I think I might be boring. I was exciting, once. I think. Ove the last two years I have allowed the voices of my babies to crowd out the screaming girl inside of me. I think she’s lost her voice, and a little pissy about it. I have been roaming aimlessly, little red running hood looking for my head. It’s motherhood, not the kids. She’s a bitch, making me put them first, making me leave the person in me behind. I’ve tried so hard. I made it so long. And now I am nothing, but a skin suit that makes dinner, helps with homework, and carries out judgments of time-out. Some days their tiny sweet voices scrape against the inside of my skull like a spoon.

"The talk"

(In the car on the way to track)
ME: Boys do you want to have babies when you grow up?
WILLEM: yes because kids wike to pet dogs, and I wike dogs.
COOPER: Not really. I used to but, not anymore.
ME: Why not?
COOPER: Well, right now it's pretty much disgusting to me.
ME: Why?
COOPER: Well, it's the sex. That idea grosses me out.
ME: *giggling*
COOPER: It gives me the eebby jeebies really. I used to want kids until I found how they happen.
ME: *still giggling* Someday you won't feel that way about it, but honestly that's how I felt about when I was your age. And yet I have not one but TWO kids.
COOPER: *smiles smoothly* Yeah, maybe.
(Willem remained oblivious throughout the entire conversation! I think he went to his happy place)

Preview Chitown '08

The promised second entry. As I completed my morning run, it is Tuesday after all, my mind wandered to the Marathon, of course. I know that I'm not in the best shape I'll ever be in, but I'm in the best shape I've ever been in. The recent change from Top 100 to Elite has taken me back to another race. A high school race. The race that got me a scholarship to college.
Don't be mistaken, the change to Elite doesn't mean that I'm suddenly amazing. It means I've been given a place on the line next some women that already are amazing, an opportunity to prove myself. An opportunity of a life time. It's a cruxt moment, granted to me by a generous race director.

In 8th grade I won the largest Invitational meet of the year, the Rensselear Invitational. There were some 200 odd girls in that meet. It was wonderful. 9th grade I place 40 something. After that I was the only girl on the team so we didn't go, until my Senior year. About two weeks before the meet I told my coach I really, really wanted to run it even though it wasn't on the schedule. For the next two weeks he begged the AD to get us added, and the AD begged the Invite's coordinator to add us. The Thursday before the meet we got word that it was a go.

Saturday morning we arrived to find long row of neat boxes evenly divided by straight, fat, white lines looking very geometric and official. We walked this line to it's end to find our box; skinny, orange, uneven lines, an asymmetrical after-thought. The number was cockeyed. I liked that.
I led from the gun, won by over 30 seconds, and my future college coach just happened to be there recruiting. He kept asking, "who is that?" and no one could answer because we hadn't been to that invite in the two past years. Even if we had I would've sucked. It wasn't a PR, but it was what I had hoped it would be, a cruxt moment utilized perfectly.

I had a feeling about that race. I just knew that I had to be there. Going into it everything felt like it was just taking care of itself the way it was supposed to. I made that opportunity for myself. This time the opportunity has been presented to me. This time there are no boxes painted in rows. If there were, mine would be the lopsided misfit on the end, the after-thought (it feels better when it's the result of someone else's command). I have a feeling about this race. I have a really good feeling about it. So while I know someday I'll run faster, on race day I'll run the fastest I ever have. Somehow I know it.

Marathoning Mommy

There will be two entries today... For a blog about my adventures as a Mommy who wants to be a fast marathoner I have never included any sort of documentation to show how I try to balance these two full-time jobs. A Glimpse at one day... then an over view of a week.

Tuesday/Thursday:

5:00am WAke up get dressed Drink a cup of Coffee in the quiet...
5:15 wake everyone else! load pajama boys in the car sleepy eyed and all
5:45-6:45: Drop Casey off at the train station
6:45: Boys must do chores, make beds, clean room etc. I make breakfast.
7:00am EAT BREAKFAST! and clean up dishes
7:20-8:00 It's a mad house getting lunches ready, hair brushed... nagging the boys to get dressed and brush their teeth. Hunting for library books etc.
8:10 head to bus stop with cooper...
8:25 back home with Willem, who is hopefully still clean.
8:25-8:50 some down time with Willem "Curious George"
8:50 Head to bus stop with Willem...
9:00 Good bye Willie! I head for a morning run... secretly racing the Bus out of the complex and waving at Mr. Sunshine as I do...
9:30 head back in from said run.
9:30-10:00 Computer time
10:00-11:00 Laundry other Miscellaneous Chores
11:00 Brunch
11:20 Shower (I know I'm gross) get dressed take vitamins.. "me" time
12:00 make lunch
12:20 get Willem off the bus
12:30 we eat lunch
12:50-1:30 reading time
1:30-3:00 Willem's rest time, sometimes I get a nap here, other times I do more chores
3:00-4:00 Willie and I play together or separate... depends on what he wants
4:00 Cooper gets off the buss
4:00-4:30 They eat a snack I pack water and such for my evening track workout
4:45- Out the door to lake forest
5:15 leave the car at the train station for Casey, Shelley picks us up and takes us the the track
5:25 arrive at track, the boys play like mad men (thursday's they have a playdate instead), and I run a workout 10x1000 or 6x1mile with a 2-3 mile warm up and cool down.
6:45 Casey arrives from work, and depending on the boys either takes them home or stays and watches the workout
7:15 head home
7:45 arrive and begin dinner
8:00pm eat dinner
8:30 boys to bed
9:00 me to bed


Monday's, Wednesday's and Friday's belong to the boys. I don't run at all on Mondays. I clean, and cook a real family meal, and play soccer, or tag with the boys in the afternoon. Sometimes we go for a hike, or to the beach. On Wednesday's I run once in the morning while Willem is gone. Then We go to Cooper's Gymnastics class in the afternoon, and Friday I run once in the morning and the boys and I play together in the afternoon. That's how we get balance around here! Weekends are when I "work" I'll be gone in the morning until 10 or 11 getting in a long run one day, and some "me" time the other, while Casey hangs out with boys. Definitely a lot in a day but what is temporary to me, is permanent to my sons. I don't want them looking back on their childhood and remembering long days filled with boredom. I want them to look back and remember days filled with vivacious laughter and merriment. Now, I did have one or two days this cycle where on a Wednesday or Friday I popped a movie in and lied on the ground and the boys watched a movie because I was too tired to move. That is a rarity they grant me without protest. So it may be hard to crest 100mpw with kind of schedule, but that's okay with me.

agrarian arts

While my belly grew out of control, stretching so tight it felt it would rip with Willem inside it, I was forced on bed rest. Powerless. I thought Willem would own my body forever. In the delivery room I felt my SI joint spread apart to make room as all 9 lbs of him decended through my small frame. The pain was intense. I wore my regular clothes home and was decieved in thinking this meant my body was the same. It wasn't. It was in pieces, and composed unrecognizably. It was as if I weren't in me anymore, but inside someone else peering out of darkness into two strange peep holes. This new body wouldn't cooperate. It kept breaking down and needing fixed. Injections, threats of surgery, and several layoffs due to hips that didn't want to run. Whose useless body was this they stuck me with? I got fed up with the weakness of this strange container. Finally, I decided this new body needed a mother. It needed someone to care for it, raise it, teach it right and wrong, and ultimately to discipline it with care. So I took time to teach it how I wanted it to behave, to become what I needed it to be. That in itself took me 3 years. Three years of making running a stranger, to get to know this body. My frame allowed me visitation with running, but not full custody. Not until 15 months ago.

15 months ago. That's when I dedicated myself to peeling back the paper on my potential as a runner. 15 months ago I was flaccid and out of shape, the marks of childbirth still lay claim my physique (despite the fact that Willem was 3 at that time). It's only been in the last 3 months that have noticed the land scape of my body change. Lines began to cut their way up my thighs. Rows plowed across my belly as what fat was there melted away. Now the remaining relics of my pregnancy are the stretchmarks that climb up my lower abdomen like ivy on some stately brick wall. Those I want to keep as a trophy of motherhood. Where once I was round I am now shadowed with crevasses. Don't get me wrong. I am no Deena, or Shalane. By comparison I am girlish and undeveloped. My lines are still soft and gentle. However, they exsist and are proof of a planting and a rebirth.

mirror, mirror

I am delving for the first time into Sylvia Plath. I had read "Daddy" and have known of her to be a feminist must read. A dark, disturbed, unsettled soul that put itself out of misery. However, my creative writing professors kept her from me. The pushed me towards Sharon Olds instead. The Bell Jar alluded to why they might do that. I saw my semantics and lexicon in hers. I thought I also saw more. The reflection seemed odd staring back up at me from the page, as if it were something I may have written 55 years ago. Thanks to Bridget for sending me this link http://archive.salon.com/books/feature/2000/05/30/plath1/index2.html to confirm my suspicions that this woman is this woman in a different life, with a different husband, kids, life. I don't know now whether to be terrified or just exuberant. I do think the differences make all the difference, and that they have murdered my muse.

Depth

Today the boys and I went to get their good friend Max and take him to the pool. On the way home we listened to this story. http://thestory.org/ of Jabari. Will and Max ignored it while Cooper listened intently. He found the story to be delightfully funny, and enlightening all at once. It amazed me that he found any depth in it at all. It was way over his head. It was like watching a baby discover themselves in a mirror. Jabari's insights were extremely deep, and Cooper's sense of them reflected that depth. Cooper's response to the epiphany Jabari has when he sees his relfection in a mirror while imprison was, "well of course! We are all in charge of ourselves. It's good that he figured that out. Now he can make good choices for himself. Prisoners just don't know that." I just sat silent. While I know he didn't understand everything he understood more more deeply than most. Not all jails have bars...

Come Together

The boys watching me, Nell, and Katy recieve our awards at the 4 on the 4th race.

Man it's been forever since I've had a stolen moment to post. My journey has finally led me to an open road. Not so much hacking down trees with my machete! I finally ran an honest PR. My first Since Westchester, eight months ago. I haven't had any serious injuries, and have thwarted all suspicious injury threats. I've kept my threat level at yellow!

The 25k Championships were a neat experience, but this years 4 on the 4th is something I will probably never forget. I went into it expecting to win without a challenge, to break the course record, and win 200$. Less than a mile in some red head blazes by me and think to myself, "Who the hell is that? She'd better be in magazines and shit!" For the remainder of the race, I went over all the work I've put in over the last year, all the competitions I'd run. The people I've beaten. The people that have beaten me. I couldn't think of anyone who had ever, ever passed me like that, ever. She was so confident and smooth. I couldn't help but admire this mystery woman.

It was Katy McGregor. She beat me by over a minute. I was thankful though. She was in magazines and shit. It had confirmed that myself doubt was off base, and my aspirations were well grounded. I am on the right track.

The 40 mile drive one way to cross train in the winter of 06/07, pushing a +40lb willem 9 or more miles, Casey working jobs he hates getting up at 5:00 and riding the train an hour one way, miles on the treadmills at the gym (for the babysitting), screaming at the boys during intervals, not teaching (boohoo), watching the neighbor's kid so she'll take the boys on Thursday's so I can do a key workout with the group, weekends away to run races (missed mother's day this year). All of the little sacrifices all of us have made they are all beginning to pay off.

Now is the flat road. The homestead you set up for yourself with all your hard work. I have been told, "you are a racer." "If it were between you and another runner near the finish, I'd put money on you every time" "you race like you are possessed". Of course. I'm not just running for me, to validify my own sacrifices, I'm running to prove to my husband, and two sons, that their sacrifices are worth it too. I have more to lose, and nothing to lose all at the same time. It's the best place to be. As one reported asked me, "You are a mother, with two children, don't you consider yourself an anomaly?" At the time I couldn't respond, it seemed like a stupid question. It is what it is. Now, I think I'd say it makes me a threat. I have more to run for, and less to lose. On one hand, losing means less money, no emotional certificate of sacrificial worthiness. On the other hand, I know my guys will love me no matter where I finish. My life is bigger than just running, just one race. It's not all about me, so who really cares. This is a journey for the Gasways, and a lesson in hard work.

The boys see their dad board the train in the wee hours of the morning. They watch us save money. Soon they will see the pay off when we buy a house. It's the same lesson with my running, only they ride the train too.

My journey with JSR

First of all what is JSR? Jenny Spangler Racing, the newest racing team on the block. Jenny, her work ethic, and philosphy are premise for what the team looks for in it's members. Remember her setting the Junior American record as a 19 year old, in 2:33:51 (still standing), then breaking the US Master's record in 2:32:38. Who does that? Who runs times that similar that far apart? The same person that goes into the 1996 trials ranked 61st and wins, quite easily. She ran a 2:29:54 on that day. Her work ethic is intimidating, her modesty is disarming, her approachablitiy is a godsend.

When you approach Jenny about her successes she smiles sheepishly and laughs. Then she says something like, "yeah". No elaborate retellings here. It just is what it is (to her); a past race. In 1996 I was a senior in high school. I had a Gwen Coogan poster on my wall, above my bed. After the trials I tore it down. I had a new hero. As I watched this girl, no one knew, beat all the women I had put on pedistals I thought, "that could be me. I could do that someday". Yet I had no clue how she did it. I had some serious misconseptions. I couldn't imagine Jenny Spangler doing laundry, or working a job. She was so fast, and fast people didn't do those things.

When I moved to Gurnee 11 years later I stumbled upon the Jenny Spangler Running Programs. I couldn't believe it! It was THE Jenny Spangler and she was coaching anyone who wanted to be coached! Two days after I moved to Gurnee I went to her track workout. I had been running 35 miles a week, and hadn't done speed work since I left Indiana State University in 2001. Through the program I met the Current members of JSR; Kevin Claffey, Steve Clark, Shelley Cook, Patrick Etherington, Amy Haney, Brad Moats, Rodger Tucker, Rob Wiley, and Dave Zeisler. After meeting them I felt like an ungrateul slacker.

Each person had a full time job, a family, and ran at least 50-60 miles a week. Oh and Jenny does do laundry, and all other June Cleaver tasks on top of her training and coaching. Over the next 4 months this group of people came to be my close friends, and mentors (though I'd never give them the satifaction of knowing it until now). I had spent the years since college working full time (as a teacher), having and raising my sons, and running max 45 miles a week. I just couldn't handle more without getting sick or injured. I felt I was destined to running pergatory for life. That place for those who love to run, but haven't dedicated themselves to finding their potential. After meeting up with this group I decided I couldn't teach full time. It was incredibly taxing physically (I'm not a typical teacher). So I got a job as an Office Manager. Since then I have progressed gradually.

The entire group as a whole is it's own entity. A group of blue collar racers, whose first priority is family. Each person brings a quality that is much needed. Rob is the get it done man. Amy is a fountain of encouragment. Dave is the brainiac. Brad reminds all of us what "workhorse" means. Steve keeps us honest. Kevin is Mr. Sunshine. Shelley keeps us all in line (thank goodness). Patrick's determiniation is contagious. Roger is the storyteller, and tough guy. I'd say I'm the comic relief. Jenny and Miki are obviously the core. One thing each of us has is a positive attitude, humility, one hell of a work ethic. None of us has ever won an NCAA title, or run an American Record, or even broken 15 minutes in the 5k (Rob will this year). Each of us is on a quest to discover our potential, while balancing something greater than our own quest: Life. Our families are amazingly supportive of us, and eachother as well. Our kids play together. We are a tribe.

We recently debuted at the Chicago Shamrock Shuffle. Everyone, except me, ran a PR. At the finish each teammate waited on the rest screaming out words of encouragement. Each teammate's finish was as exciting as if they were the champion, or breaking a record. Jenny has done American Road Racing a huge favor. She has made success accessible to those who want it, not those that have it. Everyone has a different amount of potential, but very few endeavour to discover what it is. Those that do often surprise themselves. We may be a band of unknowns now, but as each of us closes in on our ultimate goal we, as a group, will surprise not only ourselves.

If it weren't for this group of amazing runners I wouldn't have run a 10k pr in November (35:58) or won Gasparilla or the Shamrock Shuffle, and this is just my first year. I would be sitting on my couch thinking, "I COULD be good if..." They have shown me what it takes, and given me the swift kick in the ass I needed. I am definitely reminded of my infancy in comparison to the rest of the team. I think I'm hot stuff because I win a race and Shelley PR's by 3 minutes. Suddenly I'm acutely aware that my time sucked, and I have a lot of work to do. Not to mention when we train together there are times when running becomes difficult due to our laughter. I know that if you asked the other's their feeling would be the same, the group gives them strength and steals their excuses. So if you see a bunch of runners wearing tops with a "JS" on the front and a "61" on the back, you'll know what it's all about. You can explain, "that jersey is a tough one to earn. Those runners are people, a tribe, not just runners, not just a racing team".

Shamrock Shuffle and JSR

Well, again a Major American Road Race, this time only local runners showed. I knew going into this one that I could win as long as no one "amazing" showed up. Since the World Cross Country Championships were on the same day that wasn't a problem. I had been having a pretty challenging time staying healthy for the two weeks prior. I was hoping to run a sub 28:00, or around 5:30 pace, and my runs two weeks out reinforced that my goal was quite reasonable. Then came the plagues... I was smart and backed off. This helped me to get over the worst of the symptoms before the race. Really, the only thing that haunted me during the race was fatigue. I was lucky, it could have been a repeat of Detroit. So here's the low down. Careful I'm going to be point blank, not for the sensitive.

I went to the bathroom just prior to the start, and realized I was bleeding through. I have quite a history of running like shit when it's "that" time. That's all I needed one more thing to try to fight off, mentally, and physically, during the race. At the start line I just felt like, well there's not a lot I can do other than let my body do what it's willing today. Basically, the race was just a battle between my mind and my body... isn't every race? My first two miles were 5:35 pace and felt fine. Everything felt smooth, and comfortable. The third mile was where my body just said, "no way". It was like I fell off a cliff.

The third mile my body just wouldn't go. It refused, no matter how I tried to trick it. When I saw the third mile was a 6:11 I was a little more than pissed. Ten days earlier during and easy 9 miler I had 3 miles at that pace, and they all felt EASY. What the hell is going on that I'm running my easy pace in a race and feeling so tired? There was no lactic acid burn, no feeling as though my lungs would explode. It was just like that dream where you are running in tar. I just hung on to Karen and kept CLaudia in sight. At this point I knew I wasn't going to run a PR, I wasn't going to be close to my goal time. My body was rebelling and it was going to be a battle just to get it to the finish.

I was happy to see that mile 4 was sub six, though still not as fast as I had hoped. At least my efforts to wrangle my body, and force it to do what I wanted were successful. Okay lets be honest... to do more of what I wanted. My body made it quite clear that the 5:35-5:40 pace it was trained to run simply wasn't happening. I was making it quite clear that the 6:10 pace it wanted to run was unacceptable. So the last two miles were 5:50 pace. A compromise I guess.

At mile 4 I gave my body a big "Fuck you" and went for the win. Claudia was right there, Karen was getting tired. I figured, "hey, if I'm not going to run what I wanted, I'm going to win it." The cool part is that Steve was right there to witness my rebellion. I put in a surge up the hill on the way to the finish, and as I crossed the line I thought I was going to puke (for me, a normal side effect of my period). I was so worried I was going to puke on My JSR teammates. The final mile, a 5:49.

While the win was sweet, it is a big enormous race, I was extremely disappointed that I never felt the burn that comes with race effort. As I reflected on the race I decided, while it bugs me as a runner that I was unable to get an accurate read on where I am, it's pretty cool to me that i ran 29:00 and felt like shit. That's some progress. Honestly, it's the JSR team, and Jenny that I have to thank for that progress. I believe, if left to my own devises I'd be sitting on my coach saying, "I think I'm better than those girls. I could've... I should, I would...only if".

The whole premise of the team is that we all have excuses, viable ones, that should keep us from being successful, from reaching our potential. None of us accept those excuses. Everyone has a family, a job, a life outside the sport. Everyone works their ass off. See the Who is JSR entry to find out more....

IT'S NOT ADD

Cooper came home from school yesterday, immediately told me he was on red. That's code for "I got into trouble". In his class, as in many elementary classrooms, there is a behavior system in place. Green=good, yellow=made a few bad choices, red=really bad, or many bad choices. In his room his teacher sends home a report for each kid daily. I love the idea. It's on a monthly calendar and the kids have to color in the circle for that date with the color they were on at the end of the day. Accountability... great. Cooper had been on yellow and red for things like, "put foot on hand rail while doing down stairs" or "took longer route to put up coat in hallway, to play with another child" I'm thinking, why are we sweating the little stuff. This is a first grade classroom doesn't this happen a lot with everyone? I let it go. I trust the teacher's judgement, and initial every day. Yesterday Cooper was on red for a real reason, "talking while the teacher was talking".

Later in the day, out of no where, he says, "Mom I have a lot more writing on my chart than everyone else." "yeah Cooper"... Long pause. "does that mean I"m bad?" I wanted to say, "no it means your making bad choices." but I just said, "No". HOnestly I think he's been making normal 7 year old choices and getting a rap sheet for it. Now he's got nothing left to lose so why not make choices that really are bad. Not to mention he now has poor judgment in deciding what truly are bad choices. I'm a little pissy about it honestly. He has such a negative self image at this point, and why? Because his teacher wants to document instances he feels demonstrate ADD tendancies, when It's been proven the kid doesn't have ADD by a medical professional? What a load of bullshit. He's 7. He deserves the best possible environment in which to learn. Not to be bulldozed because his teacher wants to prove me wrong.

I AM NOT MEDICATING MY SON SO HIS TEACHER CAN HAVE A CLASSROOM OF 7 YEAR OLD ZOMBIES! 30% of 1st grade boys are put on medication and 90% of those recommendations come from teachers. TEACHERS ARE NOT DOCTOR'S. TEACHERS DO NOT HAVE THE PROFESSIONAL BACKGROUND TO QUALIFY THEM TO DIAGNOSE THEIR STUDENTS. I AM A TEACHER FOR GOD SAKES. Teach students based on their learning style, and in a way appropriate for their developmental needs. A 7 year old has at MOST a 7 minute attention span, the need to be up and about, and the need to socialize. DO NOT SIT THEM AT DESKS AND ASK THEM TO DO WORKSHEETS QUIETLY, and then PUnish them for talking and diagnose them with ADD because they can't "pay attention". THAT IS DEVELOPMENTALLY INAPPROPRIATE! THAT IS EDUCATIONAL MALPRACTICE!

**Reading this 5 years later I can still say, "right on to me". Cooper is 11 and still super mellow. This teacher ended up getting "re-assigned" to "school counselor" after much advocating on my part. It helped immensely that I got many parents, who were feeling the same way, to speak up. During his time with this teacher Cooper lost nearly 8 months of learning, his dibels decreased, his AR score decreased, it truly was educational malpractice (I had to keep all these scores in order to prove it, so hang on to everything you get from school). He went from being considered gifted, to being BELOW grade level (based on test scores). It took me until this school year to catch him back up. He now reads 3 grade levels above his own, and tested "advanced proficient" on 2 of three categories on the state test. This entry should be an warning and an inspiration to other parents. Do your own homework. We should know our children the best, and know how to advocate for them.**

beautiful Boy

It's nice to take in a low mileage week. It gives me time to focus on other stuff. Had cooper's P/T conference. His teacher insists, despite a Doctor's evaluation, that Cooper has ADD! The kid has the activity level of a premo athlete! Go figure. He's not distractable, he's bored, and doesn't want to sit still. He's seven, His parents were both D1 athletes, and he's very smart. challenge him, let him move about. It seems to me to be educational malpractice to ask 7 year olds to sit in their seats for 6 hours a day. It's not developmentally appropriate! I have watched his self esteem deflate over this school year. It's been extremely difficult to watch. I don't really know what to do. I'm probably going to ask for a different teacher. One that's willing to be flexible for their students. This teacher has had one discipline problem after another with his entire class. I think it can be assumed that he is not meeting the needs of his students, and from cooper's deflation, I think I can also assume he's blaming the kids. It's all too common now for teacher to toss aside their own accountability for an misdiagnosis of ADD. I've seen it myself as a teacher. This is going to take some finess... Something I don't have. Good luck to me... More luck to Cooper.

Gasparilla 15k

Finally. I broke the tape and it was actually tape, not yarn. The race itself was one that tested my ability to focus and overcome. I didn't feel awesome smooth like I did at Westchester. This one was all guts for the last three miles. As Casey said, "you look awfully bad for a 56:00". He's right, but I'll take it. My biggest win on the roads to date.

"Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose." Instead of this being a head inflating experience it was a cathartic one. This win forced me to face my abilities, their possible limits, and the head games I play with myself. No more excuses, no more holding back. I am now ready to lay it out there. Naked. I'm not afraid to find out I might be wrong about what I think I can do, or what others think I can do. I don't care. The only way I'll ever know is if I pick up my damned skirt and go for it. If this win had gone down with Annie on a throne I'd have just mulled on waiting for the other foot to drop. Since this win was challenged by the local press (and the comments were brutal) it forced me to take a long hard objective look at my running, and life over the last 4 years and draw a conclusion. The conclusion being this. First and foremost, people are cruel and weird (anything to make a story out of nothing). Secondly, I don't train hard enough. I don't race often enough. I hold out just enough to be able to say, "if I actually trained I could...." because I'm afraid to know the truth. My times for what has been put in to them are awesome and shameful simultaneously. I may be a national class runner forever. I don't care. It's about the training. I am surrenduring myself to it fully to see what's in there, no more wasting time and talent because of elementary hang ups and inhibitions. It's business now. I've been striped naked there's nothin' left to lose.

After thought, Do I race as Annie Cooper-Gasway or Just Annie GAsway.

Snapshot of an Uprising

I wanted to be a revolutionary. It started when I stumbled upon the art books in the basement of the library. Body’s strewn about like carnival waste. Colorful misery. It delighted me. Each trip to the library I snuck into the adult section and devoured pages of corpses. My dad was busy reading books on Eastern Religions. My mom was in the Children’s section with my sister and brother. This was my time, my sweet nectar. I got away with it for about a month. Eventually, my dad stumbled upon my skeletal silhouette curled in a vinyl chair beneath a massive volume of Renaissance Art. I felt like I had been caught with my sister’s hair in my hands. I was so ashamed. That’s when I fell in love with Ghandi.



Instead of signing me up for therapy (after all I was only 10) my dad took me to the video section and showed me three movies, Ghandi, Gorrilla’s in the Mist, and Romero. He knew why I was captivated by the bloody pages. He knew they depicted the First Crusades. He knew my affinity for justice. After all, my over developed superego was his fault. He had taken me along to deliver communion to Hospice patients and shut-ins. I remember; a sliver of speckled sunlight crafted long shadows from the wrinkles of mouths that wanted to smile. Mouths that hadn't spoken in weeks. Forgotten by all but my dad, me and the priest that lived among them. Death isn't contagious. People seem to think it is, but it isn't. I was going give a voice to the voiceless! After practically wearing out the video cassettes of each film I made up my mind. I was going to be a revolutionary when I grew up! Then I hit puberty. Distractions derailed my aspirations.

Boys were of little interest to me because I was of little interest to them. My figure resembled Olive Oyl’s. Few other kids were willing to spar with me on issues concerning life, it’s meaning, and our place in the world. It was easier for them to avoid contact with me altogether. My fulfillment came when my dad asked me a question from the Tao and forced me to defend my answer. Now that was fun. However, I found this wasn't an effective defense mechanism. "Mean Girls" didn't respond the way I wanted them too when I asked, "Can God make a rock heavier than he can lift? If so can he lift it?" Yep. That one didn't work out too well. I obviously had to have a coping mechanism. Actually, I needed two. Yep, it was that bad. My coping mechanism was writing. My distraction was my obsession with running. When I ran I was at peace. I was so busy running to my happy place that I forgot about the whole revolutionary thing. Survival mode. It was hard enough to fight acne, let alone a cause of any kind. Thankfully I was off to college before I knew it.

My anguish paid it's debt. I was actually good at my two comforts. It was ironic I had any athletic ability at all. Of all athletic pursuits running was the one that made the most sense. After all, Buddist monks use running as a way to transcend the physical world. Something I had to master to make it through 12 torturous years of public education. I went to college on both a Creative Performing Arts scholarship and an Athletic scholarship. The Dean of the Creative Writing program said, “I wouldn’t have figured you for an athlete. Most jocks don’t think much.” I was justifiablly offended, but from my experiences I couldn't disagree. Although college was a better fit for me, I clung to a pendulum swinging between the world of the pen and the world of Track. I'd find that Alcohol helped ease those awkward situations quite a bit. For the first time ever, I didn’t know me. Instead of merging myselves, I divided them. Wearing each like a costume.

October 1998 I rode up late to the Conference Cross Country meet because I had been selected by Students of Fine Art to read at the fall Art Opening. Yet no one at the opening knew why I had to duck out early, and my Teammates had no idea why I was late. A rushed trip back to the dorm to change ensured that! I have to admitt it felt a little wonder womanish. I had an alter ego. The poem I read is below. My teammates wouldn't have understood what I was talking about. If they knew I had written this, I'd never lived it down. They imagined poetry readings as being people in black turtlenecks snaping and banging on bongos. And Ohmigod it says, "tits" and "cocks"! *GASP*
1
On sophocated
nights when plump
mosquitos flirted with the
florescent bulbs of porch lights, burning like
the chests of forgotten wives sizzling
in darkness beyond those front
doors we
walked.
Our uneven steps filling
the silence with frenzied
percussion. Our sore
tits pushing against our
shirts. Forced
womanhood
swelling under our tender
skin. we talked under the
humming of crickets about
how our lives would
unravel perfectly like
bubbletape & our
giggles jingled in
the trees.

2
The last time I saw you we
sat on your
parents splintered
porch swing & served
breathless confessions of
bruises and hard cocks to
the chorus of night things singing indigo
tunes in your
blooming yard. Your hand licked my
breast.
I ran.
protected by the beat of
my swift steps, to my door where
the porch light burned for
me. Trespasser.

3
But, now confessions swell
in my eyes. There is
no porch swing
no chorus begging
to hear more.
I sit motionless watching
stars bloom. Letting
the burning in my chest consume
me.


With my Teammates and I never talked about my ideas, my thoughts, or my insights. I saved those for my journals, for creative writing class, literary analysis. With my Writing friends, I never shared that I was an athlete. Yet when I was alone, running, myselves melded and language crashed through me.

By now I had completely lost all memory of my love affair with Ghandi, Jane Goodall, and Monsignor Romero. They are dusty inside me next to the Pythagorean Theorem. I had school records to break, books to read, a major to declare. English Education. There’s a radical profession. A High School English teacher. Something inside of me had to scream, “I want to be a Revolutionary” When I made that commitment. I did it. It made sense. There’s a decent retirement, and vacation package. I like English, I like kids. If I ever had kids I’d have their schedule. So safe, so not me. I should’ve asked myself, “What would Ghandi do?” But, I had plans.

Then He happened. Casey. Boys had begun to like me. Most of them liked the idea of me more than they like me. They just didn’t know it. I avoided them mostly. I wasn’t in the entertainment business, they found me to be quite entertaining in a funny girl sorta way. It wasn’t fun having fun for both people on the date. I was defensive to say the least. I had had one boy friend in my 19 years and that was plenty for me. He was like the others, in love with the idea of me. He left me feeling like a peacock in a room of turkeys. A spectacular ideal of a person, and not a person. I had resigned to the fact that I’d rather be alone than misunderstood. Casey though, was like me.

An artist and an athlete. Deep, complicated, and sensitive. I was complete in love with him. He made me a better person, accepted all of myselves and helped me meld them together. He still leaves me wordless, a feat in itself. I cannot put into words how he made (or makes) me feel. It is good. The only guy I’d ever want to grow old with.

I was on track to break records, earn respect, Professors were asking me to try to get published. I had plans. Marriage was now one of them. Then my clothes shrank, I got slower despite increased efforts, I was always tired.

Cavernous spots populated the ceiling of the team doctors office like tiny little villages. I was sure I was anemic. It fit every symptom. I was occupying my mind wondering what the little people in the tiny villages were doing. Was there a milk man, a mail man? Would they look like weeble people? The doctor came in with a face so pale, and strained I thought for sure I had cancer. “You’re not anemic” Wheew! “You’re pregnant.” His shoulder’s slumped as he said it, as if he was ashamed for me. Good thing too because I was numb. I didn’t know it then but I was grieving. Slowly I would turn to ash, as this fetus stole away my life. I wanted to start over. He was lying. “How’s the father going to take this” The father? What am I a whore now, me who has had two boyfriends in my life? “uh, uh... He’ll be thrilled” I had to force each word out. Casey wanted nothing more of life than to be a father. Why can’t he be the pregnant one then?

I spent the drive back to my dorm squinting through my tears. I didn’t want to tell Casey because I didn’t want to see him celebrate. This fucker just ruined all of my plans. When I told him he picked me up and spun me around with glee. For a moment I was happy too. Mom said, “Well, Shit what about your running?” Dad said, “You’ll be a great mom.” Coach said, “Can you run this weekend? You can keep your scholarship. If you want to continue competing after the baby let me know. After this season just take it easy and decide what you want to do.” I hated this baby. The next week I’d find out I was 11 weeks already. At 12 weeks I would run my last meet of the year, and get second (to Ann Alyanak). Casey got to keep competing. He got to finish his Senior season unblemished. I remembered. I wanted to be a revolutionary. It’s just that I thought I’d be revolting against something other than my own body.

Everyday I ran, logging as many miles as my tired, burning legs could handle. It was my way of keeping a patch of me green. A sacrament the fetus couldn’t steal away from me. Casey’s little life burning in my belly turning everything to ash, but that one green patch.

5/00
You may rule this
Body with a fetal fist
Ordering changes
Without
Authorization
But this one
minute is mine.
Like that small
Space, hidden
from slum
lords, tenants decorate
to their taste sneaking
sideways glances.
This is my space
Decorated with
Desperate muscles
Fighting atrophy
With blanks and
Dull blades
But still fighting
Fighting you gives this mind
A surreal sense
Of independence
From the body you
Seized without
Warning.

I moved out of my dorm and into a house Casey’s parents bought for us to live in until we were done with school. When he was born he was beautiful. He was perfect, and I still hated him. Casey raised Cooper for 6 months before I realized I wasn’t there. 6 months I loathed them both with my silence and my absences. Two beautiful boys who loved me. I was a ghost to them. At night I’d hear them both crying and roll over to go back to sleep. I wonder now if Casey wanted to vomit when the paper released the article on my "miraculous come-back"? The photo of me smiling with a baby Cooper on my shoulders. Radiant mother. Beautiful boy. No one knew. Casey kept good secrets. I spent my days sleeping and working out. I was alone. Everyone avoided confronting my illness. Depression isn't contagious. People think it is, but it isn't. Casey slept nights in Cooper’s room on the futon his uncle had given us. They were in love. It made me sick.

Then it was over, like a rain that falls and rises up again leaving things wet for days. Cooper at 9 months. Outdoor Conference.

I realized that Casey’s devotion to me was outstanding. He was an amazing father. He was 23, what 23 year old guy is a good father? Not to mention the amount of space he gave me, and without judging me. I fell madly in love with my beautiful son. I overcame my demonself, one I hadn't known exsisted. I finished my degree. I got my school records, conference championships etcetera. I didn’t let me, or Cooper, or anyone stop me. I had won my revolution. There was no celebration to mark the victory, no indication the war was over. I must've still been numb because I kept on fighting as if in my sleep. This singular event made each decision that followed. Yet, I denied its significance until now.

In a sense my voice was murdered by my first pregnancy. I was a livelier version of the wrinkled mouths I so wanted to fight for. It is why I was a working mom and Casey was a stay at home dad. It is why I’ve never gone to grad school. It is why I am so consumed with reaching my potential as a runner. It narrowed my vision of my life, and the life I'd want for my family. I was meandering about myself looking for my voice. I was looking for it in my past selves, Selves that were incomplete to begin with. Stationary, with the illusion of motion. Firing at invisible targets.

But isn’t there more? Possibly not. Maybe there is less. Maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe I just need to stop fighting a stale battle, and start recoginzing myself. Now, perhaps, I can feel free to pursue whatever the hell I want to pursue. I still hear that little girl. She still wants to give a voice to the voiceless. I don't know what I'm going to do with her. I'm pretty indulgent.

They are beautiful aren't they.

All of us who are fighting to overcome our circumstances are revolutionaries, fighting our own tiny revolutions. If we fail to move on once our rebellious act plays out we risk becoming a causality in our own uprising. Oh yeah, and Cooper is a revolutionary in his own right. He argued evolution with his kindergarten teacher at his Catholic School. “Birds came from Dinosaurs!” That's my boy!