the yawning moon
unfolded naked
above me
wild wet branches
watched
as I dance
unearthed
************************
I followed the awning
through the wild earth
I remembered the way
towards warm
arms
***These were part of a poem soup exercise during my Courageous Happiness class. The first free write followed by the distilled poem "My Darkest Hour".
the earth remembered me
as I unfolded
my arms above my head
the moon watched
me reach up through
warm wet soil
i held my breath close to me
the awning of branches
making way for light
to seep in
i followed the yawing path
into the blush
Unearthed
naked
I dance wild
towards dawn
Buried
deep within
grit cake
earth
left
laid
careless hands
too eager
to cover what was
Twice overwintered
yellowed exuberant lengths
folded over itself
to wither
without even a nod
Passed
Up and Over
a warm enthusiastic evening
weighting
yawning
further into the Cimmerian keep
then one
returned to the plot
now only a whisper
of the garden
remaining
but he knows
eager
removes his weathered gloves
Bare fingers
scratching leaves
no trace yet, found
probing through the roots
renounced long ago
stems grasped tightly
pulled free
wildly kicking at the air
soiled underpinnings
cast aside
long sturdy roots
wrap around wrists
arms, bearing
down deeper
still seeking
hands cup under
firm arches
raising the plush
waxen bulb, swollen
secret sugar cache
Calcified knots
exposed
pinched
rolled between
thumb, forefinger
releasing the memory
the ground exhales
humid salty air
oozing up
below
the surface
a bloom remained
preserved
in your hands
then plunged
back
deep
into the softened
yielding soil
anew
“The vines must suffer for the wine to be good” – my tour guide explained as I looked out at the lush, grape laden vines jutting out of crags in cracked chalky soil. This aphorism is passionately embraced in the Côte de Nuits region near Dijon, where the prized Bourgogne wine hails from.
I, too appreciate the fruits of suffering. Persistence in the face of pain, obstacles and self-doubt are all part of the lifestyle I have adopted as that of a long distance triathlete. The training begins in November for one main event, the Ironman Nice France at the end of June. There are other shorter distance races and events along the way (and even afterwards) but this is for all intents and purposes my “holy grail” even more so than the world championship in Kona.
The journey to the start line on the rocky shores of Nice is arduous and unrelenting. Getting from the place of being able to run five miles, cycle maybe 30 and swim – well, at least make it across the pool to where I am confident that I can go the full distance (2.5 mile swim, 112 mile bike, 26.2 mile run) all in one day is considered a fool’s quest by most. As do I, especially when out on the lonely road for an eight hour bike ride in the headwinds north of Point Reyes or when brunch is forgone for the 16 mile run the next day. I am the girl with my hair piled in a wet bun and deep goggle indentations around my eyes while other girls in my neighborhood are freshly flat ironed and mascaraed. Friends, good friends, know that while I appreciate and can eat a huge hearty meal (even out at a restaurant), that I will be turning into a pumpkin by 9 pm. Dancing the night away is probably not on the agenda.
Blisters, jog bra abrasions, saddle sores, muscle cramps and the respective remedies are all common conversation topics. Perhaps it is a good thing this lifestyle is somewhat solitary. The benefits of A&D ointment or how I had to pop a saddle sore isn’t exactly the best ice breakers, especially in a potential date situation (unless you are with an athlete of similar ilk, then you can move on to more intimate chatter. Like nutrition plans, waxing regimens and where you can get the best piriformis massage in town).
But all this isn’t where my real resilience shows up. My fortitude is in the frank stubborn determination to complete the Ironman France race, despite all obstacles, external and internal.
A brief history:
2006 – Completed first “quarterman” distance triathlon where I had said if I liked it, I would sign up for an Ironman. I did, and signed up for IM France 2007. Was laid off work two months later and had to abort that goal.
2008 – Signed up again in December and hired a coach. His guidance and my hard training got me to the start line. The swim in the Mediterranean was nothing less than magical despite being stung in the face by jellyfish. The bike was grueling – the hot still air, the relentless climbs – but I made it to the first intermediate check point. I was told that I was “kaput” and that I had not made the time check but I successfully argued (in French) that I was told I had and somehow the race director allowed me to ride on. Officially the last rider on course, and with my own motorcycle escort. I stopped to help another rider who flatted and needed a CO2 cartridge, thinking I was all set since I was given the permission to continue and did not think of the time it had taken. The “camion” van carrying all the other riders who were pulled off course due to missing the cut off time or perhaps a mechanical issue rode alongside me just outside of Nice, cheering me on. Along the promenade, those already in the midst of the marathon, also applauded as I neared the transition zone. Alas, I was directed away from there to a woman who proceeded to tell me I missed the final cut off by 15 minutes. I argued (now in English) that the rules said 5:45 pm not 5:15 and it was only 5:30. To no avail. (Of note: my race rule book had a misprint saying 5:45). I enjoyed the rest of my vacation traveling through France without even a hint of soreness in my legs.
2009 – Signed up again in December and continued working with my coach. We switched up some of the training and added in weight lifting to help with the climbing on the bike. I felt ready at the start, and also comfortable with knowing the course. This year however, we were not allowed to swim with booties and the rocks bruised my feet as I ran to the shore. The swim went smoothly in the turquoise blue warm water. The race volunteers lining the shore to pull you upright at the end so you can run the ramp to the transition. One grabbed me and pulled hard, rolling my pinkie toe back in process. It wasn’t until I was in the transition tent and the volunteer helped pull my wetsuit off my feet did I realize it was broken. The searing pain, the top of my foot turning purple clued me in. I could not wrap my mind around the fact that my race was over before it started so I put my shoes on, and got on the bike. If I kept my foot relaxed and pedaled mostly with my right leg, it did not hurt (much). Climbing 11,000 feet one legged did. I kept telling myself “You have electrical tape on your handlebars. You can use that to tape your toe.” “Your running shoes are big, wide in the toe box, it will be ok” “Hell, you can walk a 12 min per mile pace” “When you get your Ironman tattoo you can get it above this toe!” And I kept riding. Then at the half way point, I had to stop to get more fuel. Unclicking my foot caused me to scream out loud, the volunteers running over to see what was wrong. I shook my head and merely said “Je suis fini” making a sawing motion across my neck.
2011 – Signed up again, in spite of some significant personal upheavals (relationship ending). Training gave me the peace and sanity that otherwise I may not have had in my grief. I decided to splurge on myself and bought a business class airline ticket and pre-arranged to ship my bike back to CA so I could travel afterwards more easily. A close friend would join me in Nice and since she had already completed the same race twice would be a fantastic support. A handsome man at the race expo, Daniel asked me if this was my first time. I said, no, it would be my third and told him of my luck. He said to me “Jamais deux san trois” – which I took to mean “third time is the charm”. I was empowered. Again the swim was like a dream. A slow dream, where you really want a something to drink but the bottles are empty. No broken toes this time as I was pulled from the water, and soon I was off on the bike to tackle the Alpes. I was ready; my legs trained to climb and to run strong off the bike. I had nailed my nutrition plan down to what I needed to take every 20 minutes. The one thing I had not trained for in the windy cold San Francisco winter and spring was the heat. The 98 degree, 90% humidity at 9 am heat. By the time I hit the base of the main climb I was slowing down. I poured more water over my head than I drank and had my jersey unzipped to my waist. I saw other riders off the side of the road waiting to be picked up. I rode on, finished all the climbs and was on the rolling straights towards the check point (at mile 75) when a volunteer approached me (I was riding slowly enough she could walk next to me). She told me I would not make the cut off and that I did not look well. There were six other male riders collapsed under whatever shade they could find. It was over 100 degrees. I started to cry and said to the volunteers “mais… jamais deux san trois”. They explained the meaning was not what I thought – that it actually means bad things happen in threes. And then they said MY magic words “c’est encore une fois!!!” Meaning, “One more time!”…
In 2012 – I stopped triathlon. I ran a few half marathons for the fun of it and did yoga. I wanted to give myself time to really soul search this thing.
And so after taking a full year off, after waiting in line for a late brunch after a late night out, after accepting invitations to go out for drinks, to the movies, to go dancing, to just running or riding for the fun of it, to talking more about philosophy or fashion than lactate thresholds and recovery rates - I asked myself to consider everything – did I even wanted to do triathlon at all let alone travel across the world to compete in one of the hardest ones?
The answer is yes.
“The greatest battle is not physical but psychological. The demons telling us to give up when we push ourselves to the limit can never be silenced for good. They must always be answered by the quiet, the steady dignity that simply refuses to give in. Courage. We all suffer. Keep going” Graeme Fife
***A mon avis: Yes the definition of “insanity” is to do the same thing and expect different results. There is also a definition of “Sane Determination” – returning to the quest with hard earned knowledge, skill and preparation as well as the passionate detachment of a beginner’s mind.**
The man at the customer service desk waited patiently while I considered the font type and engraving style. I had chosen a simple answer to the fill in the blank question - "I run to be". An answer that would capture how I felt each time I would head out of my third floor apartment to the busy street below and take off towards some distant location. It did not matter if I was reluctant that day, sore from the previous days workouts or perhaps sluggish from drinking too much wine the night before. My tendons stretched, my stride found dodging the aches and crowds on the sidewalks. The noise in my head fading to the sound of my breathing.
"zen" I said looking up at him, nervously shifting in my seat. "Are you Buddhist?" he asked. I hesitated in responding thinking I should have a smart answer. "Well it is something I am exploring. It is also sort of a nickname" I stopped short. I really could not explain that it was more of a feeling.
He nodded and asked if I wanted the hand engraved or machine explaining the machine one, while cheaper would eventually fade. I chose the hand engraving and script font. I also wanted lower case letters even though I wasn't sure it would work with the curling letters. I was fretting and feeling I was taking too long. "What do you think?" I asked.
"Do you know wabi-sabi" he said smiling at me. "the Japanese zen philosophy of beauty in imperfection?"
And in that moment, I knew. No matter what, it would be beautiful.
“Wabi-sabi is a beauty of things imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete. It is a beauty of things modest and humble. It is a beauty of things unconventional.” - Leonard Koren
