Running Ruminations

These years-long weeks remain disorienting. 

Days around here typically have a rhythm (having kids in school definitely helps, in that regard), but as I sit down to write about what happened since last week, for the life of me, Iast week feels like it was last year. 

We’re 36 weeks into this pandemic by now, almost a full-term pregnancy — like we have been growing this pandemic for the last nine months and are about to push it out to begin the next new and exciting phase.

There is nothing new or exciting about any of this.

There is no joy to be had from this.

It’s baffling to me that practically the only thing we have to show for the past nine months is over a quarter-million deaths in this country alone. Dr. Fauci called it in what, March? 

How have we learned nothing in nine months? 

The other night, college girlfriends across the country and I were video-chatting about  how really, in the big scheme of things, it seems that very little has changed from the earliest days of the pandemic. In fact, the only thing I can readily think of is that in mid-March, when all this began to hit the fan and fly, most people didn’t wear masks because their efficacy was dubious and because they were so scarcely available. 

By now, we know better, of course, and yet there are still huge segments of the population — enormous! groups! —  that continue to defy science, logic, reason, (compassion, humanity, and on and on), who are still derelict in this, the literal easiest of civic, scientific, public health duties to save people’s lives.

And we mustn’t forget the recent presidential election that revealed how readily — enthusiastically, even — 73 million people support the current leadership when it comes to the pandemic (and race relations, and the economy, and everything else), and it’s enough to make your head spin and feel like you’re about to have a coronary over all of it. 

So. Here we are, on the brink of the six-week-long holiday season that’s usually replete with festivals, and people, and schmoozing, and travel, and closed quarters, and remembering what we’re grateful for, and suddenly almost all of that is unwise and actually mortally irresponsible this year. 

For sure, always remember what you’re grateful for, but this year, FOR THE LOVE, don’t travel cross-country (or hell, cross-county) to express the sentiment. Instead, hop on a smartphone or a laptop like the good person that you are. It’s not the same, obviously, but it truly is better than nothing. 

I say this as someone who hasn’t seen her parents, her in-laws, or her siblings and their families in nearly a year and who has no idea when she’ll see them again. 

I say this as a person who had every intention to fly to be with a family member about to undergo a major surgery, surgery that has since been postponed because of rising COVID numbers.

Knowing that flying out “to help” is actually likely more detrimental than it is helpful tears me up inside.

Knowing that I won’t be able to be there during a time of need — that I shouldn’t be there, that not going is the right and responsible and loving thing to do — is killer.     

Everyone is tired of COVID, tired of talking about how our lives have changed, tired about not having any semblance of an idea about when this will all end, and yet we are sabotaging ourselves by our repeated dereliction of science-based guidance.

It is both inexcusable and infantile. 

In these parts, most of California — 95% of our population — has backslid to the most restrictive color-based tier, which means that certain segments of society will have to close or otherwise significantly alter their operations. My children’s school district was entertaining the idea of a hybrid option beginning in January, contingent on our COVID numbers and everything else, and obviously, our district swiftly eliminated that option Tuesday morning when we went purple. At the very earliest now, if we are miraculously, divinely lucky, maybe kids in our district will be in-person in some manifestation in March. Until then, we remain exclusively remote.  

It is so hard, fucking heartbreaking, to answer my children’s questions about anything related to the pandemic. My kindergartner asks me, weekly at minimum, if I ever felt like something bad was here to stay and will never, ever go away. She’s five! She’s not talking about the Boogey Man; she’s talking about this GD pandemic!  

When my older daughter wants to know why some people aren’t wearing masks, or why some people are traveling extensive distances, or why others are regularly congregating with huge groups of people, my only response is often an utterance that goes something like “they’re selfish and irresponsible,” “they don’t think the rules apply to them,” and “they don’t believe in science.” 

How else can I package this concept in ways that are digestible to young children when I, myself, am floored that so many people are flagrantly acting the way they are?

As any one of you can attest, it is enormously taxing to not let the rage boil over day after day. It’s not good for my health; I don’t need the cortisol; and like RBG remarked, acting in anger is ill-advised and a waste, at best.

I try hard to not let the rage pour into my daily runs, too, because it’s sacred space and because it’s one of the few times during the day when I disconnect with the roaring cacophony of life and reconnect with the thrumming of the earth and if I’m lucky, one of the only non-family members I see.  

With in-person races mostly off the table for the foreseeable future, and after nearly nine months of training-for-life running, I’ve excitedly taken on the challenge of training for a fast mile, with Lisa as my coach still. 

My first TT was a few weeks ago, a 6:15 with Janet rabbiting for the first 800, and with basically zero speedwork or fast running in the preceding weeks. It has been weirdly,  uncomfortably fun to get a completely different change of pace (literally, figuratively) lately. I’m excited to work hard for the foreseeable future on this little project because … why not? 

I’m still running about an hour, plus-or-minus, daily, plus a couple workouts, plus a weekend long run usually (nothing extreme, like 10-15, and almost always on trails). I’ve been more routine about doing the annoying ancillary stuff this year than I have been in my entire running life, and dare I say I may even be beginning to enjoy some of it. 

2020 has forced change and adaptation in so many ways, and while I think my heart is in the marathon, it’ll be a while before we get to play that game again; might as well play the short game and see if late-thirties-me can best my younger self’s times. (Fun fact: before my TT a few weeks ago, I can’t recall running a TT since middle school). 

And in other bizarre news from this year, with some recent temperature drops in the morning, for the first time in the nearly-seven years we’ve lived here, I’ve actually worn pants — twice! — on my morning runs. Pants, tall socks, and ear warmers, even. This year is full of bizarre surprises. 

Maybe in the coming weeks I’ll recap the workouts and paces and talk about what mile training looks like for someone like me, who’s never trained for anything short like that, but it just seems like such small beans that I can’t, for the life of me, devote mental time to the task. 

No one who needs to read this will; this will simply go to my echo chamber of friends and family who are doing more or less the same as me. I get it; I’m as tired and annoyed and everything else as you are.

Please, though, for the love of everyone you know and everyone you don’t: keep at it. Do not let up. 

Read (Obama’s new book arrived this week, yay! and I’m about halfway through How to Be Anti-Racist), listen, learn, ask questions, and just be a good human and remain rested and ready to do the work. 

Please be well, take care of yourself and each other, wash your hands and wear a mask, and don’t act in such a way that’ll put someone else in the hospital over this season of thanksgiving. Remain grateful for your health, and don’t do anything that’ll take away that of someone else. 

Lots of love.