Processing a Runner’s Murder
On New Year’s Eve day, 24-year-old Lauren Bump pulled into O.P. Schnabel Park on the west side of San Antonio sometime shortly before 3:00 pm. I imagine she stood outside of her car and stretched, leaned her body left and right, arms overhead, lengthening her IT bands. She may have grabbed an ankle, hiked it up behind her, pulled gently, first one side, then the other.
I imagine she found her favorite music on her iPod, stuck her buds in her ears, and took off at a slow and easy pace down the trail, out onto the Salado Greenway. She probably inhaled deeply, looked up into the sky, taking in the sun and birds and tranquility of the trails. It was perfect running weather, mid-50s at 3:00, and she smiled as she settled into her run.
I can imagine all of this because it’s what I would have done had it been me out there running. It’s what I do each morning I go out for a run, gratefully anticipating the peace and time and space. It’s what I need. What keeps me right with myself, with the world.
Only, now, my peace is gone. Not only can I imagine Lauren setting out for her run, I can also imagine—in horrifying detail—how she must have felt, blindsided by a maniac with a knife slicing away her tranquility, her promise. Her life.
Like the rest of San Antonio and the running community here, I am stunned by Lauren’s brutal murder. In broad daylight. In a public and well-used area. I cannot imagine how her family must be reeling at their loss. I cannot imagine how someone could do such a thing.
And I cannot get past my anger. Of all the many things associated with Lauren’s murder—I cannot call it her “death,” as that word seems too passive, implying no agent of action to have caused it—to be angry about, I’m not sure which weighs most heavily.
Perhaps it’s that I feel the need to change my way of life, one that I was happy with on December 30. Maybe it’s that what’s driving the impetus for change is not the desire for self or community improvement, but fear. Nothing angers me more than fear. Usually, its presence makes me want to face its source head-on. But this time, I feel like I can’t, because it’s not a man I’d be facing. Or a tall building or a nest of spiders or den of snakes. Rather, the source of my anger is the knowledge that what happened to Lauren could have happened to anyone of us, any time, any place.
I choose to see the best in people because I like to believe that we all have something good and decent within us, that we are all capable of greatness. I choose to see the promise in humanity.
But all the while, I know there are people out there like the man who murdered Lauren, and I see the flaw in my vision. What do we do with people like him? I don’t have an answer. Do you?
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 5 so far )Deliberation
Only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star.
~ Henry David Thoreau
Going into this New Year, I didn’t have much time to reflect. Usually, I like to spend a few days thinking. Looking backward and forward. Writing things down—a plan, a list, the Hamlet T-square of things to be or not to be. But this time, there simply was no time. Too much work, then too many parties, an abundance of family, and before I knew it, it was New Year’s Eve.
The whole time I wasn’t preparing, I recognized it, and it bothered me. I wanted to look, wanted to reflect. The past year stood before me like a full length mirror, but each time I tried to gaze into it, I was distracted by what was in front of me and couldn’t see in.
On December 30, I stopped worrying. I was talking with a friend about relationships, including our relationship with our self. We both agreed that many people can hardly see themselves as they truly are, may never see themselves as others’ do. My friend meant literally. I meant in every other way.
If we look into a mirror and cannot accurately see our own reflection, then how can we expect to look backward at a year and accurately reflect on ourselves? Our sight is often distorted. We see what we want to see, what we are able to see, what we are prepared to see.
I am thus going into the new year looking forward rather than back, even if 2013 was a good year. More important, I am focusing on—with appreciation, gratitude, joy—where I am today, since today is what I have. And the day has only begun.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Transformation
I felt like Gulliver, standing in the gym packed with kids and waiting for the Girls on the Run coach. Part of the team was already there sitting on the floor, heads bobbing together over someone’s homework while they discussed the story problem laid out before them. I tried to appear present but disinterested. The last thing I wanted was for them to ask me for help. I’ve always hated story problems.
We spotted each other across the gym at the same time. She locked her eyes on me and wouldn’t let go. I smiled, at first. She was so cute, a toddler with bouncing hair, standing there in her little dress, arm outstretched and finger pointed at…something. I glanced in the direction her finger demanded, but saw nothing of interest. I tilted my head quizzically as she started to run, straight at me, finger still pointing. On the end of her finger was a lump. A rather large one.
A fear greater than the one of story problems overtook me. What was that on her finger? Would she really have the audacity to wipe it on me? And why me, of all the people in here? Should I run, grab her by the wrist in the nick of time, divert her attention with something shiny? Did I have anything shiny? Before I could make a logical and ethical decision, she stopped inches from me. Her eyes had not left my face as she ran, and, although I struggled to retain my composure, I wondered if she sensed my alarm. She smiled widely and raised her arm toward me.
“Look,” she said proudly.
I braced myself and looked. A small, black butterfly perched on her fingertip, its wings quivering slightly.
“A butterfly.” I was relieved and astonished. “Did it just fly up and land on you?” I asked.
“Yes!” she beamed.
We both stared in silence at the butterfly dawdling comfortably on her fingertip until it decided to fly away. She looked back up at me, smiled again, and ran back in the direction she came from.
How strange, I thought, that she chose me to share such a wondrous thing with. How strange, and how lucky.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 1 so far )Recovery Doesn’t Have to Keep You Down
Courtesy 2milliondogsblog.wordpress.com
It’s been 3 years since I’ve run San Antonio Rock n Roll half marathon, and now I remember why. The weather in San Antonio is fickle. Last Sunday, race day, saw a record high of 89°F. This Sunday, we’re expecting a high of 42. Go figure. Nevertheless, it was a fun race with a great route. I’ve spent this week recovering, including not running but doing some stretching, strength training, and core work instead. I’d forgotten how much Pilates hurts.
Because of the heat on race day, it was a hard recovery. But following these tips helped ease the pain.
Ice, ice, baby
I know. I can’t believe I said that either. But an ice bath is the way to go. Get in the tub, run a couple of inches of warm water, switch the warm to cold until your legs are covered, then pour in the ice. Bags of it, to the tune of 30 lbs. You may need to wear your cold-weather running shirt in the tub with you. And you probably need to be clutching a very large cup of very hot liquid, but ice will ultimately make your legs happy. By the next day, they’ll be thanking you.
Hydrate
This was the first race where I hit every single water stop. With all that heat, I needed it. Drinking the day before and during the race, however, is not enough. I drink all day long after a race ends. I don’t mean beer, although there’s nothing like an ice-cold beer after a hard, sweaty run; I mean water and electrolyte-replacing liquids. You won’t wake up Monday morning feeling hung over if you keep the liquids coming.
Feed your body well
My body always feels weird the entire day after a hard race. I feel depleted and want to eat, but nothing sounds good. I’m often tempted to eat pizza or Cheetos. Racing is a nice excuse to offer myself that kind of reward, but there’s something about a greasy, cheesy slab of dough that just doesn’t sit right with me. Then again, neither does a steak. I can never decide. I find that I have to practically force myself to eat something, and I have to rationally choose the foods best suited to recovery, the right combination of healthy carbs and protein.
Fortunately, I survived the race—and the ice bath. When’s the next race?
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Newton’s Laws of Motion
Liar liar pants on fire.
That’s what I said to myself the moment I hit Send on an email a couple of days ago. I was explaining to someone that I wasn’t too concerned about this Sunday’s half marathon. Since my training was interrupted, my intention was simply to go and have fun, run comfortably, not worry about time.
The truth is, however, that once I get there—heck, once I pick up my race packet on Saturday—I go into competition mode. In fact, I believe it’s already begun. The mental focus that blocks out nearly everything else. The tightening in my stomach, not nerves (yet), but a physical focus that starts at the core and radiates energy to my arms and legs. (It’s better than coffee by far.) The sudden urge for only healthy food, fuel. No slip-ups with ice-cream or the stash of bite-size Milky Ways in my freezer.
I can’t seem to help it—it happens automatically. And I’m not sure I want to.
I like competing. I love pushing my body so far that even I am amazed at what it can do. Racing is one of the few times when I am so attuned to my body that I can step outside of it, get out of its way and let it do what it knows how to do. It’s one of the few times I can be one and apart, alone and with others simultaneously. It’s a joy I cannot describe.
But I don’t have to. Talking’s not a part of it. I just need to run.
Where did I put those matches?
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 3 so far )Dem Bones, or the Anatomy of a Writer/Runner
Courtesy of the Jersey Shore Running Club
Mrs. Morgan, my eighth grade music teacher, loved to sing songs that required us to move. Tap a foot, sway, snap our fingers, something, anything to keep us from standing still. I love music, but not necessarily that music. The sad part is, I remember most of the songs, particularly the anatomy song, “Dem Bones.” Everyone knows it, even if they don’t know they do:
The foot bone connected to the leg bone.
The leg bone connected to the knee bone.
Etc., etc.
Yeah, that song.
Turns out, they missed a link, the one that connects the runner to…well, to everything else: thought, creativity, productivity, organizational skills, and, for me, the ability to write. No running, no writing. It’s that simple.
Now I know this to be true—I do my best writing in my head during a run, starting around mile 3—but I sometimes forget the connection. Until it’s lost. Like during my recent 5 weeks of not running. No running, no writing. Lord knows I tried. I sat in front of my computer staring at a blank screen, and simply cried. I can’t do it, I thought. It’s just too hard. Maybe I’m fooling myself and am not really a writer after all.
But then the miraculous happened—again—the week I started running. Day 2, mile 3, and I’m rounding the little hill in the middle of a cul-de-sac where I usually slow down to count deer, and it occurs to me that I’m not running slower, I’m running faster. And I’m not looking for deer, I’m not looking for anything. My eyes are turned inward, and I’ve been writing, in my head, for the last mile. Not just half-baked thoughts but complete sentences, full paragraphs, developed ideas unfurling with the dawn. And I smile, relieved, and think thank God, thank you God, the connection is reestablished. Apparently laces are the missing link.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )May I Have a Word?
It’s noon on a Monday and I’m standing in my kitchen wearing the same t-shirt I slept in (one of the perks of working from home). I’ve just hung up the phone with Carrie and my head hangs in shame. I’ve been listening to myself explain to her that I can’t seem to find the motivation to run. I can’t do it. It’s just too hard.
It’s been 5 weeks since I’ve run. Carrie and I are only weeks out from the San Antonio Rock n Roll half marathon, her first. I promised I would run it with her, train for it with her, because your first half is a big deal. Every half is a big deal. But smack dab in the middle of a 10-mile run, I landed wrong on my foot. I tried to go on a little farther, but couldn’t. Carrie walked the 5 miles back to the car with me while I hobbled along feeling terrible about ruining her run. She’s done awesome with her training since then. I’ve done none.
I think about my mom. Her words ring in my head: “Because I said I would.” This was her reply to me in junior high when I asked why she was going to do something she was clearly too overwhelmed to do. Because she said she would. Because your word is that significant. It’s what you are.
Although it’s noon on Monday and I’ve never run at noon, I lace up my shoes and go. I run 4 miles. Just like that. On Wednesday, I run 6. Friday, 8. This week, a repeat, with a 10-miler on Friday. I am astonished I can pick up almost where I left off. Bodies are amazing. Minds more so. I am especially astonished at what I’ve talked myself out of. I wonder how many of those weeks spent telling myself that I can’t do it, it’s just too hard, were to protect something other than my foot.
So now I give my word to myself: It’s not too hard. I can do it after all.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )I Need a Sign
Life would be much nicer if we all carried signs. Not road signs, but the kind spectators do in races: “It’s kind of fun to do the impossible.” Or “I’m proud of you, Perfect Stranger.”
My friend Jill manages the blog Best Race Signs. People send her pics of race signs from all around the country. Some are inspirational; most are simply funny. I read all of them because no matter what else is going on in my day, these signs make me smile. They also make me wish life really were more like a race.
They say you can tell a lot about a person by the metaphor they choose for life. Is life really a race? What if it’s a test or simply one big party? My metaphor changes from time to time. Lately, I see life as an endurance race. However, there’s one thing missing: The signs.
Can you imagine walking down the sidewalk, driving in your car, or sitting on the subway and glancing up from your reverie to see a complete stranger holding up a sign: “You’re the sh*t,” for instance. Who wouldn’t be motivated by that and think, Well, heck, maybe I am. Maybe I can <fill in the blank> after all?
And wouldn’t it be nice if during our darkest hour we could lift our eyes from the road ahead, just for a moment, to find a sign of encouragement: “..let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us,” let’s say, or “The voice in your head that says you can’t do this is a liar.”
I can see how carrying signs might be inconvenient. Nevertheless, I think it would make for a much happier world. It might make people achieve more or go for their dreams. At the very least, it would make people smile. And on those days when someone feels like they’re running up a steep hill in the dark, what would be wrong with that?
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 2 so far )No Sweat
I’ve always associated endurance and perseverance with sweat. Atlas holding up the heavens with his shoulders. Sisyphus forever pushing a boulder up a mountain.
As runners, we know perseverance, endurance. We train to keep going, to run a little farther, a little faster, a little longer, to see if we can’t improve our form, our distance, our time. We persist through heat, rain, humidity, cold, snow, up big hills and across wide expanses of open terrain, under stars and moon and sun. A sweaty endeavor indeed. When we reach our goal, we have physical proof that we have persevered. We have endured.
Running develops these traits in us, as many runners will tell you, and they extend into so many areas of our lives. The past couple of weeks I’ve learned a new application of perseverance, one that is not so sweaty.
Stillness. To wait and do what at first seems like nothing. And nothing is a difficult thing to do. For all that running teaches us to endure, it should also teach us to endure not-running, not taking time but giving it, to accomplish those things that can only be achieved in stillness.
For me, the not-running started with a sprained ankle two weeks ago, but the lesson in persevering through stillness didn’t occur to me until much later. Runners lament not-running while non-runners look on quizzically. They don’t quite understand the stomach-churning anxiety that accompanies it. I don’t always either, to be honest. It’s just running, after all, and although I am a runner, I am so much more. Still. When a part of my identity is suspended indefinitely, it’s disquieting, to say the least.
But, I have found, if I’m quiet and let it be, if I can persevere through the stillness and simply wait, I improve in a different way: I develop an internal patience and peace. And, given time, I can say, no sweat.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )The Journey Up
The Angel Moroni stands erect, head high and horn to lips at the tallest point on Stone Oak Parkway. I’ve marveled at this golden statue perched atop the San Antonio LDS temple for the past few years. The temple itself stands at the pinnacle of one of the highest hills in the area. You can see both the temple and the statue from quite far.
This hill has been my nemesis, my nightmare—my dream, my goal—for years. Each time I’ve driven it I’ve thought that maybe one day, maybe one, if I was lucky (or crazy), I would maybe give it a run. And, if a miracle happened, I would make it to the top.
Until now, I have trained for nearly every half marathon alone. My friend Carrie is training for her first half, and we are using the same plan, one that calls for hill repeats as one of its two days of speed/strength work. We are both trying something new: Carrie, a half marathon. Me, a running buddy. We don’t run together every day. Just the hard ones. The longest of the long runs. The hills.
The hills. We figured if we’re going to run hills, we might as well run Hills. So we chose temple mount.
Last week, our first hill week, we stood at the bottom of the mount and looked tentatively up. We couldn’t see the top from the bottom, could barely see a jutting temple corner and the Angel Moroni heralding the dawn. Four to five short hills is what our plan directed. Our goal was to get as far as we could, maybe half way, for each repeat.
For the first repeat, we counted five lampposts, about a third of the hill, and stopped, excited. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. For the second through fourth repeats, we counted eight lampposts, somewhere around half way. We struggled for breath, lungs searing, and made a fifth repeat, five lampposts.
We went home thrilled with ourselves (though we would barely be able to walk the next day), determined to come back and try again.
This week, we met at the bottom of the mount. Three to four long hills, our plan said. Long.
Let’s start where we left off, I suggested. The first repeat to lamppost eight. Then we can shoot for the top.
Carrie looked at me sideways, hands on her hips, looked up the hill. I think, she said confidently, that we should go all the way up the first time. Get it over with. Then if we feel like it, we can do it again.
So we took a deep breath and began. We started up the hill in complete silence, eyes dead center on the cement in front of us. At lamppost eight I was breathing hard, lungs tight but not searing, and we kept going, up and up. Before we knew it, we were at the top, over the last steep hump, the end in sight. I eyeballed a fire hydrant where the sidewalk leveled out, my stopping point. Carrie bounded past me by two cement squares and stopped at the crosswalk.
We smiled, barely, and looked out and around. Lights twinkled for miles in the distance, the sky predawn gray. We sucked in air, high-fived, and jogged back down the hill. It seemed to take much longer going down than coming up.
The thing about doing something hard once is that in having done it you have proof that you can. It doesn’t seem right after that to not do what you just did and what you know you can. It seems that if you do not put in your best effort and repeat your success, you are only cheating yourself. And if you have a buddy, you are cheating her too.
Eight lampposts thus seemed like a silly goal for the second repeat. It was all or nothing.
This time rather than keeping my eyes trained straight in front of me, I glanced up from time to time, looking for the angel with his horn. I could see him at the peak, gold and shiny, beckoning me. I ran and glanced and ran some more, and before long the sidewalk leveled out and the fire hydrant appeared. Carrie bounded two sidewalk squares past me again.
The third time, I didn’t count lampposts, nor did I seek out the angel. I paid attention, instead, to my legs that did not hurt, my lungs that worked hard but were not searing, and my arms and hands and head that felt light as we ascended, and I thought how strange, it’s almost as if our altitude is increasing, like in the mountains, but my ears did not pop. And I remembered the hill at mile 12 of the Austin half marathon, how I cursed the idiot course planner for the giant, steep hill right there, and how this part of temple mount felt like mile 12 then, but now I was not cursing and thinking, as I was then, who does this kind of thing? Who actually pays to torture their body and run like this when they could be in bed with coffee and the newspaper? No. Instead I was running up and up and again, nearing the top, across the last stretch, fire hydrant in sight. And then I bounded past it, with Carrie, to where the sidewalk ends.
On the way down, that again seemed so much longer than going up, I told Carrie that if it wasn’t for her I would never have made it all the way. I would have quit near the top, would not have pushed myself until my arms and hands and head went light as a feather and I flew the rest of the way.
This is a much better plan than all my previous ones. Hills are so much easier to ascend with a running buddy.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )« Previous Entries Next Entries »
More Than Running... 