Hurt, Dirt, and Hangovers: Part 1 - Hurt and Dirt

It’s funny the specific memories that the human mind can pull out of seemingly nowhere. Not long ago, my mind took me back to grade school. I was riding with my dad to the fire station where he served as a volunteer first responder. I was quietly staring out the window, imagining what kind of pop I would get from the fire department fridge as a reward for helping him with safety checks of the lights on a fire truck. We had just driven past my school when my dad, seeming out of nowhere said “Chris, someday life will knock you down. Someday, you’ll be at a point where you don’t feel like you have anything left and you have to decide to get up, brush the dirt off and start putting one foot in front of the other.” Being confused, I asked him what he meant, and we talked for about 5 minutes. As we pulled into the driveway of the fire station, he stopped talking. I hopped out of the car and followed him into the fire station, my sense of bewilderment mixing with the smell of stale sweat and old smoke coming from the building.

It’s amazing to me the level of detail I can recall of that conversation. It was gray and cloudy after a rainstorm but the air was warm. The brown seats of the GMC Jimmy he was driving. The puddles on the road. The pained expression on his face. The reason he interrupted my daydreaming was that friend of his had a child attempt to commit suicide. It was the first time I remember encountering suicide, however tangentially, and the emotional impact caused his words to sear themselves in my mind. Sometimes you have to decide to get up, brush the dirt off, and put one foot in front of the other.

For the past few mornings, I've found myself starting into my coffee cup and contemplating the last year. As I sit in the early morning darkness, I think about the past few weeks and the testament they have been to my dad’s legacy. My father built a successful choose-and-cut Christmas tree farm through his vision and toil. As far back as I can remember, my family has spent the weekends from Thanksgiving until Christmas working to sell the Christmas Trees that we had spent the previous year cultivating. Last year, Dad was privileged to watch his children and wife run the farm and enjoy one of the best years the farm had ever seen. Even though he was mostly confined to the house due to his cancer, he was incredibly proud of our effort and blown away with the fact that people still showed up without any advertising.

This year after his passing, it’s safe to say that our family has been knocked down pretty hard. It’s taken an unimaginable amount of work to figure out the things that Dad would just know how to do. Everything from the timing of herbicide and pesticide application to training employees how to prune trees felt like it was the first time. We spent close to triple the amount of time it would have taken him because we had to figure so many things out.

As I stared into my coffee cup this morning however, I couldn't help but smile. We had wrapped up the Christmas Tree sales for the year last Sunday. We had met our sales target for the year, cleaned up the sales lot, and closed the gates for another year. Despite losing a husband, father, brother, mentor, and friend, we managed to pick one another up, brushed off the dirt, and put one foot in front of the other.

One of MANY cups of coffee this week

The Notch

Hands on my knees, heart pounding in my skull, my mouth opens as if to scream and a stream of pink liquid pours out. It burns the nose.   This is the third puke in an hour and I’m partially amazed there is anything left in my stomach. Questions and self doubt are screaming in my head.  “What the HELL ARE YOU DOING?” “Why don’t you quit, nobody will know?”  “You’ve got nothing to prove, just walk it in.”

I’m on my third 7-mile lap of a trail in Minnesota. It’s the one of the last hard training runs before my first ultra-marathon and I’ve selected the course specifically because I knew it would test my mental toughness.   I’ve already run up, and down, a ski hill five times.   I know I have another three miles to go before one final ascent and the final descent to the rental car.  4 hours in, an hour to go, and I have no water, no food, and I can’t stop throwing up.

In response I summon the last bit of courage I have left and tell the voice, tell myself,   “We’re going to the notch.”

The notch is a very specific place and remains at the center of one of my most cherished memories of my dad. When I was younger my family would often vacation in Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado.  As a young child, my asthma was not well controlled and I often struggled just walking in the oxygen depleted air.  One of our favorite hikes as a family was from the Alpine visitor center to the summit of Mount Chapin. One day, my dad and I opted to try to summit Mt. Chiquita, the mountain next to Mt. Chapin which was quite a bit taller and further away from the trailhead.  It was an ambitious decision and we started before dawn the next day.

Mount Chapin is the mountain furthest right.  Chiquita is the center mountain.

http://www.nat-park.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/09/img-7368.jpg

Being from the flatlands of Michigan farm country, my legs and lungs struggled mightily as we labored across the scree and boulder fields.  We were making slow progress and like any kid, I was complaining.  I honestly didn’t think I could go much further and I stopped.  After initially being annoyed, Dad made me a deal.  We would only go to the notch, a giant stone cleft in the side of the mountain and he’d help. He explained that it would be a wasted day if we didn’t get to where we were trying to go.  So, we pressed on.  Me putting one foot in front of the other.  After a short ways further, I was so tired that Dad carried my backpack.   Then I had to grab on the straps of his pack, literally being towed up the mountain. Then we stopped.

I looked up through my exhausted eyes to see a look of joy on Dad’s face.  The next thing I saw was the edge of a cliff and to my astonishment we had reached the summit.  Dad couldn’t believe we had missed the massive gash in the side of the mountain.  I couldn’t believe I had actually walked to the top. As long as he lived, Dad insisted he hadn’t missed it on purpose; instead he used it as a lesson. He used it to explain that sometimes, you just have to put your head down and keep going.  It isn’t always going to be comfortable and in fact, sometimes everyone is suffering.  Sometimes, you have to conquer that internal voice by just focusing on an intermediate goal and always keep putting one foot in front of another. If you focus on getting to the notch, you might find yourself at the summit.

I finished that run in Minnesota.  It was slow and agonizing.   Sitting on the bumper of my car in the parking lot, I sipped on some lukewarm water and had to smile.  I had again missed the Notch.

Dad being dad in the mountains.    Longs Peak is in the background.

Melted Ice Cubes

Editor’s note:  I wrote the following about a month ago.    I've deliberated about whether or not I’d post it, but I finally decided that it needed to be shared.

Lauren is traveling and I’m sitting alone with my thoughts in our new home, nursing what’s left a tall glass of scotch and some melted ice cubes. It’s been nearly a month since I lost my Dad to cancer and in the flurry of activity surrounding his death and the subsequent busyness I, if I may be blunt, need an evening like this.

 When I had just turned 18 years old, I finished high school early and drove north to the family cabin to help my dad finish his training and preparations for the 2004 Iditarod.  The roads were treacherous and what should have been 6 hour trip had turned into 14 hours.   When I arrived late that evening I found my dad working on his laptop.   After I had brought in my bags and had some reheated supper on my plate, Dad asked me to read what he had been working on.    I could smell the whiskey on his breath, but it didn't strike me as significant until I read what he had been typing.

He had just written an account of arriving on an accident scene while in the Upper Peninsula.  He stopped because of his emergency first responder training and assessed the situation. It was a grisly scene. Three or four gravely injured people.  He had to make triage decisions knowing that there was nothing he could do to save some of the people.   Dad asked me if it was an ok thing to share or if it was too graphic; that’s when I knew there was more to his empty glass of scotch than met the eye.

Dad and I talked late into the evening and at one point that evening he explained that he would often pour himself a tall glass of something strong and write about things that were bothering him.   I don’t know if he published the story he wrote that night story to his blog or simply deleted it like he did most of the things, but he described it as a coping mechanism.  If he could get it out, into written form, then he could let it go.  The alcohol helped with that.

I’ve needed a night like tonight because, quite honestly, I haven’t had a chance to get a few things out until this evening. I haven’t had a quiet night where I could think and let my thoughts flow without inhibition onto the screen in front of me. It feels profoundly appropriate to borrow his method of coping tonight.

My father’s death has easily been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to deal with. I expect it to be harder than my mother’s passing when it is her time for a few reasons, but the biggest reason is that my father taught me to dream; to dream wild and impossible dreams. Dad was a person who imagined things and then worked like hell to make them happen.   People have asked me how he got into the sled dog racing.  It’s baffling that he went from a guided tour of Alaska in 2000 to owning a few dogs in 2002 to completing THE race in sled dog racing in 2004.  Think about that for a moment, in the space of 4 years he went from a dreaming spectator to finishing a race that has been finished by fewer people than have summitted Mount Everest.  Dad taught me that when you combine a dream with hard work and planning you can accomplish amazing things.

 It’s just damn hard to know that the person who encouraged me to set wild goals and cheered passionately as I worked for them is gone.  Memories are great,  but I won’t ever get to feel his hand on my shoulder  80 miles into a bike race when I think I've got nothing left and asking me, “What are you going to do about it? You might as well keep going and see what happens.” 

Of all the lessons I learned as a child growing up, the lesson of pursuing your dreams resonates with me more than almost anything else he taught me. It has served me well, from graduating with honors from the University of Michigan with a master’s degree in engineering, to finishing a 100 mile mountain bike race and an ultramarathon. His lesson of dream + work = success is the reason Lauren and I were able to save for a house down payment in under a year.  As big of an impact as that lesson has had on my life, it recently became second fiddle to a more significant lesson.

The one thing that resonates with me far more than his example of being a dreamer is something that I never had the opportunity to thank him for while he was alive. The reason is that I didn't learn it until he was dead.  

That lesson is simply the value of kindness to others.

The legacy of my father, to me, will be one of showing kindness.   It has amazed me the number of people who mentioned that “He was a friend when I needed one” or “Your dad made a difference in my life.”   We only get one shot at this life and it became apparent to me that my dad tied to make people feel like they were valued and important whenever he could.   Sure, he may not have been perfect,   but lessons of kindness and respect that he taught will stay with me far longer than the lessons of corporate strategy or changing the oil on my car.

So what the hell   doe this has to do with running?   Didn't I start to write about the reasons why I run?  I suppose the death of my father would be an acceptable reason to sidetrack my series of essays. I actually had another one written just before I got the call that I need to go to the family farm to say goodbye.

The reality is that my father’s death has offered me more clarity as to why I run than I could have ever to hope to achieved prior to his death.    The answer doesn't need multiple essays. The answer is simple.

I run for joy.

No, not the temporary high of endorphins. Not the satisfaction of winning a race.  Not even the feeling of success I get from meeting a goal.  I run because while I run, I can leave the stress, misery, and grinding soul-sucking despair inducing world behind.  I get to, for a moment, step into the mystery and beauty of the world around me and I find joy there.

Not the warm fuzziness   that people think of when they’re happy. I’m talking about the piercing and heart-wrenching joy that makes you laugh and cry simultaneously.  The face on the person who suddenly sees their loved one return unannounced from overseas combat.   The young child who is set free and discovers a puddle to splash in.  Or as my sister so elegantly described in her blog (http://wordsrunningdeep.blogspot.com/2014/03/the-mile-that-matters.html ) the joy of seeing beauty in the face of unimaginable pain.

Indeed, running is how I get to glimpse joy.   I heard a pastor paraphrase C.S. Lewis in a sermon once saying that the glimpses of joy that God allows us are not a glimpse of what is, but a glimpse rather of what will be.

A rebirth and running

Well, it seems like now is as good a time as any to dust off this blog. Admittedly, I was prompted by a tiny bit of envy when I read my sister’s new blog post.  I’m not sure what will become of this effort, but I’d like to believe this will result in a few more posts than the last effort.  Of course, I carry those good intentions every time I begin writing a journal.  

Me and my awesome sister.  Note that I am a morning person and she is not.

In an effort to make myself look a little less petty, I’ll explain the envy I mentioned above.   You see, despite the fact that Whitney got several positive comments (I’m not sure anyone besides our mother has read mine....) I’m far more envious of her clarity when it comes to running.

I wish I had a short, acceptable, and understandable answer when asked why I run.   Whitney might not have a short answer, but her post tells you a lot about her motivation.  When people ask me why I run I stutter, mumble, and generally evade the answer. That’s because the short answer never seems to hit the mark.

“Because I don’t like the person I am when I don’t run.”

“I really like the discomfort and suffering.”

“I have a hard time being happy without running.”

Those are the type of one-line responses that bounce around in my head. Those sentences can make me seem like a masochist with low self-esteem and little other joy in life.   Fun stuff, hey?   Sentences like that are what you use when you want to end a conversation at a cocktail party.

One of my favorite trails at the Maybury State Park

I’m going to use this blog to dig into the “why” of my running and training.   I can’t promise any definitive answers, but I can promise that I’ll try to keep it interesting.  

Run for your life,
Chris