the ultimate driver. As Sue, my good friend says, "I hate that cancer!"

     Laura finally opened the car door. "Time to go find the starting line," she said. And, we did. We pushed our way into the middle of 1,600 other runners and settled on a spot that was not too fast and not too slow. Time to find out if our five months of training work was going to pay off. We stood a few minutes, talking off the nerves, ignoring the cold. Then, the crowd began to move forward. I never heard the start-horn. Too late--Our feet picked up the rhythm of a shuffle; my heart picked up its beat; the sounds of breathing began to run with the wind. What I'd decided to take along with me was Kurt's comment--"All the blog needs is a little drama." It would take some time for me to puzzle out an answer to--why the remark; 6.2 miles was just about right.

     To search, first, I've got to return to ground-zero. Whether it's habit or a ritual, who knows? It just is. The start-line always features, #10 Highway, five years old, and Indian country. It's time travel in repeat. Recently, I got a glimpse of this process in the movie, Looper, except the actors in Looper were coming from future to present. I'm traveling from past to present.

     At the end of the first mile, as Laura and I were navigating the crowd and running side-by-side, my mind eased into the following scene:

     I really didn't want to go to school. They made fun of me. Or, at least, they stared at me. The girls did. I only paid attention to the girls. That's all I knew. All I'd ever been around. My mother, my two sisters, my grandmothers, and aunts. All the men, including daddy, had gone to war.

     My hair was blonde. My eyes green. My skin White. I had freckles. I knew my sister must be in this school, too. She was older than me. I didn't know where she was. I never remember seeing her get on the bus. She has black hair. Dark eyes. Dark skin. My mother thinks she is beautiful.

     On time, when I went into the girl's bathroom, a girl followed me and told me I was going to the devil. I didn't know why. I never told my mother. But, I've been fighting it ever since. It's a problem, this trying to stay away from the devil. I was only five years old. First grade. I don't know whether it was the bad luck of having a birthday in December or my mother just wanting to get me out of her hair. But, school started in September. And, there I was.

     I think the reason the girls didn't like me was because they looked Indian and I didn't. Maybe they were fullblood. Maybe not. I wasn't. Daddy was Indian. Mother White. But, genes play tricks but also make wonders. My older sister looked Indian as did my baby sister. Me, the middle, was different. Looking different on the outside in the Indian world, a part of you on the inside thinking and acting White, is just down right confusing. My mama told me I couldn't tell anyone I was Indian.

     One foot here. One foot there. Daily walking is not straight or even. Year after year after year. The rubbing together of time doesn't always smooth out identity confusion.

     Time and the direction of those years is a gauntlet lined and divided by women. The female side is White. They face the men--the Indians. This is not a team. It's my family, rich with drama; seeds planted to grow a lifetime of drama.

     Laura and I ended mile three; the wind blew us around a corner. We were into the hill of mile four. I was running fine by using the sounds of Laura's breath as a metronome. Perfect tempo for me. Laura must have gotten tired of my breath-drafting, as she surged ahead. I-Pod time. Vangelis--Chariots of Fire and Bill Haley's, Rock Around the Clock, pulled me through mile five and mile six. The last .2 distance? I ran like the devil.