About That

There are some places in the world that make their way into my heart and take up residence, filling the space with the sense that, I belong here... I need to live here someday... there are stories here... I was made for this.  Places that resonate so deeply inside of me that I find myself searching for the house where I'll live, making note of the street name of a quaint cafe where I'll get my coffee, studying faces -- you know, in case they end up being my neighbor and our stories intertwine.  Venice, Italy is one of those places.

Hence, it seemed perfectly natural that if I decided I'd ever run a marathon, Venice made the perfect backdrop.

So I'll be honest and tell you that the vision that kept me running toward the finish line during all those long, (yes, tedious), miles of pretty much nothing magnificent, (in spite of all the propaganda that claimed this was one of the race route's most scenic and historical), was the idea of running in the actual city of Venice.  The last few miles of the race.  Hm.  About that.

When I trudged past the 18-mile marker and a race official called out something in Italian, him all twinkly-eyed and smiles, and I responded in English, he repeated himself... in English, "You're an hour late!"  He gestured to his watch. 

I smiled back, a bit confused, late for what?, I thought.  I didn't know about the blockade a mile and a half ahead.  The one where they'd tell me I  was done and I'd argue that I wasn't finished.  And about that prayer I prayed as I crossed the starting line, "Lord, I want to be broken.  Whatever it takes...  Less of me and more of You.  Take me to a place where I'm consumed with living for You."  And, really, who prays a dumb prayer like that?  Especially at the beginning of a 26.2 mile race.

And maybe part of the story is about Francesca.  The gal who made me smile with curiosity as racers gathered at the starting gates, her skipping and dancing around like a giddy five-year old.  Her audible giggle as she stretched clumsily, her arms flailing wildly as she nearly toppled over.  A tall man dressed in slacks, pressed button-up shirt, and Oxfords watching her, his stoic expression filled with devoted concern.  Her husband?  A guardian?

She passed me on the right somewhere between three and four miles.  Her steady pace punctuated with an occasional stumble and quick skip accompanied by a gleeful chuckle and snort.  Later, well after the 5-mile mark, she was up ahead when the 6-hour pace group caught up with me and I fell in with them... them calling cadences in Italian, whooping and partying it up.  It was their pacer, the one carrying the baby-blue balloon with a bright white six painted on it, who asked me my name and welcomed me to the group.

"Alright, everyone!" she yelled.  "This is Sharon and she's going to finish the race with us!"  The whole group cheered, yelled welcome's and encouragements.  Pretty soon, our group came up alongside Francesca.  That's how I learned her name.

For a while, I kept company with this spirited group.  But then there was that little decision I  made when walking to the starting gate, the one to forgo standing in line to use the porta-potty.  The decision that brought about catastrophic consequences at about the 6-mile mark.  Lesson learned: never, never pass on the opportunity to visit the porta-powder room one last time before setting out on an epic journey.  Suffice it to say that there was no way I was going to keep up with the pace group.  The last one.  My last chance to jog this gig with the camaraderie of fellow racers.

Eventually, the pace group's whoops and hollers faded into the distance and I realized I'd have to sprint to catch up.  Better to settle into a resolute rhythm, dreamy thoughts, visions of running through Piazza San Marco and seeing my family at the finish line motivating me onward.

Francesca fell behind the pace group, too.  When I caught up to her, I noticed she was struggling.  I asked her if she was alright and she rattled something in Italian.  Her voice was high-pitched and squeaky.  But her eyes sparkled and she smiled and smiled, her words melodic, the syllables bouncing along trifling glissando giggles.

I slowed my pace -- more -- matching my stride to hers.  Occasionally, she'd pause, her breathing short, almost gasping, before stepping into a steady forward stride again.  And that's how it went, in fits and starts, me offering small exhortations here and there, waiting while she stopped to remove her shoes and shake pebbles out, her enthusiastic expression never wavering.  I smiled in spite of myself.


The two of us plodded along together.  As we approached the 13.1-mile marker, she tried telling me something urgent.  Although I smiled and shrugged, I didn't understand until she approached the lone race official busy winding electrical cords and letting the air out of the inflated banner over the road that announced the half-way mark.  Francesca waved me on with a high-pitched, enthusiastic "Grazie!  Grazie!" 
 

Later, upon reflection, I came to two conclusions about that part of the story.  First, it was a great test... I now know for a certainty that I'd get my teammate and I kicked off the reality show's Amazing Race right away.  Second, running the race in a relational context is a place that fills my heart with that sense of I belong here... this is what I was made for.  I didn't mind running alone -- very alone... as in, most of the race I couldn't see another soul ahead or behind me.  But running alongside Francesca... well, the race took on an eternal dimension.

There is something about that place of engaging in the divine, of traveling the journey with others... that place where we enter into another's brokenness... the challenge of letting go of a little more of my own agenda and selfishness and fear to risk love.

Francesca's enthusiasm was contagious.  I can still see her in my mind and I smile all over again.  There was something about that place of going the distance together that said this is where I live... take note.  That epic place filled with stories.     

My family was at the finish line exactly where I knew they would be, watching the racers approach the finish, waiting for me.  "Mom!  Did we miss you?  We never saw you coming toward the finish line!"  Uh, about that.

Gratitude:
162.  Gelato on the walkplatz with family.

163.  A whole week full of breakthroughs!

164.  The whole family, sore left arms, and the blessing of immunizations.

165.  Six prescriptions for malaria medicine as we prepare for an epic adventure.

166.  Reading Kingdom Journeys together as a family.

167.  Praying together.

168.  Going the distance together.

Marathon

It was the billboards advertising the 24th Venice Marathon that caught my attention.  While I had definitely glamorized the notion of women in my life who had trained for and "given themselves the gift of running a marathon for their 40th birthdays," I also definitely did not aspire to that myself.

But in Venice...   Well, that's different. 

And when we realized on my birthday this year that the 26th Venice Marathon was almost exactly six months away, well it just made sense to register and begin training right away.

Some of the most inspiring weeks of training came during my cousin's visit this summer as she stayed with us between two different music festivals.  I love being around self-disciplined people.  I want what they have.  I crave that kind of single-mindedness.  Especially when they're devoted to mastering an art, principles, character.  My cousin, Kristen...

Ah!  What I have learned about myself is that I must apply an inordinate amount of just-do-itevness in order to follow through on anything.  Kristen... she persisted in making me commit.  It went like this, "I have an idea!"  (I'm a gifted, excessively talented dreamer. smile.)  To which she would reply, "And when will this idea happen?  What time should I be ready?  When are we leaving?"  And she would patiently, albeit determinedly, wait for my committed reply.  Which freaked me out.  But I learned that committing to something and following through is... wildly. fun!  Wildly rewarding! 

Thanks to her we went on a grand adventure on the Italian Riviera, explored a bit of Tuscany, did our part in attempting to right the Leaning Tower of Pisa!  We attended Zumba classes, ran on the treadmills at the gym, picnicked on the grass at the foot of towering castle ruins, perused the grand hallways of Château de Pierrefonds (with friends from Spokane!), and took in Paris atop Montmartre. 

Spending time with someone who lives with tremendous conviction...  to witness the fruit of their labors...  it is this living with conviction, determination, commitment that I do aspire to!  And so, I "signed up" for a "class" on learning such a lifestyle.  Hence, the Venice Marathon.

There's so much to share about the training and the actual race itself.  The immense disappointment of not finishing the race taught me that it's just as important to know what I'm training for...  (as in I trained to finish... not by six hours... just however long it took me... you know me, I'll get there eventually... right?)

I caused a huge spectacle when I arrived at 19.5 miles only to be greeted with fire trucks and police cars blocking the street.  Confused, but deliriously happy to be jogging/walking my way through the outskirts of Venice, I approached two men holding up laminated signs, one in English, the other in Italian.  The man holding the English sign was a bear of a man and his page read in bright red bold words, "This is the end of the course."  I don't remember what the rest  of it said -- something to the gist of requiring my removal from the course.  All I remember is that my heartbeat quickened.

He wasn't patient.  "I'm sorry, mam, but you didn't cross the 30 km line in the required four hours."  Or did he say 32 km?  I'm still not sure.  All I know is that I looked down at my watch.  I had been running four hours and ten minutes.  I looked past them, trying to see evidence of the course still laid out.  Just beyond the flashing lights I noticed the blue marker announcing the 32 km mark.

The next several moments live in my brain like a movie scene.  Perhaps I have some Italian in me?  I don't know but that I caused a ruckus, my arms motioned wildly, my voice elevating to talk over their elevated voices, "Um, no; This is definitely not the end of the course!  I still have six more miles to go!  I feel great!  I'm strong!  I'm going to the finish line... and this is definitely not the finish line!"  All this with their thick Italian accents yelling over me and me trying to explain to them that I did not come this far to quit at the 32 km mark.  Of course, they're Italian.  So they are in my face, in my space, their eyes wide, stubborn, arms motioning wildly in tandem with mine.

And I will forever wonder why on earth I didn't just finally smile, wave friendly, and keep on running.  Why I allowed myself to be coaxed into the ambulance, the woman's thick Italian every-syllable-enunciated-emphatically, "Mam, I'm sorry.  But you have to get into the ambulance. right. now."  My appalled, "The ambulance?!  But there's nothing wrong with me!  I'm fine!  I need to finish this race!"  And her, leaning toward me, eyes wild with a mix of sympathy and exasperation, "I'm sorry, mam, you are out. of. time."  Then my one last effort, "But my family is waiting for me at the finish line," my mind flashed to where I envisioned my people smiling and cheering for me at the finish, "I have to run to the finish line..."

With that, I climbed into the ambulance.  She directed me where to sit.  She handed me a foil blanket to wrap around myself.  She added insult to injury when she told me to give her my timing chip.  She should have left it at that.  Left me to process the fact that I was being kidnapped in an ambulance in Venice.  But no.  She offered me a water.  Which sent me into the whole long tirade all over again, belligerently explaining that I didn't need a water -- I needed to finish running the race!  That they stopped me short of the finish line and that I was able to finish this thing and...   But the ambulance was already driving off to take me to a first aid station a half kilometer away where I would sit with seven other runners, (all injured!), until they could take us to the back side of the finish line.  By boat.

And although I was thoroughly and completely engulfed in sadness and disappointment...  I'd be lying if I didn't admit to you that I found romance and beauty and adventure and a great storyline in even this.  It was just two weeks before that LeRoy and I worked out with Tony Horton and his crew, Tony's statement at the end, "Go out and try something you have to push yourself at; if it doesn't work out, well at least you have a story to tell."  And my precious friend, Larry's advice, "Remember, failure isn't fatal."  Even what feels like an epic fail.

I'm smiling now as I type the story.  There's a lot more to write.  Like how the grace and the hugs and the "I'm soooo PROUD of you, Mom!" embraced me and flowed over me when I found my family in the stands, their heads turned toward runners approaching the finish line, expectant, waiting for me to come into sight... while I approached them from behind.  It was one of the most disappointing and simultaneously grace-filled moments of my life.  To be loved this. much.

So I'm starting over; or should I say, I'm signing up for another "class" on self-discipline, commitment, determination.  I want the freedom that is the fruit of a self-disciplined life.  I'm beginning the training process over again.  This time more slowly to avoid injury.  More consistently -- as in, it's a really, really bad idea to take three weeks off to tour Europe during the peak training weeks.  I'm implementing lessons I learned in "class" and applying them to this next season.

I'm not registered for another marathon.  yet.  Though I'm considering a couple of different ones.  There's a half marathon in Paris in March.  And there's a mini marathon in Luxembourg that Israel wants to run, (she's already started training), on her birthday in May, (which includes a night marathon on the same date). 

Funny thing is, while standing at the Starting Line that brisk October morning, I thought to myself, this is great... this one time... I think I'll just soak up this experience and call it good... one marathon in a person's lifetime is plenty...   But then... at about the 8 km mark, I reconsidered... actually, I think I'd like to do this again someday.  Maybe it was the fact that everyone -- and I mean every one, (which is another blog post for another day) -- was passing me and I was falling woefully behind and thinking, well, shoot, I think I can do better next time... why, yes, as a matter of fact, I do believe I'll give this little marathon thing another shot!  Of course, when I didn't get to finish... well, that sorta sealed the deal.  But then I can see my cousin's face, that look, (her dogged determination to commitment and single mindedness that inspires me), as I "sorta" kinda, dreamily think about it...  {sigh} 

I'll keep you posted...