To the End of a Race

I’ve trained months sometimes for this moment, though I rarely think about it.

Akron Marathon Finish with Whit

The beginning is easy. Music plays and the sun rises while runners huddle like penguins, chatting about shoes or PR’s, reminiscing about past races and planning for future ones. At the beginning, possibilities are the siren call at the starting line: the runner’s high, the downhills, passing all the young runners who blow out in the first half and lose it in the second. 

I can feel the blood in my veins. I can hear my heart.

Of course, once the pack thins out around the end of the first mile, and I am no longer connected to some energy larger than myself, I am untethered. Always a surprise. Even more surprising is that I want to be. It is the opposite of letting go; it is the experience of being let go of. My mother lets go of my hand. I am driving alone in the car for the first time. I am getting off the plane in a new city. Our son dies.

Released. Ready or not.

Elizabeth Bishop called it “losing.” She described the ways we master it, little by little, practice it until the day we lose what matters most, which, she knows, we can never prepare for. 

But losing points less to what is lost and more to the subject, “I lost ____” when, during the race, or when we held Rainer for the last time, the subject is not me at all. I am the object. I am being let go of because, God knows, I would never let go. 

During the race, I am let go of. First, by the other runners who either fall behind, or more likely, pass by, and because it is early, they do not cheer or compliment me on how great I look. Next, my body lets go, which is to say, it works without instruction. I pass the point when I count miles or think about pace or wonder about this hill or that curve. I am entirely of my mind, which is the biggest impediment to finishing. My mind does not want to let go.

“Finally, we are alone,” it says. “We can dream now; we can be our true selves together; tell me everything.” It’s the snake in the garden of Eden. It’s James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. It’s the fourth glass of wine at a horrible party. It’s a blank canvas and fresh paintbrushes. A room of your own. So tempting. 

But the voice grows raspy and mean. Finally, it is yelling and breaking the dishes. The tantrum would be spectacular if it wasn’t so familiar. 

And then, the end. I hear it first. The slow crescendo of the noisy crowd. More and more people cheering. Runners around me speeding up to get to the end. It is there. 

It is right there.

And the mind shutters. Sometimes suddenly. Sometimes silently.

It lets go. 

I have lost nothing in my life.