OCTOBER 13 Dear Mr. Knightley,
It’s over. Not completely. I have to recover and, as I limped to classes today, that may be the hardest part.
The Chicago Marathon was yesterday—in pouring rain and, at some points, 30 mph winds. The course is mapped in a series of loops, so about a quarter of it was directly into the wind. Unbelievable. I hoped they would cancel it, but with forty thousand runners paying about $175 per entry, it takes a lot to shut that engine down. We ran.
At the start, trash bags flew everywhere. Runners often poke holes in the tops of huge black garbage bags and use them as disposable ponchos. It always cracks me up—we foster kids traditionally use trash bags for a much different purpose. Anyway, bags flew in my face and wrapped around my feet. I slipped several times and can’t believe people didn’t fall all around me.
The first twenty miles were typical: five to settle in and the next fifteen in my groove. Muscles ached in different places than usual because my shoes were soaked and lugged extra water, but it was okay. The wind and rain kept me from obsessing about the miles, and I had fans to cheer me: Kyle yelled at mile 12, Hannah and her husband, Matt, held a ridiculous sign at mile 15 that read SAM—ARATHON! RUN, SAM, RUN and the Muirs waved their hearts out at mile 19.
Debbie and Ashley were at mile 22, but I missed them. My mind was elsewhere . . .
Mile 22 to the end is always tricky—you break down mentally and physically. This time it happened earlier. Maybe it was all the wind and water, but at mile 20 the race took on an eerie tone, especially along Lake Shore Drive. Thoughts pounded my brain in rhythm to Lake Michigan’s waves crashing and surging next to us. I couldn’t push them away or direct them.
In the past I’ve usually run scenes from my favorite books in my head—especially Jane Eyre, because I love her courage, her decisions, and her voice. I love her stamina. But yesterday Jane failed me. Lizzy failed me. Emma failed me. At mile 21 I had no control over my thoughts, and my past ballooned in my brain: my dad and mom, Father John, the holdup at the White Hen, Cara, Hannah, Kyle . . .
But none of it hurt. I felt distant and safe for much of it. That surprised and relieved me because I had no defense had it felt otherwise.
Then came Alex—all we said this summer, all we shared, all I wanted to share. The truth about how deeply he affected me. Panic washed over me, and I couldn’t shut it down. It’s hard to explain what little control you hold over your body and thoughts at this point in a marathon. Sure, you can stop running, but even that takes cognitive effort and, if you’re not totally broken, it doesn’t occur to you. I kept going. Step. Step. Step. The memory of another day, and another run, with Alex flitted through my mind.
“You’re going to find a great guy, Sam.”
“I doubt it. There’s a lot about me that’d scare any guy off. I wonder if I’m cut out for a healthy relationship.” I tripped so close to laying it all out for him that morning.
Alex ran a few steps. “You are. All it takes is honesty.”
I glanced over at him. He held that same furrowed expression he made whenever bothered or irritated.
“There’s a lot about me that’d scare you . . . or any other woman, off too.”
“What?”
“Forget it.” He fell silent. A few more steps, and he continued, “I don’t like to disappoint people. I let things go on too long and get too complicated because I fear the way they’ll look at me when it’s all done.”
“Your father?”
“He’s one, and maybe that’s where it started, but it doesn’t stop there. I let people down, then run like a coward before it hits the fan—friends, acquaintances, and colleagues. I feel safer at a distance.”
Alex turned his head away, and we ran another couple miles before either of us spoke again. We ended up chatting about a lot of stuff that day. Stuff that didn’t matter much, but the stuff that—as the professor likes to believe—builds a strong friendship. We understood each other.
But on this day, in the pounding rain, that conversation meant something different, something more. Was he alluding to Simone? Partly. But at mile 23 I surmised that Alex told me something else that day—that he would never be mine. Is that what I had hoped? Did I want that? Do I?
Yes. Yes. I believed it could happen. Step. Yes. Step. I moved through two miles of loss before I tried to focus on the Muirs. They won’t leave me. Step. Step. Step. They won’t abandon me. Step. They call me their daughter. Step. They love me . . .
No go. My mind drifted back to Alex, no matter how much I wanted it to rest elsewhere—anywhere. Alex left. Step. You weren’t enough. Step. “Sam failed to connect.” Step. “Sam has failed again.” Step. Step. Step. The panic shortened my breaths—not good at that point—and I started seeing stars. I wobbled, and an older man grabbed my upper arm.
“You good?”
“No.”
“You’ve got less than a mile. Repeat after me, ‘I’m okay. I’m okay.’ The phrase is the length of three strides. Perfect cadence to fill your head. Say it.”
“I’m okay. I’m okay.” I pushed out a weak smile. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He pushed ahead a little, and I tucked behind him. The 3:45 pacer had announced at the race’s start that the wind would cost us over thirty seconds a mile. He had encouraged us to stick with the group because drafting would ease the load. I’d stuck for most of the race, but lost the pack at mile 20 when my mind wandered. I hadn’t noticed.
“Stick right there and we’ll make it,” the man called back to me.
“Thanks.” I tucked closer. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”
The man ran me in and gave me a hug after the finish. He didn’t seem surprised when I burst into tears.
“You did great.”
“I didn’t, but thank you.”
“You did. It’s my eighteenth marathon, and I’ve seen a lot out here. Each one is a unique and dangerous experience.”
We pushed through the chute to receive our medals. I lost him. Instead I found Ashley and Debbie.
“You didn’t wave!”
“I didn’t see you.”
“We didn’t think so. Your face was horrible. Were you crying?”
“I don’t remember.”
I didn’t elaborate. Alex still filled my thoughts. I hoped he would leave soon. To distract myself, I concentrated on food. I ate a banana, an energy bar, and a bagel from the food tent, sucked down three chocolate milks, then found Ashley and Debbie again. They kindly drove me home and left me alone at my apartment. I shook so badly with the cold that I wanted only a hot shower and soup. I wasn’t very coherent. Alex still filled my mind.
He left when the Muirs arrived, and I finally felt at peace. Sore, unable to bend my knees, but at peace. They brought me a full meal of chicken, stuffing, vegetables, and potatoes. And two pints of ice cream.
“We won’t stay, dear. You need to rest.” Mrs. Muir fluffed the pillows and blankets, making a nest for me on the couch.
“I’m so glad you came.”
“How could we not? You were wonderful today. What an accomplishment.” She glowed.
“I was eight minutes off my backup plan.”
“In that wind! You should be thrilled. Don’t diminish this, Sam. I’m so proud of you.” The professor pulled me gently into a hug.
After they left, I curled up on my couch, watched a couple Sherlock episodes, and ate every bite of food they’d brought—including both pints of Dulce de Leche.
Today, I limp . . .
Sam