Running Home

by Katie Arnold

  Dad climbs out of the car and crosses onto the sidewalk.

  “When Daddy comes marching ho—”

  Here the fragments of memory dissolve—the sweet pink blossoms, the rhythm and the words of the song embedded where so many memories live, beyond conscious remembering, not in the brain but in the body. My toes curling around the concrete steps, fingernails chipping anxiously at the peeling black paint on the railing. The happy expectancy of waiting, wondering. Where is he?! eclipsed by the deep thrum of worry: What’s wrong?

  All of it subsumed by what happens next.

  Inside, Dad says to Mom, “I want to go to Charleston for the weekend.” He would have blurted this, fast and reckless. That he wants to go with A., his secretary. He hasn’t thought it through, not all the way. He just wants to go. The way he says it, not a question—like he can leave and come home again after. As though nothing will have changed. As if my mother would put up with this. A terrible, callous miscalculation.

  Because of all the scenarios Dad might have imagined, this was not one of them. My mother rewriting her story, our story. Changing the ending.

  Mom tells him that if he goes to Charleston, he can’t come back. This is the last straw, it’s over. She is sure. She has to be. She has us to look after, and herself.

  This is the moment we’d been barreling toward and away from our whole lives, a stone tossed in the water, rippling outward in waves. Dad wants to go to Charleston with another woman, and not even his daughters singing for his arrival can change his mind.

  How could we not have changed his mind?

  * * *

  —

  And so when I run, I also carry Dad’s letters and notebooks, stacked where I left them, so many still unread, on the floor by his filing cabinet. And I carry the other version of my life. The one where Dad opens his mouth to say “I want to go to Charleston” but hears our chirpy baby voices singing and says instead, “I’m home.”

  Sometimes Dad comes to me when I run. He arrives not as a voice or a thought but as a sensation, a faint waft of air on the skin. The suggestion of memory. It’s almost always when I am running downhill toward home, back to my girls and Steve, waiting for me. There are no words, just a feeling: I’m here with you. And he is, but not for long. Only a few steps and, just as abruptly, he’s gone, swirling off to whomever or wherever he goes next. He has no form, no permanence. He is air and light. He is memory and love and regret. He is joy in the running. And he is joy.

  These are the days Dad carries me.

  Three weeks before the Jemez 50K, I’m running through the ponderosas when I feel a sharp pinching, like a chicken bone lodged in my throat—the clammy certainty that something is going terribly wrong and that I or someone I love is about to die. I gulp at the air, trying to slow my choppy breathing, and take inventory: The girls are at preschool, Steve is at work. I’m safe on this trail. The sky is blue, the trees are sweet with sap. My legs are strong, my heart is beating. Everything’s going to be okay.

  Instinctively, I begin to whisper, “Dad, let me go! Let me go!” I look around furtively, but there’s no one in sight. The only sound is my voice. It grows louder and more animated with every step. I’ve been carrying his illness and his angst, his guilt over leaving, his inability to stay, but I don’t have to anymore.

  “Dad, I’m letting you go! I’m letting you go!” I’m shouting now, my pace quickening to match the cadence of my words. “Your sadness is not my sadness, Dad! Your story is not my story. I am not you, Dad. I love you and I’m letting you go!”

  I know that if I keep running, I will shed my pain, which is his pain, also, and send it out into the trees and the wide New Mexico sky, and I will break through.

  PART THREE

  Upward

  Let the beauty we love be what we do.

  —RUMI

  18

  Plunging In

  PHOTO: DAVID L. ARNOLD

  Meg and me, Stony Lake, 1973

  Mornings start early in our house. They start whether Steve and I are pressed tightly together in sleep, the cat curled into her spot on his left hip, or I’m tiptoeing down the hall to light out for a run. I swear the girls have sonar: They can’t possibly hear me above the din of the white-noise machines in their rooms, but they can sense me. Pippa’s door hinges creak open, the whole of her spilling into the kitchen. “Mama, I’m hungry!” I slice her a banana and remind her to let Maisy and Steve sleep. Then I slide out the back door and into the unimaginable good luck of dawn.

  When I come back, it’s an assault of small bodies, dogs barking, Steve asking, “Do we have a grocery list started?” But I’m always more here after I have been there. After a run, when I’m tired and content, the world seems shiny and full of hope, and I see that the commotion I found exasperating only yesterday is now the very thing I love most. I sit on the front porch with both girls, listening to the scrub jays chattering in the poplar trees, wishing spring would last longer, that Pippa could stay three, maddening and precious, with seashell ears and wise old eyes, forever.

  For my last long training run before the race, I get up at first light and meet my friend Blair at the Winsor Trail. The Winsor climbs 3,700 feet in ten miles, all of it singletrack, from the village of Tesuque to the Santa Fe ski basin. From there you can keep running seven miles and another 2,300 vertical feet to the summit of 12,600-foot Santa Fe Baldy or drop down to the alpine Lake Katherine. You can follow the Winsor up and over the back of the range into the Pecos Valley or run north through the roadless, remote Pecos Wilderness and the spiky, thirteen-thousand-foot Truchas Peaks and nearly the whole way to Taos, almost entirely on trails.

  In its first three miles, the Winsor dips and rises over small, sandy badlands, climbs steadily under cover of two-hundred-year-old ponderosas, and fords Big Tesuque Creek eleven times. Only three of the crossings have narrow wooden bridges. I always go back and forth: Should I keep my feet dry by balancing on slippery logs or stepping-stones and risk turning an ankle, or just run right through the water and suffer the consequences of cold feet? I usually opt for dry shoes, especially on days like today when the creek is running fast and high with snowmelt.

  The air is still cool, not yet sixty degrees, and though my bare arms have been pumping hard, like my feet, they’re rubbery and cold. In a meadow filled with wild irises, I unwrap an energy bar for breakfast and give half to Blair. No one’s awake but us, and the silence is thick, enclosing us, wrapping us in the forest.

  We run for four more miles, above where the trail leaves the creek, up a steep, rubbly pitch, through a second meadow, to my favorite stretch, rolling easily along a ridge. I float through the dewy morning, over pine needles. My body is light and loose, as though no effort is required of it, and time is without measure or meaning.

  When we reluctantly turn around, the trail is still deserted and all ours. This time, I don’t think; I run right into the frigid creek, plunging up to my shins. In a few miles I’ll be home; there’s no longer any reason to keep my feet dry. Yesterday the water was a curling cornice of snow hanging off the side of a mountain; today it’s falling over itself in a rush to the Rio Grande. It fills my shoes and puddles inside my socks. I crash through the pools, ignoring my numb feet, the sharp stab of cold between my toes, skipping and sloshing the whole way down.

  This is runner’s high: the rush of mood-enhancing endorphins winging through my bloodstream, filling me with confidence and pleasure. The longer and harder I run, the more intense the rush. Sometimes runner’s high lasts for hours, sometimes into the next day, and it makes me want to do crazy, exuberant things like buy a new car or invite all my friends over for dinner even though we have nothing in the fridge.

  But this is the first time I’ve experienced such a prolonged runner’s high while I’m running. In his book about running, Sakyong Mipham calls this the second, or lion, pha
se of training, named in honor of the Tibetan snow lion, which represents “delight, discipline, and auspiciousness.” In the Lion phase, running comes more naturally, and it’s naturally more joyous. You’re in better shape, and your technique is more proficient, so you don’t have to think as much when you run. This enables you to tune in to your surroundings and experience what he calls “panoramic awareness.”

  Ten days before my first ultramarathon, my mind is strong and calm and my body is ready. All I need to do now is remember this feeling.

  * * *

  —

  The night before the race, Steve and I drop the girls off at a friend’s and we sit on the terrace, eating two helpings of pasta each. I’ve laid out my race gear and organized my pack, but when I get into bed, I’m so jittery I can’t fall asleep. When I finally do drift off, I dream that we’ve missed the start and are so far behind we need to sprint to catch up.

  At the starting line in Los Alamos, a couple hundred runners mill around in the dark, checking their race bibs and fiddling with their packs. I’m trying to look natural, as if showing up before dawn to run thirty-one miles is something I do all the time, while simultaneously scanning the crowd to assess the competition; everyone looks serious and very fast. Ten minutes before the start, Steve and I stash our down jackets in the car and huddle together, shivering, my heart ricocheting against my ribs.

  Then the official yells “Go!” and I forget to be afraid. Steve and I go out together at the back of the front pack. The sun is rising as we leave the dirt road for a singletrack trail that drops into Los Alamos Canyon. Within the first mile, the leaders begin to spread out, and it no longer feels like we’re racing, just running together.

  In the hurried last moments before we left the house, I stuck a pin Lesley had made for Dad’s seventieth birthday onto the front of my waist belt. It’s a close-up photo of Dad’s face beneath the words “Sensational 7-0!” He’s wearing his red sweatshirt, and his smile is so huge it shows all his teeth, reminding me to keep going but not take myself too seriously. For the first few miles, I hear the pin clanking against my waist belt, and every few minutes I reflexively reach down and pat his face.

  Somewhere after the first aid station, at mile 5, I graze my waist pack with my fingers. Shit, shit. The pin is gone. Steve is in front of me and runners are strung out behind me, and the trail is narrow and bordered by prickly scrub oak and cacti. I’ll never find it. It’s pointless to try. Better to leave Dad where he lies, in the silty Jemez dust, on a rolling stretch of trail I know he’d love.

  * * *

  —

  In the early miles, the course traverses canyons and foothills at the base of the Jemez Mountains. Steve lets me set the pace, his feet clopping behind me along the hard-packed dirt trail. We are running easily enough to keep up a conversation, which consists mostly of Steve announcing the Latin name for every wildflower he sees: Lupinus argenteus, Castilleja, Penstemon. I let his words hypnotize me and feel my body moving all its parts in the right order: feet, legs, arms, repeat, inhale, exhale.

  By mile 7 or 8, we begin to catch up to people and pass them. They are the tail end of the fifty-mile race, which started an hour before us. The runners are jogging the flats and the downhills, but as soon as they come to an incline, they decelerate to a walk, hiking them casually, as if they’re just out for a stroll. It hadn’t dawned on me that walking might be part of ultrarunning, but I see now that it has a purpose, especially in mountain races like this one: It conserves energy.

  Just ahead of us is the longest and toughest ascent of the day—a six-mile, 2,500-foot climb to the summit of 10,440-foot Pajarito Mountain. As the pitch gets steeper, we slow from a run to a jog. Behind me, Steve’s footsteps change audibly—heavier and slower. I turn to look. He’s walking, but because his legs are so much longer than mine, it’s easy for him to keep up. His stride is long and easy, and he is not breathing especially hard, a fact I find momentarily disheartening—not because I am trying to race him but because if he can walk as quickly as I can jog, I must be moving awfully slowly.

  When I turn to look again, he has a pained expression on his face. “My stomach is cramping,” he says. “I think I need to find a tree.”

  Most ultra trail races are staged on remote backcountry trails, with only periodic access to roads or services, so there are few opportunities to use a proper bathroom. Over the years, I’ve gotten comfortable peeing almost anywhere I can find a bush or a tree or any kind of cover. Leaves or rocks will do for toilet paper, but usually I just pull up my shorts and keep running. Pooping is more complicated; if you can’t hold it till the next aid station, you have to go well off the trail and dig a hole.

  Steve swerves off the course and disappears behind a clump of shrub oaks, calling over his shoulder, “Keep going! Don’t wait for me!”

  I’m reluctant to leave him, but I need to keep my momentum up the mountain. I keep jogging, looking over my shoulder now and then, but Steve’s nowhere in sight. The solitude is lonely at first, but then I lose myself in the repetitive demands of running: drinking sips from my bottle, forcing myself to eat Gu every thirty minutes. Time means nothing to me; the day is vast and simple. I have only one job to do, and I’m doing it.

  * * *

  —

  The trail to the summit of Pajarito Mountain skirts a small ski resort of the same name. Ski slopes without snow are rarely a pretty sight, and Pajarito’s are scarred by raw, treeless cuts and chairlifts tilting emptily, like phantoms from another season. Above me, through the trees, I can just make out the twin tips of the radio towers near the summit and aim for them, my thighs heavy and unresponsive.

  When you’ve been running uphill for more than an hour, you can’t help but fantasize about going down. Anything—anything—will feel better than this! The sad irony is that while descending a mountain may be a mental reprieve, rarely does it bring much physical relief. Your body is fighting gravity the whole way, your glutes, knees, and quads forced to act like shock absorbers so you don’t fall.

  The descent from Pajarito shoots down the grassy spine of a double-black ski run so steep that, if my legs buckled, I could rag-doll a thousand feet to the aid station on the deck of the ski lodge. It’s all I can do to rein in my wobbly thighs, reminding myself that things could be worse, much worse: I could be the guy I just passed who’s crawling backwards down the mountain.

  Aid stations at ultramarathons are makeshift waypoints with folding tables and shade tents, where you can resupply on food and water. Typically situated about five to seven miles apart, they’re stocked with pretzels, squares of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, orange slices, coolers filled with water and electrolyte drink, bowls brimming with M&Ms and energy gels—all free for the taking.

  My plan is to eat my own supply of Gu and to supplement with real food from aid stations if and when I feel like it. Running with most of my own calories means I don’t need to linger for long, except to refill my bottles with water and electrolyte tablets, and can be in and out in a minute or less. When I run onto the ski resort deck, at roughly the halfway mark, I’m greeted by a gaggle of volunteers yelling, “You’re the first woman! Go, go, go!”

  What?!

  My race strategy for Jemez had been modest: Finish and don’t get hurt. Winning had never factored in, and I’d had no clue I was in front. I don’t know how much lead time I have. For all I know, it could be five minutes, a luxurious spread in shorter races but a narrow margin in an ultra, when you can burn through that time stopping to tie your shoes or going to the bathroom. Suddenly I feel like a rabbit being chased.

  At mile 25, in my excitement to stay out in front, I stumble on a sharp rock and catapult forward. It takes all my effort to catch myself midfall, a spasmodic jerking that sends the torque of my body weight straight into my right calf. I stop for a moment to catch my breath and assess. My muscle is tightly coiled but seems stabl
e and more or less okay. I have six miles to the finish. It’s time to change my strategy. Don’t fall, don’t get hurt, I coach myself. Don’t fuck this up. Do NOT fuck this up!

  For ultrarunners, tripping is an occupational hazard. The trails are strewn with rocks and roots, downed trees and occasionally sand. On technical descents where the footing is tricky, you want to keep your feet light and quick and your stride short, skipping over obstacles. The key to staying upright is to look ahead about ten feet. This enables your mind to register what’s coming before you’re actually upon it and directs your feet to find the holes between the hazards. As I learned in whitewater kayaking and skiing, it’s best to look where you want to go, not where you don’t want to go—a good strategy for life, too. If you turn your head to appraise a cliff or a tree or a boulder, your body will almost certainly follow.

  Whenever I get wobbly on my feet, I know it means my blood sugar has dipped and I need to eat. Not in ten minutes, or two, but right now. I rip open a Gu packet with my teeth and choke down a couple of dollops and keep running. If I stay upright, moving forward and thinking clearly, I can win this.

  The next thing I know, I’m on the moon. Almost exactly a year ago, the Las Conchas Fire, the largest wildfire in New Mexico history, raged across these canyons, burning more than 150,000 acres of forest. The scorched, barren mountainside is littered with barbecued trees toppled every which way, like blackened matchsticks. Beneath my feet, the trail is hot and silty with silver ash, and there’s not a lick of shade.

  There are many excellent diversionary tactics to pass the time and take your mind off the pain and frustration of ultrarunning. Self-loathing is an obvious place to start. I spend a few miles berating myself for the stupidity of trying to run thirty-one miles. Why, when I was perfectly happy running up and down my little mountains, with nothing at stake, did I need to do this? I think about Steve and wallow for some time in regret. How selfish I was to leave my husband alone on the trail! I haven’t seen him in hours, and it’s unlikely he’ll catch me now.