“Alright, let’s go.”
We donned several layers, topped off with our undergrad
lacrosse sweatpants. Walking through the hotel doors and out into the cold we
had to chuckle at what we were about to do. But no matter how painful the
prospect was, we knew we would do it. We were hardy, resilient New Englanders,
and given the larger picture that day, it was the smallest of challenges. We
reached Erin’s house where she was waiting in her winter hat and holding a cup
of coffee. Her dogs circled the kitchen in anticipation. It could have been any
other day. Years after we had graduated college, after having many collective
experiences together as teammates, here we were gathered once again. Whenever
our group assembles, we fall back into similar rhythms. Talking shit, laughing,
eating, drinking; “we insult because we love.” Although now we’ve grown slightly
kinder in our old age, and sometimes allow the admiration, loyalty, and love
for one another to sit more comfortably at the surface.
Erin and Meriel used two credit cards to scrape the
windshield of the Prius as the sun finally rose. We chatted and quietly laughed on our way to Indian Brook as
the dogs whined and fogged up the back windows with their hot breath. The cold
hit hard again as we forced ourselves out of the comfort of the car and onto
the trail. The dogs weaved through the forest as we hiked the leaf-littered
path. The German Shepherd nervously herded us, in the midst of so much
uncertainty, allowing her natural instincts to guide her.
The trail ended at a rock peninsula surrounded by the mist-covered
lake. Only our voices disturbed the still air. Erin briefly laid out the game
plan and we walked back towards the tree cover. The anticipation of the cold
that awaited was paralyzing. I thought about Erin’s Mom and her
one-for-the-record-books mid-December effort. I felt like a rookie by
comparison. Just like getting out of bed in the morning, or lacing up your sneakers
for a long winter run, sometimes you need to will yourself forward because your
body is saying “nah, I’m good.” Erin’s fleece, long sleeve, and pants already were hanging
from a tree. Meriel and I stood across from her and tried to catch-up. Wearing so many layers seemed like a
great idea until they all had to come off.
We crept to the water’s edge, shoes were removed, and then towels
were dropped. The grey stone underfoot carried a small bit of warmth from the
previous day – an admittedly desperate observation with the air temperature hovering at 30
degrees. Meriel, then Erin, bravely and awkwardly took shallow dives into the calm,
clear water. Hearing their gasps and hollers made my entry a little bit harder
but I quickly followed, emitting an uncontrolled gasp of my own as I hit the
water. The dogs stood at the edge and looked at us like we were crazy as we
treaded water, hooted, laughed. After our very brief swim, we headed to shore.
I managed to pull myself out of the water even with all my limbs pulsing. I didn’t feel the predicted urge to
reach for my towel because my body was on fire. Everything around me slowed and sharpened. Every falling leaf,
every barefoot step, the rough bark of the tree, the shuffling of the dogs; never
had I felt so aware of the flow of blood and breath through my body. It was easily
one of the more lucid moments of my life.
The cold had stoked a fire in my veins that stayed with me
the entire day. It was there a few hours later as we sat in the chapel at St.
Michael’s College listening to the service honoring Erin’s adventurous,
accomplished, and much-adored mother. It strengthened as I stood in the
cemetery overlooking Lake Champlain. It stayed with me as we raised continuous
pints of Guinness at the bar in her memory for the rest of the afternoon. And I
felt a remnant of it as I hit the pavement two weeks ago for my first long
outdoor run in almost a year and a half. Snow blew horizontally across the Charles River as my sneakers sank into mud and slush and I couldn’t help but smile
thinking about how, despite the snow, it wasn’t nearly as cold as I had felt on
that day.
As funny as it sounds, the skinny dip gave me back something
I had lost amongst the injuries and the associated struggles. The forgotten
strength of my heart and lungs. The forgotten power of pulling every corner of
your mind into one moment. And the
forgotten facets of our lost mothers that we don’t realize we carry with us
always. In our laughter, our eyes, our intonations; in ways we may not even see.
As Erin plunged into the water that day she paid tribute to her mother in the truest
way possible. To me that day
marked the first few steps down a trail that Erin was used to sharing with her
Mom. I was honored to accompany
her. And I hope she knows that she was with me two weeks ago as a resurgence of
breath and a revival of stride plunged me back into the cold, snowy streets of
Boston and returned me home 16 miles later, fire in my veins.
So here we go. I’ve started running again, hopefully without
breaking my foot again. And I’m going to try to run the 117th Boston
Marathon in six short weeks. Most importantly, I’ll be running to honor Erin’s
mother, Maura, my mother, and too many other parents, siblings, friends, and
co-workers who have been lost over the last few years to cancer. Please join me
in doing what little we can. http://www.runDFMC.org/2013/martinam
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