every runner has her reasons why she does it. that *thing*, that exhilarating quality that calls to her soul and tells it to put its shoes on because it's time to head out the door.
my wake-up? it comes from the hills.
for all that caused me to leave, there is redeeming value in the lebanon valley,* and i found it in the constant roll and sway of the landscape. in central pennsylvania, there is no natural flat, and if you want to run anywhere other than the track, you'd best hope your butt is up to the challenge. my middle and high schools have almost always shared a campus, so when i started cross country in seventh grade, i was running the same course as the high school Falcons. by the time i made varsity two years later, rounding the figure eight on the water tower hill was instinctual, despite the added distance. see, in seventh and eighth grade, we ran the hill (mile 1) and then finished on the rolling athletic fields (mile 2). high school cross country, as is appropriate, adds another 1.1 mile, to bring the distance up to a traditional 5K race.
and this is where the Falcons' varsity course was fucking brilliant. the way scholastic meets work is that the visiting teams arrive early to walk the course, scope the terrain, and strategize. if there are any loops or double-backs, you don't walk that part twice, as it's an obvious waste of energy. teams would walk the hillish figure eight (mile 1) and the fields (mile 2) but skip mile 3. because it was mile 1. again. the cedars, the vikings, the tornadoes, the raiders, the crusaders, they'd all have their races all figured out and would go out hard, tackling the first two inclines like troopers, then draw it out on the flats. but they never trained on the hill, our hill. they never learned to respect it or listen to it. they never did repeats where we did, toes digging into the dirt over and over, scratching and clawing, learning how to be animals and shred natural fatigue in our jaws. and it was there, always on the second go-round of the hill, that we devoured our opponents.
we'd sit on a viking shoulder, draft off a tornado, keep a crusader in our sights, biding our time, waiting until we reached the foot of our unmovable, strongest teammate. it was as if the water tower hill called, no, yelled at us to climb--citius, altius, fortius**--and we would heed it, leaving our opponents to their cramps, doubled-over and barely walking. by the time they made it to the top, we had already overcome long ago, beginning our barreling descent, whipping around that one corner tree and up the path on the other side. roots, curves, branches, leap, spring, duck, and over the top again. crossing the crux of the figure eight was glorious, a mental deathblow to our rivals still only just appearing from the first incline. the ground rolled slightly before bearing gently to the left. then bank right, down, down, bounding from one side of the dried up rivulet to the other, then a quick left, be careful (but not too careful), and you'd better watch your step, finally giving all to abandon and flying to the bottom, feet never seeming to touch the thousand little rocks that followed after us.
the cedar crest varsity cross country course was the hardest in the league and region, and while we didn't win every home meet, we still managed to put some substantial heads on the bragging rights pikes. in my many years since graduation though, i don't remember those races nearly as much as i remember the gratitude.
that hill taught me something, a lesson that has faded and has been in need of re-remembering time and again--the only way to get to the finish line is through the pain. you either get up that hill, or you don't. you fight your screaming quads, the burn of lactic acid, the hail of curse words your brain is flinging at you for being so fucking stupid for trying to sprint three damn miles uphill both ways. your teammates, if they're still around or you're still around them, can encourage you, but you're the one that has to convince your bricks for legs to get the hell up there because otherwise, you lose. and if you learn how to turn yourself into a tiger and unleash those massive claws, you can tear through anything. you'll conquer that bastard mound of dirt, and if you keep at it, you'll be able to bring down its innumerable brothers.
so that's what i have, thanks to that water tower hill in south lebanon township. i have tiger claws. it's not a coincidence that when i ran the baltimore marathon, i did not, in fact, hit the wall at miles 20-21 (standard bonking point in marathons). that's because the bastard course designers were perhaps going for comedy and put said bonking point at hillen road, one of the steepest inclines in the city. hillen. get it? see what they did there? eh? yeah? jerks. this attempt at punnage only served to piss me off and brought out the big kitty. i beat that hill. i owned it. i obliterated it.
fast forward nearly seven years later. i've had my share of hills since that race, some that i never thought i'd overcome, some that had me thinking i'd die on the course. sometimes, i wanted to give up and keel over, to never stand again. after all, if i writhed in the gutter, at least i wouldn't have to face the burning intensity of trying to defy gravity by running uphill. it was a matter of figuring out which hurt the most, and for a long time, i thought that the hills were worse, that if i tried to claw my way up and over, i'd be the one shredded in the end. over time, the hills accumulated, with slopes on top of slopes, hills hiding other hills just behind, with no decline in sight, no chance for respite.
but it's in me, you know? something that hill in east-of-nowhere, pennsylvania, carved into me, poured into my blood. it was that moment when the heart assumes command, overriding common sense and puerile aches and pains, carrying me when i didn't want to be carried but desperately needed it. in the past two years, i've awakened, and grime mixing with my own sweat, my tears mingling with the dirt on my face, i remembered what i learned as a young girl, and i finally made it up. i made it over. i crested, and i'm ready for the next hill on the horizon.
-----------------------------------------------
*--i know many people, including my parents, who still live in lebanon, PA, and are quite happy, and i am not demeaning anyone's choice to live there. if it fits someone's personality, then it's a great place to be. however, it was, by and large, a place of great pain for me. i am not suited to it, and it is not suited to me. personal preferences, that's all.
**--scroll down for the meaning of the Latin motto for the Olympic Games
my wake-up? it comes from the hills.
for all that caused me to leave, there is redeeming value in the lebanon valley,* and i found it in the constant roll and sway of the landscape. in central pennsylvania, there is no natural flat, and if you want to run anywhere other than the track, you'd best hope your butt is up to the challenge. my middle and high schools have almost always shared a campus, so when i started cross country in seventh grade, i was running the same course as the high school Falcons. by the time i made varsity two years later, rounding the figure eight on the water tower hill was instinctual, despite the added distance. see, in seventh and eighth grade, we ran the hill (mile 1) and then finished on the rolling athletic fields (mile 2). high school cross country, as is appropriate, adds another 1.1 mile, to bring the distance up to a traditional 5K race.
and this is where the Falcons' varsity course was fucking brilliant. the way scholastic meets work is that the visiting teams arrive early to walk the course, scope the terrain, and strategize. if there are any loops or double-backs, you don't walk that part twice, as it's an obvious waste of energy. teams would walk the hillish figure eight (mile 1) and the fields (mile 2) but skip mile 3. because it was mile 1. again. the cedars, the vikings, the tornadoes, the raiders, the crusaders, they'd all have their races all figured out and would go out hard, tackling the first two inclines like troopers, then draw it out on the flats. but they never trained on the hill, our hill. they never learned to respect it or listen to it. they never did repeats where we did, toes digging into the dirt over and over, scratching and clawing, learning how to be animals and shred natural fatigue in our jaws. and it was there, always on the second go-round of the hill, that we devoured our opponents.
we'd sit on a viking shoulder, draft off a tornado, keep a crusader in our sights, biding our time, waiting until we reached the foot of our unmovable, strongest teammate. it was as if the water tower hill called, no, yelled at us to climb--citius, altius, fortius**--and we would heed it, leaving our opponents to their cramps, doubled-over and barely walking. by the time they made it to the top, we had already overcome long ago, beginning our barreling descent, whipping around that one corner tree and up the path on the other side. roots, curves, branches, leap, spring, duck, and over the top again. crossing the crux of the figure eight was glorious, a mental deathblow to our rivals still only just appearing from the first incline. the ground rolled slightly before bearing gently to the left. then bank right, down, down, bounding from one side of the dried up rivulet to the other, then a quick left, be careful (but not too careful), and you'd better watch your step, finally giving all to abandon and flying to the bottom, feet never seeming to touch the thousand little rocks that followed after us.
the cedar crest varsity cross country course was the hardest in the league and region, and while we didn't win every home meet, we still managed to put some substantial heads on the bragging rights pikes. in my many years since graduation though, i don't remember those races nearly as much as i remember the gratitude.
that hill taught me something, a lesson that has faded and has been in need of re-remembering time and again--the only way to get to the finish line is through the pain. you either get up that hill, or you don't. you fight your screaming quads, the burn of lactic acid, the hail of curse words your brain is flinging at you for being so fucking stupid for trying to sprint three damn miles uphill both ways. your teammates, if they're still around or you're still around them, can encourage you, but you're the one that has to convince your bricks for legs to get the hell up there because otherwise, you lose. and if you learn how to turn yourself into a tiger and unleash those massive claws, you can tear through anything. you'll conquer that bastard mound of dirt, and if you keep at it, you'll be able to bring down its innumerable brothers.
so that's what i have, thanks to that water tower hill in south lebanon township. i have tiger claws. it's not a coincidence that when i ran the baltimore marathon, i did not, in fact, hit the wall at miles 20-21 (standard bonking point in marathons). that's because the bastard course designers were perhaps going for comedy and put said bonking point at hillen road, one of the steepest inclines in the city. hillen. get it? see what they did there? eh? yeah? jerks. this attempt at punnage only served to piss me off and brought out the big kitty. i beat that hill. i owned it. i obliterated it.
 |
| hillen road, miles 20-21 of the `05 Baltimore Marathon |
fast forward nearly seven years later. i've had my share of hills since that race, some that i never thought i'd overcome, some that had me thinking i'd die on the course. sometimes, i wanted to give up and keel over, to never stand again. after all, if i writhed in the gutter, at least i wouldn't have to face the burning intensity of trying to defy gravity by running uphill. it was a matter of figuring out which hurt the most, and for a long time, i thought that the hills were worse, that if i tried to claw my way up and over, i'd be the one shredded in the end. over time, the hills accumulated, with slopes on top of slopes, hills hiding other hills just behind, with no decline in sight, no chance for respite.
but it's in me, you know? something that hill in east-of-nowhere, pennsylvania, carved into me, poured into my blood. it was that moment when the heart assumes command, overriding common sense and puerile aches and pains, carrying me when i didn't want to be carried but desperately needed it. in the past two years, i've awakened, and grime mixing with my own sweat, my tears mingling with the dirt on my face, i remembered what i learned as a young girl, and i finally made it up. i made it over. i crested, and i'm ready for the next hill on the horizon.
-----------------------------------------------
*--i know many people, including my parents, who still live in lebanon, PA, and are quite happy, and i am not demeaning anyone's choice to live there. if it fits someone's personality, then it's a great place to be. however, it was, by and large, a place of great pain for me. i am not suited to it, and it is not suited to me. personal preferences, that's all.
**--scroll down for the meaning of the Latin motto for the Olympic Games
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