Chapter Fifty Eight; Screaming in my Living Room

“How was your run?” my daughter asked.

“Well, it was great other than the fact that I think I saw a caterpillar lap me. Twice.”

She snorts a laugh so I don’t argue back that I am not even remotely exaggerating.

My dead woman running took place a few weeks ago while on vacation at a lake, supposedly, in Minnesota. I say supposedly because after the run I had on the road around it I am starting to wonder if perhaps I’d taken a wrong turn on the way to our cabin and actually ended up somewhere in the Rockies. Or Cascades.

Holy hills, Batman.

As if the mountainous terrain wasn’t bad enough it also didn’t help that I had some kind of a “searing pain in my heel” thing going on and at one point I was literally limping up a hill.

And did I mention it was pouring rain at the time?

Yep.

“Boy. Is this a metaphor for the last year of my life, or what?” I clearly remember thinking at the time.

But regardless. I still love running. It has carried me through some very dark places, literally lifted my spirit off the ground with every stride. So when the Olympics invaded my flat screen a few weeks ago I could not wait to watch the track events. I popped the popcorn, dimmed the lights, and camped out in my *egantic recliner to cheer on the athletes. (*Siamese twin to the new adjective "gynormous" if I lost ya.)

I watched 38-year-old Constance Tomescu-Dita of Romania win the women’s marathon. And the American men’s relay team race to a new world’s record in the 4X400. I am sure someone in Bejing had to have heard me screaming from my living room.

And Usain Bolt from Jamaica? Hello? If I were pregnant right now I would absolutely name my child after that fastest man in the world.

Girl or Boy.

Usain Ann. Usain Joe.

They both sound great considering that dude is a sprinting god and what baby wouldn't be honored?

My favorite Olympic track stories, though, by far, are the ones about people from third world countries. The ones who were not pampered children of former Olympians. The ones who didn’t grow up with access to private gyms or world renowned coaches. The ones who tell stories about watching Carl Lewis years before on the only television in their remote village.

The ones for whom running has literally saved their lives.

Like Samuel Wanjiru from Kenya. A day laborer who used to earn 30 cents a day.

30 cents, people. What can you buy for 30 cents in this country?

Maybe a toothpick?

Exactly.

I watched this twenty-one year old young man, who has probably seen more adversity in his life than a hundred years of nightly news will ever show any of us in this country, striding through the sticky Bejing morning men's marathon.

Mile 15.

Mile 21.

Mile 23.

I watched him grit his teeth in the final stretch. I watched him surpass the rest of the lead pack. I watched him douse his head with bottled water in the morning heat as the Eagle’s Nest came into view.

And I watched him run.

And I watched him.

Win.

And when he crossed that finish line he sank to his knees while making the sign of the cross.

And on the other side of the world some blonde runner was hopping all over her living room hooting and hollering.

And celebrating with him. And for him.

Because there is no greater metaphor for life than the endurance of an athlete. Be it just some chick overcoming hills and rain and pain on a run around a lake. Or a young man a world away overcoming life circumstances, remote chances, and fueling it all on nothing but a dream in his head.

Life sometimes is just pain.

And all you can do is run through it. Run on.

And endure.

And yes, even sometimes.

You can win.

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I am no Olympian, now or ever, but I do pin on the occasional numbered bib and let people time me. Here's "Sonja" and I at a 5K last week getting ready to rock and roll! (And let me just acknowledge that this woman is a size ZERO. Hello! Most anorexics would look wide next to this chick! Love ya, Sonja! You hottie! Thanks for making me and my size four ass stay humble!)