My school computer last night stated the obvious: “Your
start-up disk is almost full.”
While my iMac doesn’t have enough hot Air to make it down the runway,
and my short-term memory has given me the same poignant and stark error message
lately, I know that my long-term memories are still intact, and there are new
memories that, despite my goldfish like forgetfulness, will be forever
engrained in my head.
Yesterday’s Halfsy was one of those new memories.
Time doesn’t matter, and yet it does. Our finishing time didn’t matter, but
having the time to spend with my friends and family during the half-marathon did.
I told my running partners that I was dictating the pace and
when we would walk. After this
statement came out of my mouth, we all laughed: it was a ridiculous thing to
say, because that’s exactly how I bossed everyone around during my college
cross country days, except that the pace was a lot faster.
We started the race on my home turf: Seacrest Field, which
is adjacent to East High School.
Prior to the start, Ann, Courtney, Steph, Shelby, and I used the “real”
facilities at East, instead of waiting in long porta-potty lines. Julie Harder and Brian were also in the
building (Julie cut through East to see us on both sides of the building). My husband, Brian, and I are friends
with Rod Fowler, the news anchor at Lincoln’s ABC affiliate. Brian emailed Rob to let him know that
I was running the Halfsy despite being recently diagnosed with cancer—for the
third time. Ann Ringlein also talked
to Camilia Orti (a news reporter who is engaged to one of Wesleyan’s former
runners. Before the race, Camilia
met us in front of the south gym entrance for a quick pre-race interview. When we got down to the starting line,
near the football stadium entrance, we took pictures with our additional
running mates, Ashley and Peg (Courtney’s running friends from Omaha), and we
made an additional run to the portas—I spent time in the porta during the “Star
Spangled Banner.” Even though we
knew we were lining up near the end of the pack, we were surprised at how far
back we were; it took us three minutes to get to the starting line.
Our first loop was around the north side of East High. I pointed out my parking spot, and then
I spotted a woman in front of me wearing a shirt that said, “I have a brain
tumor…what’s your excuse.” I
introduced myself and explained my situation. It turns out you can meet people during races (and then
become their Facebook friends). We
ran by East’s marquee, which has a looped feed of announcements and promotions,
including a message that says “I can, I will!—AK” on it. Camilia got a photo of the display, and
we turned up 70th street in a giant pack.
The hills are no longer my friends; generally, I do not get
enough oxygen into my lungs and limbs going up, so it was nice when we turned
through Holmes Lake onto the flat road.
Several spectators were along the lake section, including East High
students and my oncologist, Dr. Green.
We then started our long progression down Normal Boulevard and were
accosted by several spectators.
Chuck Clifford, my State Farm insurance agent, ran with us for a couple
of driveways. I told him that I needed
to reduce my car insurance deductible (it’s a very unreasonable $1,000). Brian rode his bicycle along the route,
and we saw him fixing some large bricks on a retaining wall that he had
previously knocked over.
I made it through about eight miles before we had to stop
and walk. My lungs were holding up
fine; however, my hip pointers were screaming the phrase “Overuse!” at me. We didn’t really like the stretch that
went by the Devaney Center—we could see other runners coming back toward us
(and this made us jealous).
Bridget, Michelle, Michelle, Amy, and several other runners
wearing “I can. I will!” shirts ran the course backward to catch our pack, and
then they ran/walked back with us to the finish. After cresting the top of the bridge, on the pedestrian
walkway by Pinnacle Bank Arena, we had a nice downhill to the finish. On the right side of me, the girls
chanted, “I can,” and then the left side replied, “I will.” This cheer continued through the finish
bubble where we were gifted with finisher medals and foil blankets. Runza was handing out mini-Runzas, but
I was not interested in solid food yet.
Camilia interviewed me post race, and she also interviewed Court.
Initially, our plan was to eat at Old Chicago, but, because
of the 45-minute wait, we went to MoMo’s.
Our team got a tremendous response from the crowd—we all had
on “I can. I will!” Nike Element hoodies.
Several spectators chose to yell our mantra as we ran/walked by.
Julie wore a Nemo hat, and I figured out long after the race
that it was to signify my three-second goldfish memory.
My parents held up signs that said, “I can. I will” and
“Croc It.”
I heard lots of people cheering for us.
The day was perfect, and I ran a lot faster than I thought I
would. And like I said, the time
was irrelevant, but the memories of me finishing a half-marathon on little training
and energy from my team will stay with me always.
A THANK YOU:
I don’t claim to be a poet—I never had the opportunity to
have Bill Kloefkorn for a professor at Nebraska Wesleyan—but I did write my
college coach and lifelong friend, Ann Ringlein, a poem at the conclusion of my
college running career. While so
many people in my life have stepped up to help me in various ways over the past
five years, Ann has run a successful campaign to earn the spot as one of my top
supporters. My poem is not on my iMac
Air—the device that contains most of my recent experiences—but it is on my
computer that houses many of my old memories.
A thank you note is not enough for this woman. While I am told I have a strong
personality, the same can be said for Ann. There would be several sections added to this poem, but I
can’t even begin to write down all she has done for me the past five years.
To Ann: (Coach & Friend)
It was only yesterday,
when I was sitting at Subway,
tears flooding into my Mt. Dew.
You sat across from me,
and listened while I read off
my list of grievances--
& they were really long.
I told you I hated my coach
and that I had started to
hate the very thing
that had consumed my life
for as long as I could remember.
You nodded your head,
you held out your welcome,
& I knew then that I would
be happy with you
as my coach, my friend.
& then, somehow,
in a flash,
the moments have
all become frozen
in memories,
or mental photographs.
Here I am,
left to reflect
on those times
that we created
together.
That first track meet at Doane,
when I was so scared &
ready to lose it,
you were out
in the hall,
arms wrapped around
my heavy shoulders,
telling me
that it was okay to face fear.
That the fear probably wouldn’t
bite as hard as I could.
& then I felt strong.
There were all of those practices
when I wanted to give up,
but you gave me that little extra push.
You told me the long run really wasn’t that far
(although I didn’t always want to believe it),
or there was just one more interval,
& it would only make me stronger.
So I believed you & it worked.
Those times when I was upset
and blew up for the wrong reasons,
you managed to forgive me,
& you helped me through
my personal struggles,
even though they had little,
or nothing to do with
the fact that I was your runner.
Every day you were there to
fill the void with some insane story
about you trapping a woodchuck
under a garbage can,
or how your dog (with two eyes)
ate Ray’s shoes,
or any other way to make those
miles disappear & the laughs
erupt from our cold, fatigued bodies.
And I will remember always,
every second that we spent together:
Those long trips in the van,
carrying on about getting lost,
or not stopping to go to the bathroom.
Exploring the country
from San Fran to Boston,
running into crazy people on the Pier
to cutting off my spikes
because I’m too cold & mad to do it myself.
Watching you stop on a run to
pick up acorns,
or dandelions to feed your squirrel
that peed on my hand.
Laughing at your pronunciation
of the word “S’more,”
which sounded
like “Some More”
at cross country camp.
Watching your face when Jess and I
gave you those Hominy cans
we decorated to get a rise out of you.
Seeing your face light up
when I ran that 5:05 mile
& after nationals
when Steph and I finished in the top 35,
for All-American.
Making me feel better when the
whole world seemed to be falling apart.
Stepping on my head in the weight room
when I ran 7-minute mile pace
on my 13-mile run with Fran & Steph.
Riding your bike with me,
or doing extra miles
so I didn’t have to do my workouts all alone.
This list could potentially be infinite.
We’ve done so many things that I
have engraved in my mind.
And while cross country doesn’t last forever,
those memories will always be a part of my life.
Thank you for taking me in
under your wing, like one of those animals
you have in your backyard.
(& thanks for not pulling off my tail).
Love, Andrea
ON A SIDE NOTE:
I can see the cancer center’s infusion staff slyly snitching
cupcakes, and I am reminded of the cupcake story from my hospital stay during
leukemia. Courtney brought me
Jones’ cupcakes, and I didn’t see the need to eat four of them myself, so I
gave one to my nurse, Melissa. She
came back to my room and proudly exclaimed that she had traded her cupcake to
another nurse in exchange for a “get-out-of-giving-an-enema” card.
