Brooklyn to Venice

Once again, thanks to my own enjoyment and by some level of demand, here’s a summary of my NYC Triathlon.

T- 1.5 days: I am in Brooklyn until 2am with my favorite training partner, Brian Basye, and friend, Heather Romero, sharing microbrews and ice cream and laughs. Am I defeating the training that I’ve done? Quite possibly. Questionable judgment.

T -1.0 days: I sleep until 11am. Thank god for comfy hotel beds, dark shades, and my parents (amazing grandparents!) that are giving my kids good love and attention.

T -0.5 days: I figure out how to ride the rental road bike with different gears than mine. It’s a beautiful day, the bike is comfy and well fit, and there are 4,000 people checking into the transition area. It’s this kind of energy that makes NYC hard to not love. I do a little test ride up to 125th Street. We pass a small farmers market by the track that was newly built when I coached high school track 15 years ago, and passed by the original Fairway in Harlem, where I used to take Derek’s dad whenever he wanted good fruit. I’m happy to have those memories.

T -0.3 days: I put the race number tattoos on both my arms and my hands. I follow directions carefully, and they create perfectly placed “2309” down both arms from my shoulder to my elbows. I pack my transition bag, set my alarm for 4:10am and call it a night. I lay peacefully on my back, arms at my side, begin to visualize my race (a sure fire way to go to sleep!). Sleep comes before I even visualize my entire walk to the start line of the swim!

Race Day 4:10am: No pressing snooze. No pressing snooze.

Race Day 4:11am: What the hell happened to my tattoos? You can barely see the 2, the 3 looks like a small “c”, the 0 looks like a parenthesis, and the 9 might as well be a line. The edges of the tattoo look like they went through a warzone. What happened? I’m sure the same thing happened to everyone else.

Race Day 4:35am: Do I wear my running shoes and socks, or flip flops? I want flip flops for after the race, but don’t want to carry even more shoes. Decisions. I go with wearing my running shoes and socks. A light pink and dark pink one. Always avoid matching socks when training.

Race Day 4:45am: Brian’s tattoos are fully intact.

Race Day 5:15am: Transition all set up. It’s a little wet but I’m sure the drizzle will stop soon. I sit near Brian’s transition area and watch the masses walk the mile down to the swim start. I take a poll of everyone whose tattoos got battered around like mine.

Race Day 5:30am: Every single person’s tattoos look perfect. SERIOUSLY? What did I do wrong? I’m the only one without perfect iron on tattoos. Everyone else’s look so good they could be real tattoos!

Race Day 6:00am: I take a peek at the pros starting. They are going fast!

Race Day 6:15am: I take a peek at the first age groupers going. They are going fast! I see the paddle boarder on his knees, flowing along with them. He’s actually doing the opposite of paddling – he’s trying to slow his board down because the downstream current is taking him so fast. If you wanted to run along the boardwalk while they swam, you’d have to run fast. That current is strong!

Race Day 7:00am: Time for me to start! It’s raining. It’ll stop by the time I get on the bike.

Swim: The water is not as bad as last year. There’s no brown or green film on top, you can’t really smell it. I can’t see anything floating to be honest. In fact, I can’t even see my hands as they enter the water and pull. You can see nothing whatsoever unless you breath and see someone next to you or spot check up and see the dock where we finish. I spot check at the wrong time and get a gulp of water. Amazing how bad it tastes despite it not smelling bad. I might not recover. I decide not to spot check too much. I’m out of the water before 7:17 – a 16 minute mile! I realize the downstream push contributed to that significantly, but I also know that I can say “I did a 16 minute mile when I was 40.” Honest statement! Compared to last year when I swam this same mile (over 21 minutes) without having swam in 18 years, I feel like an entirely different species. If I’ve done 90 swim workouts this year, it’s 90 more than I did from 1996-2013 combined. I think I’ll keep that going.

Transition 1: The run from the dock to transition is long. Long. Long. Longer than last year? Lots of puddles on the ground, and I’m afraid to step in any because I’m sure they are potholes filled with water. Most people are walking, I’m running, so I’m sure my transition time will be good. I get to my bike and it’s drizzling hard enough to say it’s raining. I try to figure out how to dry off my wet feet with a wet towel while on wet grass/mud. It should be a Lumosity brain teaser test. I eat a Bonk Bar Bite, or half of a bite anyway, because I don’t want to slow myself down in what I’m sure is a fast transition despite the rain. I take a quick sip of water to wash out the Hudson and I’m on my way! But first, I notice, my race number tattoos are totally off. Presumably in the Hudson, my arms are free of any marking except the shadowy white remnants of the butterfly tattoo I once had (and, technically, still have, considering that with my tan it just looks like a pigment-less white tattoo). Anyway, likely no one’s tattoos survived the Hudson.

Bike Mile 1: That first hill out of the park was nothing. It’s raining! Glad my sunglasses are on to protect from the wind/rain, but I can’t see all that well. But I can see that other riders have their race tattoos still on. How did they stay on? What did I do wrong?

Bike Mile 2: My shoes are wet. My socks are wet. If I’m behind anyone the water from the road splatters up and back and I’m really thankful for my sunglasses. I am saying “On the left” quite often and passing lots of people. Maybe I can press pretty hard on the bike. I see a woman sprint past me three times this mile, only to fall behind right away and then somehow reappear. She is in all purple and a tiny little ball of muscle with short hair and looks like she could be Thai. She reminds me of a character, Eddie, in one of my favorite books, A Fraction of a Whole, a book I’ve been talking a lot about the past two weeks. Such a good book. Eddie is a mysterious friend to the main character that continually pops out of nowhere every time the main character needs him, whether he realizes he needs him or not. I have this woman for this race (possibly) and I can think of a few friends in life I have like that too, and I’m grateful for each of them.

Bike Mile 3: Often at triathlons, you see people of all shapes and sizes. Lots of different frames, but GENERALLY they are all fit for their frame. I’m seeing lots of bigger people on bikes today, both with bigger frames and just big in general. I think of LL Cool J’s song ‘Doin’ It’, from 1995, and the dispute that arose between LL Cool J and the girl that sang in the song but that he didn’t feature in the video. She claimed it was size bias, and her understanding was that some lyrics that referred to “Big Girls” suggested to her that she was chosen and would be featured because she was “bigger”. LL Cool J’s representatives said there was no such implication and the lyrics referred to adult women, ‘big girls’ as opposed to young ones. This was fought out in the media and in court. People fought over the definition of “big girls” in an LL Cool J song. I’ve fought over strange things, too – who owned “Da” in “Da Bears” and “Who Dat” and more assassin things as well. But I loved that song. I thought of it and sang it in my head as I rode forward in the rain.

Bike Mile 4: My feet are swimming in lakes! My shoes and socks are soaking wet. I think I’m getting a blister on the bottom of my left foot. Should I stop to try to dry out my socks? Reposition them? Or just keep going. What’s the name of that country song I love “If you are going through hell, just keep going….” I love that song. Who sings it, I forget. I decide to just keep going.

Mile 5: My Eddie shows up. Rides in front of me for a bit and falls away.

Mile 6: My tri suit is never going to dry. I’m pretty sure I’m going to get chaffs – usually my tri suit would be dry by now. This rain sucks, although I’ll take it over a hot, muggy day.

Mile 7: There are a bunch of tandem bikes I’m seeing. At first I thought they were related to participants from Challenged Athletes Foundation. But I’m not sure. I’ve never seen a tandem bike in a triathlon.

Miles 8-12: The rolling hills take us through the Riverdale section of the Bronx. I pass by the exit for Kappock St., and I can see the building where I spent many fun evening celebrating the holiday season with Hollis and Neesha Meminger and their sweet girls. I looked forward to it every year, and there was a sweet framework of transplanted family that you develop in NYC with your friends. The chance of all of the Memingers and Hart/Matthews families being together again for any event is very small. Subsets of us, yes, but not likely everyone. Life evolves and changes. While I get a tinge of sadness at that thought deep in my heart, the more powerful feeling is gratefulness that those moments happened. We were so naïve to life and how it would play out but were brave enough to be living it, each of us. That we’ve moved on to the next chapter doesn’t make the memories any less sweet. I’m glad to have the memories and the connections.

Mile 13: On my way back south! This ride isn’t so bad. Eddie pops up around the u-turn that leads us back south.

Mile 14: Fairly big downhill. I hear the loudest scream “OOOOOOONNNNNN YOURRRRRR LEFTT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” It scares me a bit. It’s a tandem bike and both men on it are certainly not challenged. They are going so fast. Why in the world are there so many tandem riders and bikes? How do you do a tandem triathlon? Or is it just this leg? I don’t get it.

Mile 15-18: Eddie pops in and pops out. My feet are wet. My butt is really hurting. Fortunately not my glute, but just my butt bone. I want to get off this bike!

Mile 19: I spot Brian riding north. The rain is fizzling out. His ride will be dry, that is good. What am I going to do with wet socks during the run? Shoot. Just 6 miles left….that should fly by.

Mile 20: My butt hurts.

Mile 21: I want to get out of this saddle and stay out of it. I might ride standing up the rest of the time.

Mile 22: I HAVE DRY SOCKS! I wore the dark pink/light pink pair during set up this morning. Please please please let it be that I put them under a towel, in the plastic bag, or kept them dry somehow.

Mile 23: These last 6 miles aren’t hard, but are taking way too long.

Mile 24: I can’t wait to run.

Mile 25: I’M DONE! A little less than 1 ½ hours, not bad considering the rain. But that aside, I’m just so happy to get off this bike……

Transition 2: I run in to my spot, see my socks are in the plastic bag (they are dry!) and my running shoes under a towel. I was thinking straight during set up, thank god. It takes me a minute to get the wet socks off and the dry ones one, but not that bad. What’s an extra minute in transition? I drink some water since I don’t think I drank enough during the bike, and I don’t want my quads cramping up during the run. What’s an extra few seconds for that? I re-arrange my low pony-tail for a higher one to be off my neck for the run, and my hair feels like a rat’s nest. I remember, I had a brush. What’s 15 more seconds to brush the front of my hair off my face into the right pony tail? (Should I admit to anyone that I brushed my hair? – I debate during the 15 seconds it takes to brush it). I run over to the restrooms. There’s a line. YOU HAVE TO BE KIDDING ME! A line during the transition. Waiting this extra minute is going to kill my otherwise stellar-ly fast transition! Finally, I’m out of the fence and starting the run…..

Run Mile 1: Hill out of the park easy. Every hill I run in during my lunch times runs significantly bigger. Off to the flat of 72nd Street. So many people out cheering. Rain has stopped, but it is cool and overcast. Can’t ask for a better day. My feet feel light and DRY. Dry socks feel like heaven. Literally that must be part of the dictionary description for anyone who believes in heaven and who has had soaking wet socks before. The energy on the street is contagious and yes, yes, yes, it is this energy that I miss. This is what I miss about NYC. The energy that people on the street create. It ups the ante whether during a race, or just a walk to work, or a walk with your dog around the block. There is constant buzz and energy and limitless possibility to what might come your way. You can’t package that up, you can’t sell it. It is here, in this city, and I love it.

Run Mile 2: We head into Central Park and run against the natural counter-clockwise flow, moving clockwise. I remember the first and only training run that Zal Devitre (a college friend I swam with) and I did for the NYC Marathon in 1997 (a marathon neither of us ever did). We ran clockwise into all the other runners running the opposite direction. I think it took us 5 of the 6 miles around the park to realize we were the only runs running in this direction. Eddie pops up in front of me and then falls behind. A non-racer is running along the cones and takes her earphones out. I realize I don’t even care that you can’t listen to music during the triathlon, I’m not missing it at all. But I hear through her open headphones Adele’s remake of Bob Dylan’s Make You Feel My Love. A near perfect love/unrequited love/I’ll love you no matter how you feel about me love song. I think I am seeing the only other person that exists that listens to love songs – slow-er love songs (but no less powerful). She might be my running soul mate. I’ll never see her again. To steal a line from a good movie and book, Some infinities are smaller than others.

Mile 3: From a ½ mile away, I see Tania Kirkman. My heart fills up. I have the urge to give her a big hug, but wonder if she wants a hug filled with sweat and Hudson river and rain. I can’t help it as a I go by, I give her a big hug. When I see Tania, I see babies and Brooklyn and good preschools and little boys who love to sing and who love to dance and kids that are allowed to be who they are. I see Underhill Playground and tight apartments that you can fill with 30+ kids and life and I see a woman who let me drop kai off for a playdate so I could take care of baby twin colicky girls. And a woman who let me drop Kai and Gemma off and would have let Sasha stay had she not insisted on crashing date night, and then the date on which I was the third wheel between Sasha & her daddy. I see balancing motherhood and working life and personal fulfillment and relationships and being in the trenches of it all and doing those trenches proudly. I see friendships that I couldn’t foster because there’s not enough minutes in the day but you feel the power and need of those friendships anyway. They last anyway, even if just in the moments you see them and you feel what they capture. Little time capsules. I’m just so grateful and I long for those seconds and memories that you don’t know are going to hit you so hard. I get all choked up and I literally gasp and tears flow out. I’m crying as I run down Harlem Hill. Who cries during a triathlon unless it is from physical pain? Me. Apparently.

Mile 4: I should have told my cousin Scotty to come cheer me on as a I run through the north side of the park. Not tell, ask, of course. I run up the hill past the public pool and it is not so bad. Thanks to those mid-day hills I do! I remember walking down this hill with our dog Butter, almost weekly. Either with Derek or his dad. Derek and I aren’t Derek and I anymore. We didn’t know way back then that we might not one day be. There were so many things we wanted to be, and we tried to be, and we thought we would always be. I’m proud of all of them. I wish I could say that I know who each of us will be going forward, but I am no longer that naïve. Even just two weeks ago I think I could have answered that better, but I can’t. We’ll each be good parents, and since it involves the same awesome kids, that will be co-parents. But I don’t know what that will look like or what shape it will take. But I’m happy for those memories of just walking our big lovable dog in the north side of Central Park, in fresh air, enjoying the moment and the belief of what was to come even if that belief never took shape. Some better reality did, and each of us just have to live it. And I just keep running forward.

Mile 5: Light feet! Dry feet.  I’m still so thankful for those dry socks.  I feel great. I don’t want to stop running. Lifetime Fitness has these crafty irreverent signs at each aid station. “It’s 5 o’clock somewhere. Keeping running to find out where!” “Run like you’re being chased!” It makes me think of Manhattan Mini-Storage and their irreverent ad campaigns. “Bloomberg’s gone. You can put your bike in storage.” My god I love those ads.

Mile 6: So many people! So much energy! I don’t want it to end. I have enough energy to smile as I am cheered on over the finish line. I already can’t wait to do it again next year.

Race +30 minutes: I’ve got my phone from my race bag. Lots of people don’t have one. Some people ask me to take a picture and text it to them. I am temporarily a photographer. One or two them take a picture of me. There’s an instant feeling of camaraderie after these events.

Race + 1 hour: Brian and I pick up the printout of our splits. 16 minute swim, 8 minute T1, 1:29 bike, 5 minute T2, and 50 minute run. To be clear, this means 13 minutes – 13 MINUTES!!!!!!!!!!!!! – in transition. I think I know what I need to work on. The 8 minute first transition doesn’t kill me considering that includes a ½ mile + barefoot run. But, seriously, 5 minutes for the second one? I’m never telling anyone that I took 15 (maybe 20) seconds to brush my hair. Never.

Race +2 hours: We are at the Central Park Boathouse for the post-race Ronald McDonald House Luncheon. My tri suit is still wet, I want to take it off. Maybe half the participants there have showered and looking presentable. And they all still have their race numbers on! Most people’s survived a night of sleep, the swim-bike-run in the Hudson and the rain, the sweat of it all, the sun afterwards, and a shower. Mine didn’t even survive a night of sleep.

Race +7 hours: I’m glad my numbers came off so easily. I didn’t have to scrub too hard while taking a shower, and could spend the extra time washing my hair 3 times to get the Hudson muck out of it. I’m enjoying a hard cider on an outdoor deck. Tasty drink, fresh air, good conversation. I head to dinner and a night in the West Village with a friend I’ve known since I was 18 and swam with throughout college and dove in the crystal blue waters near Capri with. And one that, though I’ve known him only a few years, it feels like I could as easily say I’ve known him since the first day I walked on the pool deck at Minnequa Club in Pueblo, Colorado in 1979. I feel content and happy and I wonder what is going to make me be transported back to this moment, this feeling, this day, this race, these friends, one day years from now.

Race + 15 hours: Sad to have it all end. Thankfully, I’ve got a 100 mile bike ride in wine country to look forward to and I signed up for the Oceanside Half Ironman to have a second go of it. My only goal, to have better transition times!

Derek and I adopted Deucey in March 2004 from the Palomar Airport Animal Shelter in Carlsbad, California. We were living, albeit briefly, in Oceanside, married not quite two years, and wanted our dog, Butter, an Akita/St. Bernard mix, to have a companion. We went to all the local shelters, and when we got to Palomar Airport there was a big buzz around one of the pens. Everyone gathered around, nudging their way to the front, to see a litter of maybe ten puppies — yellow lab mixes, not older than 10 weeks old. The dogs everyone wants, the easy ones to adopt.

I’ve never pushed my way to the front of crowds, and I wasn’t inclined to this time. I looked over to the left, and saw a long, skinny black bundle of fur stretched out on the cot in the next door pen. He lay there on his right side, legs outstretched and dangling off the little cot. He was already full grown and clearly tall, with a sleek black coat. We couldn’t tell anything more about him. He barely even would look up at the front of the pen, and certainly wouldn’t walk up to say hello. He gave Derek and I a look that said “I know you want one of those puppies, you don’t have to pretend.” We instantly wanted him. We talked to the shelter workers to find out more: He was about two years old, found on a the street with his own litter mates as a puppy, adopted a few weeks later by a family, then returned by the family 1 1/2 years later. That first family said, simply, “This is not a good dog. He humps everything. We cannot keep him.” The shelter was hesitant to put him with another big dog, particularly one that seemed to be a dominant breed. But I convinced them to let Butter and the dog then known as “Cooper” play in the big play yard at the shelter to see if they got along.

The worker coaxed Cooper off the cot, out of the pen, while we got Butter and waited in the outdoor open play space. The three of us — Butter, Derek and I — watched as he slowly trudged his way over to the yard. Butter loved him the moment he saw him, his tight curly Akita tail wagging, his big goofy front paws pattering up and down in anticipation. Finally, “Cooper” walked in and the world changed. They sniffed each other, their tails both wagging. “Cooper” got into a play stance and Butter mimicked it, though not nearly as agile. “Cooper” then went darting and ran in the fastest circle along the perimeter you have ever seen. Butter, a big 120 pound goof, had no chance of keeping up, so he jumped around in the middle pretending he had a chance of getting “Cooper” when he’d weave through for a figure 8 every now and then. They played like this non stop, and when Butter plopped down in exhaustion about 20 minutes later, “Cooper” came up and licked him and laid next to him. “Well, looks like you can take him home,” the shelter worker told us. He chose us. He and Butter were instant soul mates.

However mellow and sad he looked at the shelter, he was the opposite once we got him home. He was happy and spastic and energetic and 90 pounds of untrained 2-year old dog. He was wound up tight with energy and needed an outlet for it. He never barked, but he moved and he moved fast. My dad, another dog lover, admitted later that he wondered what I’d got myself into. He was untrained, and didn’t look that trainable. We renamed him Midnight, then Harley, and nothing seemed to fit him. Finally, we named him Deuce — he was our second dog, and we loved him just as much as the first. It was a tie, and Deuce seemed to honor that better than any other name would. And it had the implication of a nifty card trick that matched his untamed personality.

After a few weeks of being trained by me, corrected by Butter, and neutered — humping was a non-issue (with rare although humorous exceptions!). He just needed walks and play and attention. And we gave him all. He fell in love with dogs at the dog park, particularly a big gentle giant of a Great Dane named Goliath. If Goliath left the park when Deuce was still there, the 8 foot fence stood no chance of keeping him in. He literally would jump over that fence and climb into the car taking Goliath home.

The years that followed had a common pattern. We’d try to train Deuce to go off leash, so he could enjoy most the open space we lived in whether in San Diego or soon after New York. But he was too curious about the world to be successfully trained to stay close by off leash. We’d make progress, progress, tiny progress, then think he had it figured out. Then he’d catch the sight of a squirrel, or a bird, or a flutter in the wind, and want to follow it. I chased Deuce through Batiquitos Lagoon in Carlsbad; I chased him through Prospect Park in Brooklyn; I chased him up the 101 in Carmel, California; I chased him twice in Duck, North Carolina. I lost him in all those places, and more, to have him make his way back. He never wanted to leave us, but he was too curious about the world around to not go on his excursions. As I chased him, Butter would usually follow behind, trying to keep up with me. Tail wagging, happy his brother/friend/soul mate was exploring the world that he was a little too scared and a little too slow to get to see. They had a pact — Deuce would push the boundaries and Butter would cheer him on.  Although panicked when I’d lose him or have to chase him — I was never mad. I understood his eagerness to explore, see the world, dive in to different cities – we are kindred spirits that way. But I just wanted to keep him safe and with us.

His hours on walks, at the dog parks, on trips, changed as time went on. In November 2007, I was 5 months pregnant with Kai and Butter died on the way to the vet. After I said my goodbyes, I went home and brought Deuce to the vet to see Butter so he’d know what happened. He came in the room, walked up to Butter’s peaceful body and laid down next to it. He nuzzled into his neck and made two big whimpers, then walked to the door and looked back at me, letting him know he was ready to go. Our house was silent for weeks, and when I’d cry Deuce would get one of the chew ropes he played tug-of-war with Butter with and bring it over to me and whimper. We missed him, all of us.

Deuce’s next companion was a little baby named Kai, and he transitioned into the role well. Many of our friends with dogs found the dogs new homes when they had babies — that was never a thought when we had Kai. Deuce was our family and we needed to transition him into the change as much as we did ourselves. Wherever Kai would lay, Deuce would lay close by. If Kai was crying, Deuce would come to wherever I was (asleep in bed usually) and paw me until I woke up and took care of that crying baby. Deuce wasn’t a huge fan when Kai started crawling, but rather than ever threaten Kai, he’d just remove himself. There were lots of days with Kai chasing Deuce around. Once Deuce figured out that Kai would also feed him, amends were made. Not to mention Kai loved walks as much as me, and as much as Deuce, so there were plenty of steps logged all around Brooklyn together.

Then the girls came. My sense of guilt for putting Deuce lowest on the totem pole was constant. He deserved attention, but he also wouldn’t cry if I didn’t give it to him. So he got the least while deserving the most. He was resigned to what life with babies was like, but he also knew the ropes. Sasha started feeding Deuce before she could even sit up. To this day, I’m pretty sure Deuce has eaten more of her food than she ever has. And the girls have loved him better than any two little beings could love another. Their love for Deuce spills onto him, onto other dogs, onto cats, onto fish, onto hamsters. Onto any other animal, big or small, wild or tamed. Gemma makes friends with animals on a daily basis, and tells each of them about her dog Deuce. They learned to care for Deuce — feed him, give him water, hold his leash, give him love — before they even had a clue of how to do anything for themselves. He’s brought out more love and confidence in them than I believed existed in certain moments, and all with very little except a few table scraps and some good petting sessions in return. The have promoted him both in our Brooklyn neighborhood and now LA, and constantly convince other kids who are petrified of dogs — nevertheless such a big dog! — to pet him. And inevitably, each of those scared kids have. And Deuce has sat there patiently, loving the pets, and the girls have cheered on those kids who conquer their fear with our sweet big guy Deuce.

I’ve been in denial these past six months, as I’ve seen him slow down. And then stop so suddenly. All of his energy, all of his patience, all of his strength — it made me believe he would quietly keep going forever. And selfishly, I wanted him to. He’s been part of so many chapters of my life — an entire Part III from the time I was 30 to 40. The beginning of my marriage, my entire life in Brooklyn, becoming a mother, being a mother, most of my career after law school, our move to California, and the end of my marriage and my effort with Derek to negotiate how to recompose our family into two homes. He’s given me his patience and time when I couldn’t give him mine. He’s given me the excuse to walk under the midnight sky, to brave the cold and enjoy the snow, to walk in the rain, to enjoy the sun, to explore every block and every corner, to run through lagoons and north on Highway 101, to get fresh air at all hours of the day and night, and to do these things when I needed it most. He’s always been true to himself, and true to us.

I hope I’ve made the end of his life as peaceful as he has made my life — and the life of my kids — energetic, content and rich. If there is a heaven, I know he will be rampaging through it – exploring every corner — with many dogs following happily behind, including Butter. There’ll be no thunderstorms or fireworks, and plenty of hills to climb and lakes to swim in.  If our energy gets the pleasure of coming back for yet another life, he deserves one filled with safe excursions through every countryside there is. I find myself wanting to say that the love I feel for him far outweighs the grief at having to help him go. But it doesn’t. It’s a lesson I’m relearning — that the grief at the end is always as big as the love. The more you love, the more you grieve. The more full your heart is, the more it hurts when it breaks. The solace is just remembering what lies at the foundation of the pain. And that some of the tears are caused not just by my heartbreak, but by how incredibly grateful I am that we brought him home when he chose us.

Deucey, all of us miss you already.

Once again, back by popular demand.  (By popular, I mean 3 people asked if I was going to do this….that qualifies as “popular demand” in the broadest sense of the term.  Or in my mind.)  A summary of my thoughts during the 70.3* miles I did during the Oceanside Half Ironman.  Unlike some of the other races, where I could generally tell you what mile I was on, these thoughts might not exactly correlate to the exact mile I had them during the race.  For two reasons.  First, I am not sure anyone really wants to read 70 of my thoughts (even those 3 people that asked!).  Second, I lost my mind somewhere around mile 4 of the run and in retrospect, the bike is all a blur to me.  I’m writing this promptly so I don’t lose more coherency than I already have.  But that’s not to say I haven’t already lost most of it.  For those of who that have done an endurance race — or have 3 kids (or 1, or 2) — I know you won’t judge me for this.  For those of you who haven’t yet or who don’t, don’t judge.  You know what they say about karma.  On to the thoughts.

Pre-Race:  I hate eating breakfast before I workout.  But I’ve spent the past 3 months getting used to oatmeal bars, a cheesestick and an apple or orange to have some pre-race fuel.  I’m still not used to this but hoping these calories come in handy in 2, 3, or 4 hours.

Walk to the race: I am really glad I am not doing this alone.  Thank god for Brian Basye (colleague and friend) and Tim Wilton (another colleague’s husband and friend).  It reminds me of my trip to Europe, when I bought the ticket on my own and then by coincidence and convincing got to travel with Eric Fagan, Robert North, Marisa Arbanas (all friends from high school, Marisa one of my best) and Dave Filbeck (college, and life).  I’m hoping this race turns out as amazing as that Europe trip.  (Most likely, it will be like the night in Nice, France — the night Marisa and I survived, but should not have.  But man, the story that can be told when I want to tell it).

Transition 1 area:  THERE ARE A LOT OF PEOPLE.  A LOT OF NICE BIKES!  And did I mention a lot of people? I think the guy to girl ratio is about 7:3. And I see Brian Stone, a friend from San Dieguito (high school).  He gives me great tips for the bike, and more important a big warm smile.  Perfect way to start!

In the corral:  After I get to hang with Tim and Brian, I head up to join my Silver Capped age groupers.  The song with the lyrics “Best day of my life…” is playing, and all 180 of these 40-44 year olds are dancing in their wetsuits and booties and caps.  And I’m wondering how I feel about this?  I’m known to dance, but this feels a little strange. I also don’t feel like I’m 40 (or 41, according to my leg and Ironman rules).  My feet are freezing.

In the water: It’s a water start — the water feels warm on my cold feet.  I jump in, and WAIT, it’s not warm.  Holy f&$%.  I lose my breath a little and question my decision to wear a spring suit.  I remember when I used to hyperventilate swimming the 100 fly when I was 7 years old all the time.  I think it might not have been from the pressure I put on myself, but from freezing cold water.  CATCH YOUR BREATH. (I do before the start).  I think I even say something to my fellow 40-44 year old women before we start the race out by the kayakes, but no one responds, and now I can of wonder if I actually said anything or just thought to.

Mile 1: (The Swim).  Awesome! All swim club swims at lunch have helped. I don’t feel nearly as shoddy as I did at the Pier swim just 6 months ago.  I’m out ahead, with a pack of 3 or 4 women, and this again makes me feel like I’m not 40.  Maybe not 16, but certainly not 40.  Then the group of us start catching up to the waves in front of us.  I’ve never minded starting behind people to catch up to them — an ego boost to start the day!

Mile 1: (The swim continued).  This is one long 1.2 mile swim. It’s got to be longer.  It felt like a mile to the first buoy.  Let alone all the way back.  The sun is so strong, I’m looking right into it whenever I spot check for a buoy, but it’s also lighting up under water.  It’s beautiful.  The sun makes me think of Lauren — the day it came out on the first run I did after she died, and Sugarland came on, and I knew she was there with me.  Her energy. I’m about to get on her bike and I remember trying to track her in Lake Placid during her Ironman.  I’m grateful for the sun and this very moment, this very second, of feeling her energy, feeling my stroke and having a good swim, and of getting to do this.  It’s going to be fun. [Side note: I am extremely grateful that I can remember this good feeling, as you’ll see later, I totally forgot it later in the race.]

Mile 1.2 (or 1.5, depending on who you talk to).  The volunteers on the ramp pushed my back while they unzipped my spring suit (that had some ice dangling off), and it propelled me to go fast down this faded red (or, okay, maybe brown, or gray) carpet.  It’s me and 1 woman who got out right with me, and all men around us.  I’m one leg down! Just two to go!

Transition 1: My Speedo friends (family) are there to cheer me on.  Awesome! One of the cute little boys along for the ride (the son of my pseudo training partner Tim) holds a sign that says “This way to the bar.”  I love that cute little face and his serious look making sure I see the sign.  And I am looking forward to a drink!  It seems surreal to be chatting with them as if I’m at swim club but also having to figure out what I need to take on this 56 mile bike ride with me.  And I’m sitting down trying to get my bike shoes on and feel like it might be only slightly more appropriate than an ungraceful towel change, particularly since I don’t feel graceful at all.  And I can’t imagine the angles are flattering.  And Craig (colleague) is snapping pictures while I’m sitting here struggling and I better have approval rights over those pictures!

Mile 2: I made it out! I’m on the bike! It’s not so bad.  Remember to take it easy the first half.

Mile 3-10: Okay, surprisingly, I’m passing as many people as people passing me.  Most the people I pass are men my age or older.  most the people who pass me are women in my age group.  They are speed demons on the bike.  How can I become one?? Seriously.  How? And where the hell are we riding? I think the course takes us on a service road through a gas station and behind a grocery store.  So strange.  The guy in front of me dropped his kit to his flat.  He keeps riding as he looks to see what fell.  What will get me good karma? I don’t want to unclip, but I want him to have it.  So I shout, he stops, and dilemma solved without me unclipping.  I think I’m the only person on the bike course that doesn’t have a Rudy helmet or the water bottle that fits between the aero bars with a straw that goes straight up.  If I do this again, maybe I’ll invest in one of those water bottles.  So far, the bike isn’t bad but I’m thinking I’d like something more scenic to see than the service road.

Miles 10-20: I realize something amazing — I finally know how to work my gears.  I know exactly what pressing one or two clutches on the right side does (one — increases my gear, two lowers it, all on the back) and on the left side (one — lowers it, two increases it).  The first time I rode this bike was October 7th, 2011.  It is March 29, 2014.  That is pathetic — I’ve gone through my originally sporadic and then recently regular rides just guessing at what I needed to press to get me where to go.  AND IT’S NOT THAT HARD.  There’s only so many options to press – four total. Well, it is pathetic but let’s focus on the fact that I have it now, so this should be the best ride of my life (which makes me sing the song all the 40-44 year old women were singing in the corral — which makes me cringe just a little).  I continue to notice that I keep getting past by people, but keep passing people too.  I pass a lot of people on the uphill parts of the small roller hills we have.  I’m good at the uphill (at least relative to the people around me).  This should be symbolic of life somehow – right? Normally, on my shorter rides, I’d be able to make the thought more eloquent and layered.  But I’ve got to just stay focused on the bike since I barely know what I’m doing on it and any expertise I have gained will be shattered if I focus on anything else.  Brian Basye started about 20 minutes behind me, he should be passing me.  I feel half way respectable that he didn’t pass me by Mile 5 on the bike, actually.  I’ll take the boosts of confidence where I can find them.  Aside from the 20 or so women who passed me, it is all men out here.  From 23 to 60 years old.  My 7:3 ratio might be more like 8:2.  I remember the night Dave Filbeck invited me to “guys night out” in college.  It feels connected.

Mile 20-30.  We’ve got to be starting the hills pretty soon.  As Mile 20, I’m not doing so bad.  I go through an aid station and Marines that are volunteers are giving out water, propel, and gu.  The woman in front of me wants water but the guy missed the hand off.  So he runs as fast as he can to catch her to give the water.  I’m a little nervous because I’m sure there’s going to be a huge crash with his 240 pounds of muscle and me and her involved (and our bikes!).  But — he runs his 15 mph burst and amazingly catches here and everyone claps.  I pretend inadvertently that it’s for me, though I was not involved other than to be about 4 bike lengths behind her.  The marines are dedicated volunteers and they know how to cheer in short, enthusiastic words that make you feel like you have no choice but to GO FAST! WORK HARD! KEEP IT UP! USE THOSE MUSCLES.  They make me feel like I really am LOOKING GOOD.  They shout with confidence. I need to teach Kai the value of that one day.  Shortly after that (maybe Mile 22? 23?) I hear someone who is about to say “On your left”, I think, like all the other speed demons passing me.  But wait, “Light feet. Push pull. Push pull.” It’s my bike coach aka Brian Basye.  We just went for a 40 mile training ride two weeks ago, I have less mileage than that now.  He speeds by and I do what he says to do.  I turn onto Cristianitos and know the hills will start soon.  Wait, this has to be the first hill.  But I don’t think it is — not nearly long enough.  What’s up with people calling courses flat that really aren’t flat?  I do good on the uphill – it’s a good little prep, at least.  There are more hills, but none long enough to be the ones everyone has talked about, including the ones Brian Stone told me about right before race start.

Mile 30-40:  HILLS. Okay, the uphills. The big ones.  Were clear. I lost my breath a little when I saw the first one, with what looked from far away like little ants (who were actually the bikers) slowly making their way up.  Some on bike. Many on foot.  Many.  My first thought? Crap.  My second? I’m so glad I just did the Baldwin Hills Overlook with Brian.  The first time I did it, I went alone and didn’t know what I was doing and barely remember making it up the hill and it likely took me 8 minutes.  But then my crash course from 2 weeks ago was fresh in my mind (or was it one week ago? I think actually one week ago) and I reminded myself to keep my toes down, my feet light, pull up with my legs, and go to the lowest gear (which I now know how to do perfectly well!).  Breath through my nose if I can — which since I’m not expert at blowing snot efficiently out my nose while I’m riding or running, I am using my arm sleeve to clear (since I’m not using it to keep my arms warm), and just might be able to do since I had the genius idea of arm sleeve/handkerchief all in one.  I pass a lot of people (a few pass me, but I pass more).  A woman named Linda says to me “You like the uphills!” I tell her I’m scared of the downhills so I have to make up for it somehow.  And sure enough, 5 minutes later when we are going downhill, all those people whiz by me.  BUT, you know what, I got myself up to like 33mph. On that curvy first downhill, which I haven’t done since 1984.  Specifically since my sister Billi told me she wasn’t using the breaks on the downhill, and it wouldn’t be hard to turn at the bottom of the downhill, and I listened and got 30+ stitches (for a second time) in the bottom of my distinctly Hart chin.  So, pat on the back for me.  I know it’s not 50 mph, but the 33 mph is about 10 more mph of free speed than I’ve ever had as an adult.  After that. More hills.  Big hills, small hills.  Short hills, long hills.  There are hills.  Don’t let anyone say there are just two hills during the bike of the Oceanside Half Ironman.  There are more.  Calling them rollers is disingenuous. I need to write the course descriptions.

Mile 41:  16 more miles.  Totally do-able.  But, MY BUTT HURTS.  I might not ever want to be on a bike again.

Mile 42: MY BUTT HURTS.  Repositioning is almost useless at this point. And I’ve been staying far back in the saddle in the aero bars for a good chunk of this.

Mile 43: I’m a little tired of Gu.  But my water tastes delicious.

Mile 44: It can’t be hard to create a road bike seat with my padding.  Can it?  Seriously??

Mile 45-50: I’m riding with 2 guys from Mexico and a 32 year old woman and a 53 year old woman.  The 53 year old is in hot pink.  She’s bright but she’s good. We’re all pretty even. I might even break the rules for a bit and draft off the 32 year old.  It feels super easy.  The bike has gone fast! I might not be able to write a summary even if I wanted to because I’ve pretty much only been thinking about what I’m doing on the bike, which isn’t the most interesting thing for anyone to read.  I haven’t been judging all the athletes around me (my usual strategy).  Or playing funny mind games.  I’ve just been riding, and I’m almost tempted to say it’s been fun.  Almost.  In fact, I would say it except my butt really hurts and it’s a mixture of being on the bike and having a little knot in my left glute and that’s not fun.  But I’m almost done! And thankfully I did a few windy rides (even a brick during a very windy night where the wind could have been classified tornado winds (in my head)) and the headwinds really aren’t that bad.  I can’t believe I’m almost done.

Mile 51: Jesus. I’m going to finish the bike much faster than I thought.  Be proud for one minute, but get ready to run.

Mile 52: Back through the gas station and behind the grocery store.  Random streets of Oceanside. It’s amazing to think that I lived here for a year or so.  That was 4 lifetimes ago.  Literally.  It wasn’t even my life it seems.  Although I know I wouldn’t be where I’m at now without that year. And all the times I swam on Camp Pendleton growing up to get some long course training in.  That was 8 life times ago. But I feel more like that 16 year old than the 30 year old that lived here.

Mile 56: YAY! People cheering.  And I’m not just pretending it’s for me.  It really is for me! I give them a big smile, without effort, because it’s so awesome they are here.  And I am sooooooo close to getting off this bike and giving my butt a break.

Mile 57: DONE WITH THE BIKE.  I never want to ride a bike again. (Until I do this again).

Transition 2: I go a bit faster than T1, happy to know I need much less stuff with me.  There’s not too many bikes racked up in my area, so I’m doing okay.  About 4-5 women all around me, my age and younger.  We are with about 50 men in our general area.  The ratio isn’t 7:3 or 8:2.  It might be 9:1.

Mile 58 (aka Mile 1 of the run): I did lots of bricks. I ran every time I got off the bike.  I ran a lot.  I ran runs at lunches. I ran 14 miles the morning after the Amos Lee concert.  I ran A LOT. I ran 8 miles with jello legs after a 40 mile bike ride on the CARGO BIKE we have because my road bike was in storage and the key to storage was at Derek’s work.  This does not feel like Mile 1 of any of those runs.  Slow down.

Mile 59 (aka Mile 2): Slow down.  Loosen those legs up. I’m good at pacing, slow down and throw this mile away.  I see my cheering squad (which is also Tim’s and Brian’s cheering squad). I want to hug each of them. I give the little boys a high five and a smile and run.

Mile 60 (aka Mile 3 of run):  Okay, this should start feeling good soon.  Where is the music? I need to think of a song.  I can’t think of any song. Think of one.  Okay, The Best I Ever Had by Gavin Degraw was a regular on my runs. I can’t think of one word of that damn song.  What about I’ll be the One, or Soulshine, by Warren Haynes.  Soulshine only has like 20 words total.  Think of them.  I can’t even think of two words.  And that house is playing music, but the speakers are horrible and I can barely make out that they are playing Happy by Pharrell. But better than nothing.

Mile 61 (aka Mile 4).  Really only Mile 4?? You have to be kidding me.  This can’t be mile 4. There must be a mistake with the Mile markers.  But seriously Mile 4?  I look at my watch, 34 minutes into the run.  So mile 4 is accurate, and I’m not happy about it.  Lots of people are walking, and I really want to walk. Stay slow, this is a throw away mile.

Mile 62 (aka Mile 5 or when death starts setting in).  I spot Brian running back north — a quick hello and renewed energy.  About 8 miles to go.  I just did a mid day 8 mile run not too long ago through Echo Park to keep running in the mid day heat.  This is no different.  (I tell myself, HA! — to be clear, It Is Different).  There’s no breeze.  Where’s the coastal breeze?

Mile 63 (Mile 6 of run): I need to pee.  Actually, I need to stop running so I am going to pee.  To give my legs a break.  I need 5 cups of water and 5 wet sponges (though I only take 2) and a cup of ice.  The ice just might be the best thing I’ve ever held and eaten.  This can’t really just be mile 6.  These mile markers are off.  Wasn’t I supposed to think of someone new each mile?  Pretend I was running with a friend? Think of a song? I can’t.  The sun is out, strong, beating on us. This usually makes me think of Lauren and that always inspires me.  Takes me a to a different level.  But though Inspired, I can’t get lost in it.  Many of my training runs worked best when I had to work out some issue in my head – some emotion, some discomfort, some sadness, some frustration.  Think of that and try to get lost in it.  NONE OF THIS HAPPENING. My mind can’t hold a thought.  Okay, get back on your game for the second half of the run.  I see Tim.  He’s a great runner. He got me through a run on a seriously hot day when I had cramps in my quads.  Think of that. (I can’t even do that because my mind can’t hold a thought for longer than 2 seconds).

Mile 64 (Mile 7):  My cheering squad! Yay! If you are ever wondering if cheering someone on helps them — IT DOES! For the fifteen second when I was in their sight, I felt like “Okay, this second half of the run.  It’s what you are good at.  You can do this!”

Mile 65 (Mile 8 of run):  I have descended every single freaking run I’ve done since Thanksgiving.  Unless I ran with Brian and/or Tim and I let them set the pace at the beginning.  Every single other one, I’ve descended.  This might be the exception today.  I want to die.  Why did I sign up to do this race? Why? Was I really having fun on the bike? Did I really just smile at those people cheering me on and lead them to believe that I am happy? I AM NOT.  Wait, I just passed the woman who is wearing my same shorts but with a tiny little bikini top and she has an awesome 6 pack. I passed her.  It does not matter, it means nothing.  Except I’m running faster than her.  Does that mean anything? I don’t think so.

Mile 66 (Mile 9): I want to walk.  But don’t walk until you see Brian run past the other way (I tell myself, I can’t even think in first person anymore because my first person thoughts are all negative) – he’ll pass you soon (stay in third person, pretend this isn’t you running). Don’t let him see you walk even if you decide to admit you walked later (which I’m going to have to — my splits will be evident).  But I’m likely walking as fast as I can run right now.  My god I want to walk, and lay down in that puddle of water on the side of the road. When I signed up in June 2013 for this ride, I thought deep down that I needed this to get me through the year of transition I was about to have.  WHAT WAS I THINKING?  Who needs this?  Who needs these Mile markers that are spaced too far apart mocking them as they approach 5 1/2 hours of physical activity on a hot day?  Why can’t it be raining?  I hear Chariots of Fire.  I want to walk.

Mile 67 (Mile 10): I’m the Man by Aloe Blacc playing at the aid station. I think all the volunteers – who I want to hug when they give me ice and water and tell me keep it going I’m doing great — and every one on the road is singing it.  How do they have energy to sing?  But the song makes me smile, for so many reasons that warrant a different post, another day.  Too many reasons than I can think of coherently right at this moment (though I want to think of them, they make me happy), so not fair to write about them, because I just thought “I can’t believe they are playing this song. I’m happy they are.  I can’t believe everyone is singing it.  I want to sing too but I can’t remember how to put one foot in front of the other.” I stop to pee aka take a break again.  3rd time on the run (I never have stopped during any other half marathon i’ve done.  the whole 2 that I’ve done).  Good thing for my 2 piece Soas “kit” that makes this easy (by the way, when did I become such a pseudo tri-geek that I call it a kit instead of a suit? and did that woman I saw 2 miles ago just say “nice kit” and it took me two miles to figure out what she meant?).  A few women pass me and I’m (sort of) ashamed (but not really) to say “Seriously, they should not be passing me. They do not look like they should be passing me”. I then I give them kudos for being so tough and say more power to them. Because they look like they are jogging while I’m shuffling, even if I’m shuffling past all the men slowing down (the ratio, by the way, is definitely at most 9:1. lots of men do these things). So they do look like they should be passing me BECAUSE THEY ARE MOVING.  I’m leaving everything I have out here but the reality is I can’t go any faster than I’m going right now.  I want to talk. I mean walk. I mean stop.

Mile 68 (Mile 11): I”M ALMOST THERE.  I see Tim again, one last time.  Wait, his face is all bloody.  And his shoulder.  But he’s smiling.  Am I delirious?  But if he’s smiling. I’m smiling.  I do want to walk.  If I walk, I have no longer than 30 minutes left.  I’ve done way too many training runs to let myself walk.  Pretend you are running with someone. I can’t even think of one friend’s name.  I have a purple and pink sock on — my mismatched socks.  Which remind me of Sasha & Gemma.  Because Gemma likes pink and Sasha likes red.  But i don’t have a red version so I go with the purple.  Go figure.  There was more to the logic at one point but I forget it now.  And my daughters are tough little cookies.  So keep running.  Remember when I was in labor with them FOR A WEEK.  And the medicine to stop the labor only made it feel worse.  And then I was dilated to 10 cm with no medication and I was pretty sure I was going to die or kill someone.  That was worse than this, right?  I’m supposed to say to myself “That was worse.” But I’m not sure that is true.  I’ve never rode 56 miles on a bike, let alone after swimming 1.2 (actually 1.4, I’m pretty sure) miles, or before running a freaking half marathon.  I just want to be done.  I see Brian Stone from SDHS again. I walk for a minute, say hi, get the benefit of his big warm smile.  Okay, just keep it going. I pass the Zolezzi’s beach house, where I had so many fun evenings and bon fires and memories.  And there were big comfy sofas (or at least one) and there’s certainly a pillow. I want to climb the steps and call it quits right there.  But wait, I don’t think I can climb any steps even if I stop running.  My quads aren’t doing it.  Just keep it going.

May 69 (Mile 12): My god.  My jesus f*&*ing god.  I used to be eloquent and able to think of so many things.  No longer.  I want to stop running. I don’t even want to walk. I want sunscreen.  I want ice. I want chocolate milk.  I want a massage. I want a pillow.  I want the knot in my left glute to be worked out. I want to dive in that freezing cold water I was in this morning. But just float.  I want to be a spectator and cheer others on and I just want to be done.

Mile 70 (Mile 13): ………… (I don’t remember having one thought whatsoever).

Mile 70.1: The finish line.  Thank god. I pick my 10:35 pace back up to 7:45s to impress these spectators that I don’t know lining the finish corral.  I smile b/c I know how to fake it and maybe they will think I really looked like this the entire 13 miles of the run.  Then I smile because I AM DONE.  I DID IT.  I can’t help but smile because I accomplished this — the event, and the training leading up to it, and dare I say it was awesome. I even think I did it pretty well (although I’ll critique that thought likely for the next few weeks, thinking of how it could have been better).  I’m happy because I feel proud and it was incredible and somehow I have already forgotten that I wanted to die just 15 minutes ago.  And suddenly I instantly miss the training for it.  I had that same feeling when I had Kai — I hated being pregnant, and as soon as I had him, the very second, I felt amazing pride in my body, love for him, and longing for being pregnant with him.  Because I knew what the payoff was.  Then I had the twins.  What does this mean for my future? I’m not doing a full, that’s for sure.  (By the way, somewhere around mile 2, 3 or 4 of the run, I thought “There’s no way in hell I will ever want to do a full ironman.” ) My 6:05 time blew my fake goal of 6:30 out of the water and fell just short of my real goal of 6:00, but I don’t feel in any way like I fell short. (Though I know IF I do this again, IF, I know I can break that barrier).

The Ironman Village: Who the hell can eat tacos and chocolate chip cookies right after this? I have two chocolate milks and water and the only thing keeping me alive is saying good job to Brian and Tim and finding a masseuse.  I never want to eat again. And if I do, I never want to see Gu or Bonk Breakers again.

Massage Area:  Thank you.  My legs feel new.  Two masseuses at once, with good firm Kelly Brown-worthy hands.  They work on my left glute and one says “This is a really tough, painful spot to have a knot.  It affects the whole left side.”  I say “It is. But I don’t mind being reminded that I have a muscle there.”  Which is true, I don’t.  And I can at least say in this moment that I’ve got tight glutes.

*45 minutes later: Brian, Tim and I pick up our transition bags and bike.  We bike 1 mile to the hotel. I note that if there is a hill, I’m walking up it.  And I’m giving us credit for the additional mile, making the total 71.3 today. We all deserve the extra credit.  We worked hard during the race, and handled gracefully the efforts it took us each to train as much as we did. I feel in good company knowing I did what they did today.

Upon arriving to the hotel:  Ice cold beer, waiting for the participants. I don’t even like beer but that Corona tasted amazing.

Extra points for being impressive/an idiot: After a dip in the hot tub, and a dinner in Encinitas (Solace and the Moonlight Lounge), we stayed out until 1AM.  Featuring a trip into The Saloon which I doubted was wise (anyone who knows the Saloon understands why) until I saw Pam Capin (friend I swam with growing up) and thought maybe it was meant to be.  And – after walking at least a half mile further!!! — good music, good conversation, and a Stella Cider at Union Kitchen & Tap.  Which was nice if no other reason than knowing I could stay up late without having to plan to get up at 6am to do a 50 mile brick workout.

1:15AM – I was asleep like a rock.

I stood there at my assigned spot, just about 800-1200 yards from the start line at Pier 46.  It was a little section of the runner’s path at Hudson River Park that narrowed just slightly before some construction to the south, leading into Pier 45.  It would be obvious to the runners where to go, what to do — keep running, straight, for 2 1/2 more miles or so.  Then I’d get to see them again on the way back, when it would be obvious again — keep running, follow the path north, for another 1/2 mile or so, across the finish line. They wouldn’t need my instruction much, so as I stood there waiting for the race to start, I realized my job would just be to cheer them on.  

I felt a little guilty for having such an easy assignment.  After doing a lot of work getting The Lauren Beam Foundation incorporated in New York state – including nearly 8 months of senseless back and forth with the Department of State in New York — then set up as a 501(c)(3) non-profit, I felt like I hadn’t done enough during the planning with my fellow board members.  They all carried their weight and executed tasks so gracefully, so efficiently, so competently.  Whether in New York or in Northern California or in Oregon, they got everything done, week after week after week, during our year of planning.  No detail was too small, no task too large, and perfect never got in the way of good but that never meant our goal was to settle for less than perfect.  Once a month or so — more toward the final stretch leading up to November 10th — I participated on calls and was blown away by the creativity and common sense of The Lauren Beam Foundation Board.  It was like a think tank of people from different walks of life that could execute any plan and any idea.  Without meaning to be self deprecating but in the spirit of being perfectly honest, I felt each call like I could barely keep up.  The cross country move, the stress on my marriage, getting adjusted to Los Angeles, finding my bearings and keeping my head above water made it feel like joining the call on the weekend was an accomplishment.  As I tried to find ways to contribute to the planning after that, I felt two steps behind.  That was the reality.  Work and kids prevented me from getting there to help with the set up and organization on Saturday before the race — so I was hoping to be put to task Sunday morning.

So as I stood there waiting to cheer people on at Mile .5 and 2.5, I started thinking of how else I could help after the race.  Pick up every piece of trash, pack every extra t-shirt or bag, carry every box all over Manhattan to find a place that would ship it on a Sunday.  Do all the heavy lifting possible.  But meanwhile, for now, I’d cheer as best as I could for every runner that came by.  All 400 of them (and nearly all showed up!).  That would be my job and I’d do it as well as my fellow Lauren Beam Foundation board members deserved, and as well as Lauren deserved.  Lauren, who cheered people on even when she was racing.  Who cheered people on she didn’t know.  Who looked forward to giving high fives to every runner at Mile 7 of the NYC Marathon with me along 4th Avenue in Brooklyn – elite to walkers.  Who yelled at people breaking the rules at the NYC Triathlon, sneaking in front of the fence that was meant to keep spectators back from the course, who made it harder for us all to cheer each participant on.  I’d cheer the way she deserved.  I thought that is easy enough!

Though I was 1/2 mile away, I could see the swarm of runners on Pier 46.  I smiled thinking of the people I knew doing the race.  The people doing it to support each of Lauren’s friends and family members putting the face on, doing it to support her spirit and energy, doing it to impact the lives of people battling cancer.  The people she worked for and with.  The girl she babysat.  The women she coached.  The friends she loved.  The people that loved her.  And even people doing it just to be out there running.  That alone, as simple as it is, is part of our mission.  Move. Be Active.  Get out there.  We’ll make sure the rest of our mission happens if you just do that!  I thought of all those people, rallying for their spots near the start line, deciding where in the pack to begin the first step, and smiled. It would be easy enough to clap, to cheer, to give them a little support.

They swarmed around the first turns, with a few breakout speed demons breaking from the pack, and all quickly finding their pacing. A few minutes into the race, I saw Jake Shoemaker with his fuzzy hair flying high and his feet barely touching the ground and it was beautiful.  Speed and athleticism and a big smile and flying through the air, and I clapped and said “Go Team Beam!” Lauren would have loved seeing that – having him run this race. And not long after that I saw a pack of 3 or 4 guys, lead by Dean from San Diego, all in their blue Team Beam race day shirts.  And I thought Lauren would love this, and thought Dean is going to hang in there not too  far behind Jake! And I thought Lauren would be right part of that pack if she were here, I wish she were here.

Then I saw the pack.  The massive pack.  Spread out already — those that would go around 19-20 minutes in front of those that would go 22, in front of the 8 minute milers, in front of the joggers, in front of the walkers.  A few women toward the front and more toward the middle.  But all together, spreading out, but not too far apart.  All running in rhythm toward me. Me clapping, saying “Go Team Beam”, “Good Job!”, “Good start!”, “Go Team Beam!”.  Go Team Beam.  Go Team Beam.  Go.  And then that little knot in my chest just jumped up to my throat and my heart burst a little and the tears came.

I was overwhelmed with it.  With all these feet, moving in honor of her whether they knew her or not.  All running, all feeling the energy that we wanted to bring for the day, all smiling and working under the windless sunny sky along the Hudson River and all running.  And I thought of Lauren telling stories about being dragged to running races her mom raced in, week in and week out as  a kid. I thought of her telling me during a swim training trip in Hawaii about her sub 5 minute mile in high school, and I thought “She’s a great swimmer, but with those legs and that speed, she’s a runner at heart!”  And I thought of running and doing wind sprints alongside of her as we worked out together before work in 1998 and 1999.  And of running in races with her, cheering her on, joining her for part of her runs.  Running with her when she had cancer and I didn’t, and wishing I could run with her more.  And I felt her energy in the rhythm of every single footstep coming my way — all 700 feet still coming to pass by as I said “Go Team Beam” and the tears just started coming.  

Suddenly my claps and “Go Team Beam” were intermixed with my hand wiping tears away and just claps, because my voice cracked.  And I saw my friend Harry Packman, over 50 with the stride of a 20 year old athlete, hanging in the front of the pack.  I saw  my colleague Lauren Tanen, running and giving me a hug.  I saw my friend Hollis Meminger recalling the stride he had a star hurdler on a track scholarship to Georgetown, running for the first time 19 years later.  I saw Lauren’s swimmers, and teammates, and assistant coaches, running all together.  I saw people whose faces I knew, who I knew I knew through Lauren, running with their big smiles.  I saw Christina Keller running and smiling and I remember how much she hated running on the winter swimming training trips, but you wouldn’t know it now.  And I saw Katie Clancy and Jordana Alter, smiling and as sweet as they were in 1998.  I saw a 7-year old running with his mom and dad.  I saw my son running with his buddy, two little five year olds, one with sequined shoes on, running their first race ever.  I saw Gretchen Mannix, Lauren’s old boss and mentor and friend, and thought of all the kernels of wisdom and kindness she shared, of which I benefitted as Lauren passed them on to me.  The tears wouldn’t stop, but neither would the “Go Team Beam”s.  I saw Big Bill Palowski, and his wife, running together, and got another hug, and I was so grateful for my spot cheering people on at Mile .5.

Then suddenly Jake Shoemaker was on his way back in — speeding his way to a course record and 15 minute 5k!.  Still smiling.  And I felt grateful that the tears had flowed and I could cheer them all back in — all these wonderful, beautiful, strong runners — with a little more dignity than my sensitive heart let me do on their way out.  And it was amazing. It was hard, it was sad, it was uplifting and strange and wonderful and miraculous all in one.  And I cheered, I gave high fives, I shouted encouragement, I snapped a few pictures.  And I felt like I had the most incredibly important job out there — along with the twenty other volunteers manning the race course.  Just to cheer and harness all this energy of the footsteps coming our way and bring it to life.  And so I did my best to do just that.

Not far into cheering on the return runners — shortly after the front of the pack was past me and crossing the finish line — I realized that while I shouted “Go Team Beam”, there were some people that might not have known what that meant at the start of the race.  They might not have read Lauren’s Caring Bridge posts, or bought a Team Beam shirt or bracelet at the beginning of her battle.  They might not have been graced with the energy of Lauren Beam and Mike Beam in 2011 or before.  They might not have known, first hand, the strength and love of that battle cry.  But as I shouted this to every runner and every pack and every group on their way back in, they all knew it.  They all felt it.  Their footsteps had been powered by it, maybe unknowingly, and all our efforts combined with their steps had brought it to life.  And there was no doubt that they knew that it wasn’t just a call to go faster, go longer, stay strong for just another mile.  But to live proudly, live fearlessly, live with fun and humor and love and fearlessness.  Even when fear is the only thing you feel and humor seems out of reach.

And that power of Team Beam was there in the air, dense and strong and contagious, until all the awards had been given and auctioned and raffles won and bagels and cookies eaten and music played and impromptu choreography danced and pictures taken and hugs exchanged and thanks given and cheers provided and coats put on to cover those beautiful blue shirts and runner’s gaits turned in to walks to the nearest subway.  

And it’s there today, as The Lauren Beam Foundation starts planning for the next race, and all of our wonderful runners start training for it by training for life.

http://www.laurenbeam.com

It’s me again.  Do I start that way every time I decide to give you an update on my granddaughter? I don’t know how else to start.  I’m not sure if anyone else is keeping an eye on her, or telling you about it.  If there are others, I want to be sure you know it’s me.  Her Grandpa.  The one she talks to at night, when she’s saying what other people would call prayers.  She doesn’t pray, at least “pray” in the way people prayed where I’m from.  My kind of praying.  Hell, I didn’t really pray either even though I believed I should.  But she lays there, and sends out energy into the world, asking for some kind of energy back.  And sometimes she sends energy to me, purposefully.  I hear her thoughts, asking me for favors.  To shift things in this world about, at least in her world.  Sometimes she isn’t asking for anything, just telling me about things.  She sends the same thoughts to her buddy Lauren, sometimes asking for different things of Lauren than she could ask of me.  Or telling Lauren different things.  Makes sense, I suppose.  You need different energy at different times. But anyway, it’s me, here to tell you what’s going on.

There’s lots to report on and little to report on all at the same time. Some of the big stuff, the real stuff, I’m not sure I can lahy out for you too well.  It’s not wholly her story to tell, and I don’t feel that openness in her heart to lay it all out there yet.  Once she’s ready to share, I can always feel that crackling of her skin and tingling of her bones and vibration right in the front of that brain of her that was always working over time ever sense she was a tiny little precocious thing who both yearned for and avoided attention all at once.  Sometimes when I’ve felt all of this energy, I’ve heard her say, “I feel it in my bones.” She feels it down in the very core of her and doesn’t hold back proclamations or information or what is in her heart.  But I don’t feel that yet here.  I’ve said it before, but I think this is why she hasn’t written herself much the past few weeks.  Some things taken up her energy – what she would call the real stuff, the important stuff, the stuff she can talk about without feeling like she’s got a mask on – her heart’s not open to yet.  It’ll come, one day.  

So for now I’ll stick to the other stuff.  First, her daughter, Gemma.  You know, Nikki worries about her every day.  She feels guilty and overwhelmed every day wanting the best for this little girl.  She feels proud at the smallest task Gemma conquers, and watchful of every hurdle or bump or obstacle that lies in front of her.  We all know she doesn’t have to feel this way.  But you go ahead and tell any mother to turn that worry and guilt and love off, and you know you’ll be silently cursed out to high heaven ’cause it ain’t happening.  And go ahead and tell a mother who gave birth to a two pound little bird so early early early in the pregnancy, and she will silently curse your ignorance and then let yet another corner of her heart break off because the guilt and worry just multiplies every time she thinks of it. But I tell you this.  I watched that little girl do gymnastics class this week. I watched that little girl tell jokes to her classmates. I watched that little girl study her neighbors who joined the family in the elevator for each family walk, then say hello.  I watched that little girl clearly let her mom and dad know “Let me do it BY MYSELF.” “I CAN DO IT MYSELF.”  And if they let her do it — whatever it was — herself, she was happy.  And if they didn’t, she wasn’t so much.  And I tell you this, it’s not so different than another four year old I loved spending time with 36 years ago. Who insisted on wearing short plaid skirts and being as independent as they came and pouting on my staircase to the basement if she got too much or too little attention or both at the same time.  Who still a few years later kept telling all those little squirts she swam with to “Leave me alone” but then yearned for them to be her friend.  Who was smart as a whip and didn’t want to be indebted to anyone for helping her along, but still wanted her mom and dad to carry her to bed.  Gemma’s skin is a little darker, her hair a little curlier. Her “R”s a little more pronounced but her voice a little higher.  But there isn’t much difference between the two and Nikki has nothing to worry about there.  But you can’t tell her that.

Meanwhile, she spent the last month or so celebrating her 40th birthday.  Some country music outdoors with some new friends that I think I would have enjoyed spending time with.  Some celebrations with that family of hers. She didn’t get the ice cream cake she asked for — many times — but she got cakes and streamers and decorations and cards and they sang Happy Birthday to her 102 times in one day, and she was happy.  She got a massage, one of her favorite things, and it brought her to tears.  The place was stark but elegant and simple.  Her calf keeps acting up on her, so she had them focus on her calf and feet first.  The woman – who seemed so strong and present and magical, in ways – touched a spot right next to the arch of her foot, and said “You are so tired.  This spot will feel better when you aren’t tired.”  And she was right – sleep hadn’t been over abundant for a few nights, few weeks.  And that very spot hurt.  Then she touched a spot just above that, a finger closer to the arch and closer to the toes, and said “This spot is painful.  It’s a spot that knows happiness and misses it.”  Well, for those of you that know Nikki, you know she is generally an optimist.  I’m not sure she’s always been a half glass full girl, but she realized quite some time ago, life was easier and more fun that way and adopted the perspective. But she knew this statement was true.  She knew she missed a happiness that she once knew very well.  Her eyes got teary, but those tears didn’t fall until later. She let them fall later, and then decided if she once knew it, she’d have it again. She’d ride out the feeling that was there, wearing on the inside of her soul and sole, and it would give her perspective when things shifted again.  Then she went on to get what she described as the best massage of her life.  And I certainly could feel her muscles relax, her heart muscle unclench, her feet loosen, her self come out a little bit.  And she spent the rest of the day in the sun, celebrating 40, and it was nice.  Then she had some dinners with friends of hers that I recognized from so long ago. They’ve been around for so long, in so many different cities, and there were so many of them, at different times.  And a couple that wrapped her up in lifelong love and warmth and humor, and I just enjoyed watching it all.  She smiled, she laughed, she was open.  She embraced this 40 thing with grace, I think.  What do I know, I was about to be a new grandpa to her older sister when I was 40.  I still had my five kids living at home.  I didn’t think much of being 40 – not much good, not much bad.  It was what it was and I didn’t celebrate it, but I wish I would have.  I see the way she digs in to things, and lets them settle inside her, it’s not a bad way to live.  

She’s trying to dig in to Los Angeles, to Southern California.  She sure loves her work.  She wished for many years that she was working with a group of people she felt connected to, and I see her have that every day in that energetic office she gets to.  She likes the people, they like her.  She sometimes says she’s not sure why her boss likes her, but I know why.  She’s even and fair and works hard and it never ceases to amaze me that she isn’t afraid to speak up.  Not sure why that surprises me, for as quiet as she could be as a little girl, she could voice her opinion just as strongly.  But she does it in a way that make people react openly to her.  Her big sister one time said she was annoyed by how diplomatic Nikki could be.  And that’s why that boss likes her, mark my words.  And he listens to her and trusts her, and that helps her settle right in and dig in to whatever work she has on her desk.  She works hard, but she talks music and running and books and life with her colleagues, and for that I’m grateful.  She spends a lot of time there.  It seems to me — and this is just my humble opinion — that she really loved where she lived in New York, and liked where she spent her days.  It doesn’t seem like a bad trade for her to love where she spends her days and like where she lives.  If I’m a betting man, I’d say she knows this.

She still feels a little transient at home.  She tried to frame some pictures and truth be told the pictures are beautiful but the frames hang crooked and look haphazard.  Not the look I think she was going for.  She doesn’t know too many neighbors, people are moving in and out every day.  She doesn’t have time to volunteer at her kids’ school like she did last year. Not consistently anyway. She doesn’t know too many people by first name and she misses knowing people who knew her when she was pushing a 8 month old down the street and pregnant with twins, and then carrying the twins in a carrier while letting her son climb like he wasn’t just 16 months on a huge jungle gym.  But I’m certain she knows that feeling will change, that roots will start to grow.  

One day, she brought a purple orchid into work to give her office a little something extra.  One of her colleagues, a true renaissance man who talks like Spacolli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High but is smart as smart can be, and is an expert skateboarder with a green thumb and who might be known on occasion to steal a perfect plant walking home from a late night at the bars, let her know the Orchid, though known to be tricky to take care of, is really pretty simple.  Don’t touch it while it’s blossoming, it needs it air and space.  Let water run over it for about 10 seconds then soak in for about 5 minutes.  Then place it in the spot it looks the best in your office — it needs some sun, some of the day, and if it is in the spot it looks best, it is probably best for it.  Then let it sit there — for two weeks, at least — before you do anything more.  Just set it up right and let it sit.  And there’s something about this protocol that makes her think caring for herself isn’t all that different at this point in time. 

The post-holidays, post-birthday, post-celebration blues have set in.  There was so much to do leading up to the move, so much to do and see as we floated across country, so much to worry about as we settled in.  So much to organize, to distract, to try to keep normal, to put on the list and check off, to put on the list and forget.  The days were frantic even as I tried to stay calm and even.  And the work at home, with the kids, with work, with everything kept coming, and so I didn’t have time to sit with my thoughts and think about anything.

And then I did.  And I wish I hadn’t.  Because the over-riding thought is “What the hell was I thinking?”.  Seriously, what the hell was I thinking?  I long for my home. 

Let’s put aside what my rational mind knows — my professional opportunity is a good one, and I am only just beginning. That there’s no way I will feel connected, or rooted, or even close, anytime in the next 6 months.  12 months even.  Maybe even two years.  That my sadness and longing for home is inevitable, even if this place I’m at now proves to be home in every sense of the word.  And only time will tell.  Let’s put aside the sun — the weather woman saying “Today is a cooler day, with highs of only 75 along the coast, 81 inland”.  Let’s put aside not having to fight with my kids about wearing anything but shorts, dresses, and flip flops (at most).  Let’s put aside my very natural, very light, highlights that make me as naturally blond as I’ve paid to be the past 17 years (the math there is depressing and I dare anyone to guess how much getting good highlights in NYC adds up to over nearly two decades). 

Let’s put it all aside because my heart is choosing to totally disregard reason.  And there’s a great big void for Brooklyn, specifically, but dare I say, all of NYC.

I miss Union Square.  Finding parking on 13th Street every Saturday, spending an hour plus at the best dance studio that exists anywhere (if you think dance studios are a dime a dozen in Los Angeles, think again).  Feeling the hardwood floors that have been moved on and tapped on and jumped on and spun on.  Seeing dancers from 4 years to 50 years come in and out, celebrate, move, create, teach, inspire.  Watching little souls come alive with music that vibrated. Then walking down 14th street, full of activity, to Union Square.  Into the Farmer’s Market, the chess players.  The gatherings on the steps.  The pigeons, the squirrels, the chatter.  The sun bathers, the tourists, the locals, bantering and talking and staking out benches for talk and picnics and people watching.  Finding the musicians playing piano, guitar, banjo, ukelele, washboard. Hearing their songs, watching them play, giving applause.  Sitting on the steps of the playground, keeping track of 3 little heads attached to brown bodies.  Surrounded by people and not talking. Or surrounded by people and talking.  Leaving feeling the same way either way – like I had just spent the afternoon with old friends, even if I had known no one.  Imagining getting a sitter to have drinks a stone’s throw away, dinner at one of the 100 spots right next door. Sipping an iced chai latte (I have not had one since Brooklyn, habit stopped) while the kids fell asleep driving back over the Manhattan Bridge.  I miss Union Square.

I miss the Brooklyn Museum.  Sitting on the steps, watching the water fountain shoot uneven streams up in the air.  Seeing people come and go, in and out, talking about the aesthetics, about the exhibits.  About the First Saturday parties.  Finding spots underneath the trees to retreat from the summer heat, or in the glazing blast of the Fall sun on the wood steps.  Stepping inside to hear the echo bounce off the statues, the shuffle of feet on marble floors. Imagining minds broadening just by being near the Museum, its myriad exhibits, its energy.  Watching joggers run past — to the west, to get to Prospect Park.  Black, white.  Hasidic Jewish women in wigs and skirts, running. Men from Nigeria, 110 pounds wet, running.  Men pushing strollers, running.  Women pushing strollers, running.  Heading toward the Prospect Park loop, along tree lined Eastern Parkway.  Massaging the dollar in their hand that will buy them water on the way out.  Stopping and stretching on the inviting steps of the Brooklyn Museum, next to the glass doors of the atrium. I miss the Brooklyn Museum.

I miss living in the condo that we own.  Knowing each scratch on the wood floors are from us.  From Butter running to say hello to us at the door.  From Deucey jumping up for a treat.  From moving new furniture in, from letting the kids test their scooters out inside when they got them for Christmas.  Sun beating down through the skylights that made me want to buy on the fourth floor, no matter what work the future might entail with 48 steps to climb each day, no matter what.  The arizona tan on the walls, the sag harbor green in the bedroom, the gelato paint in the bathroom.  I was meant to have a house painted gelato.  I miss the scribble, left by Gemma, on the doors that the Magic Eraser couldn’t even eliminate.  I miss the white wainscoating in the kids room, small specs of red near each bed where they’d hide their wall art habit.  Climbing the spiral staircase on the outside, where the step was the widest, and seeing my decorative storage boxes faded from the loft windows and their endless stream of southern sun.  Redecorating the living space 3 times over, trying new looks, making new lives.  Seeing, but never hearing, the planes fly overheard to La Guardia.  My neighbors who were all perfectly diverse, a perfect little microcosm of Brooklyn, bringing all walks of life together under one roof separated into 8 with a backyard. 

I miss my friends. I miss running into 1000 acquaintances every day, never knowing which friend I’d bumped into.  I really miss my neighborhood friends.  

I miss having a library walking distance that had more than just books.  A library that had tables outside, concerts inside and out. Story times and craft centers and a cafe.  I miss the best library I’ll likely ever know.

I miss not being the only mom that works.  How do moms in LA not work? I know some work, I know (I work with them!). But not on my school drop offs.  Not on my class volunteer sheets that only require volunteers from 12-2 every day.  Not in my kids’ school yards.  I miss not knowing every parent of every child that my girls and my boy go to school with.  I miss getting to pick my girls up from school every night, the 5:58 rush hour to make it there before 6.  The slow departure, with the other kids there until the very last minute, refusing to go home even after 9 hours of school, wanting to eek out a few more minutes running on the ramp of the recently vacated restaurant on the corner.  Shouting goodbyes at intersections as we departed north, south, east, west for the 2 block walk home. I miss my kids walking by Dee’s Pet Store every day, admiring the owner from afar, bonding with him over a mutual love of animals.  I miss the bodega owners letting each of my kids pay and say thank you, no matter how long it would take to let each one pull out his own money.  And I hated the bodegas when I lived there.  I miss them!  Life is funny that way.  

I miss people being fashionable and healthy.  Ironic, huh. I’m in LA, where the world is skinny and celebrity fashion originates.  But somehow I’m missing it.  Outside of work – and my kids school yard (where 85% of people are as hip as hip can be) – I’m not seeing it.  I didn’t even realize until this very second that I cared one bit about fashion. (Nor did I realize that I’ve been anywhere except work and dropping my kids off at school, but that’s part of the story that I have to figure out another time.  What I’m saying is still true even if the facts aren’t fitting together).  

I miss walking.  I miss passing by other people walking when I’m walking.  I miss running in Prospect Park, and along the West Side Highway.  And city runs over the Brooklyn Bridge at dusk.  I miss running by the Barclays Center, in awe that it wasn’t always there, that some people didn’t want it there.  I miss the sidewalks being layered with memories.  My memories, others’ memories.  My sidewalks here don’t even have their first layer, they feel too fresh, too unused.

I miss having the world – quite literally – at my fingertips.  To be able to brush little bits of that world onto my kids by just opening the door.  What falls onto my kids when I open the door now isn’t quite as broadening, it doesn’t quite expand them the same way.  Remember, I put aside the rational — which includes that I know there’s plenty to be found in LA.  I’m taking them to the Getty Museum this weekend rather than the beach, where I’ve seen just one (thousand) too many strung out and high, leathered from the sun, crazy not because the weight of the world and the heaviness of a city overpopulated with ambition and challenge but because they have done too little.  (Yes, it is true, I’m judging the crazy people I see in LA vs. the crazy people I see in NYC, and today I think the NYC crazies are more valid in their right to be crazy and lost and over the edge. On another note, maybe I’m not meant to live by the beach despite how much I love the water.)  There’s plenty more places I want to take them – museums and neighborhoods and spaces.  But it’s not just all there when I open the door.  

I miss everyone knowing my face, if not also my name.  I miss people sitting on their stoop and watching their community do whatever each person did in a day.  I miss people living a bit outside, even on 100 degree days and even on 30 degree days.  I miss not feeling invisible each day.  I didn’t feel quite so invisible before.  And I turn 40 in less than a week — less than a week! — and now I feel invisible and I’m wondering what the hell was I thinking?  This timing is not good.  Three months ago I had no crisis, now I’m having a mid-life crisis.  There is a crisis and I’m turning 40 — very unfortunate timing!  When I’ve thought about a mid-life crisis — others’, not mine, as I’d never contemplating having one — I never realized that you could have one just due to really bad timing.

So I’m left with this feeling of longing.  For Brooklyn, for being known.  For being visible.  For being rooted and being home.  48 days after arriving, and 6 days before I turn 40.  

F*&*.

September 9, 2011 was a Friday.  I was at my desk in the Fashion District, having just started a new job eight weeks prior.  It was in a quiet corner of the office building on the 12th floor.  My desk was still fairly undisturbed, not yet littered with files and my organization system still working because I was new.  The team of people I worked with on my floor — four women and a man — didn’t know me well yet. I didn’t know them.  It takes me much longer than 8 weeks to open up, to be fully myself, to let people in.  I was still quieter; still listening more than talking. Still being the same I was when I was 16, entering a new room of people — not afraid to speak, comfortable speaking, in fact, but wanting to know the lay of the land before I laid myself on the line.  It was quiet, the first Friday morning after the endless New York Summer and Labor Day weekend.

My phone rang at 9:23 am.  It was Mike, one of my closest friends and husband to my best friend, Lauren. Describing Mike as my friend, or my best friend’s husband, doesn’t do these relationships justice, I realize every time I write it or explain it.  He is family.  He is the guy that I met in August of 1999, when we both briefly taught at the same private school in Brooklyn before each going on to law school.  The very moment I saw him, I liked him and felt his quality soul.  The very second I said hello – instantaneously, with no pause or doubt – I thought “I must introduce him to Lauren”. Lauren, who I had known since moving to NYC, thought it had felt like a whole lifetime, often mistaken for sisters from the very first day.  Since that day in 1999, he and his calm steady demeanor, his unshakable voice, have been part of my life.  Although for the two and a half years from March 2009 to September 9, 2011, I’d heard his voice shake.  Not as often as someone else’s might have, but enough to break a heart.  I had been planning on going to their apartment after work – his and Lauren’s — to see her.  We were going to have Roberta’s pizza the previous Saturday, but I had to reschedule because my kids broke down and I couldn’t survive getting them down four flights of stairs and into a public arena and forcing Lauren to deal with the physically overwhelming chaos.  We were going to go Sunday instead, but she texted me and said she had stomach issues and couldn’t go.  I still have the text.  “You know how it goes.”  Immediately, I’d wished I could have found a way to go Saturday.  Wished I had found a way to go Saturday.  The overwhelmed feeling of having temperamental two year olds seemed incredibly insignificant.  I had said, to myself, “Never do that again. Find a way.”  Spend every moment you can with her.

So Mike called on Friday September 9th, 2011, just a few days later.  Lauren and Mike had received bad news earlier in the week.  There was nothing more to do.  Every battle that could be fought against the tumors growing in her liver, her colon, her lymph nodes, her lungs, had been fought.  The last treatment worked enough to get her a trip to Hawaii, to get her a summer with her husband.  To get her a few extra days with her family.  No, it wasn’t the treatment that gave her this. It was her.  The treatment did some battles, but she did the big ones.  She got out of bed when many wouldn’t.  She walked and ran and talked when many would have rolled over.  Would have accepted a defeat that she never, ever would.  She battled the slow demise and wouldn’t let the demise settle in.  She watched my son at the playground of Union Square and near NYU, where he saw the rocks in her tummy and asked what they were. And she explained them and found a way to make him laugh but understand.  She did this when her strength should have been gone and her heart was more tortured than mine will ever be, no matter what lies ahead of me.  So Mike knew I was coming, and I can’t remember if I called him first to say “Let me know if I can bring anything.”  Orange juice, gatorade, a cookie. A sponge to wet Lauren’s mouth, a cushion for her seat. Food for him. Cleaning supplies.  A cure for cancer.  I can’t remember if he was calling me back, or just called me, I just know he called me at 9:23 am.

“Nik, you need to come over this morning.  She is going quick, everything is changing by the minute.  She’s almost not here anymore, it’s happening so fast.”  He explained how he was at work yesterday, he had gone to work and she was normal.  Her hair was barely there, and her eyelashes weighing down her big eyes on her gaunt face.  But she was still Lauren.  Planning a trip to Target.  Needing to get cleaning supplies.  And he came home and it was a little different, and then it was like a fast forward camera flying through the life of a flower.  She was fading, for lack of a better phrase, because no phrase does it justice.

I hung up, I cried. I shut my office door to close out the four people who barely knew me, and cried some more.  I kept crying and opened it and said I had to leave to go to Lauren’s, and they all understood. I didn’t have to say more.  I think I took a cab the thirty blocks. I normally would have walked, to avoid my carsickness and to get fresh air, but even with the worst traffic this would have taken longer than a cab.  Even just a second longer. And I just wanted to be there.  For Lauren. For Mike. For her mom, for me.

I had seen Lauren throughout her battle with cancer. I had seen her on bad days, although probably not her worst days.  On her worst days and weeks, I wrestled with the guilt that I felt over not being able to help, over having to parent the three babies that came my way right before and after her diagnosis.  After she had to terminate the pregnancy that would have made her and Mike first time parents. I felt guilt for being overwhelmed with the lucky man’s blessing of colicky twins and a healthy older brother and all these babies needing me needing me tugging at me pulling at me pulling pulling pulling me needing me, needing me so much that on her worst days I couldn’t be the friend that I would have wanted to be.  That I still want to be.  That I envisioned being before I could even envision anyone in my life having cancer.  But still, I saw her throughout this battle, on other days.  And then I saw her on this day.

She was laying in a recliner that a generous small company to whom I had a business connection had donated.  Her mom was there, of course, and Mike.  I walked in, and I lost my breathe just a little.  Before Lauren, there had really only been one person I was close with in my life that died.  My Grandpa Ray. The last time I saw him was July 1994, right before I turned 21, when I flew to Colorado and he was battling the illnesses — all of them, whatever they were – that had been killing him for years.  I knew it would be the last time I saw him. That there would be no more checker games, no more football bets.  No more tuna sandwiches in his black lunch box wrapped in wax paper with a side of vanilla wafers.  No one else that would call me “Motornose” to tease me.  No more big smiles from a man with perfect greased back hair and rolled up jeans and a tucked in shirt each time I walked into the bungalow on Newton. No one that would love me quite as purely and fully and unconditionally and sweetly as a grandfather, as this grandpa, as my Grandpa.  I knew I wouldn’t see him again.  And I walked into bedroom and he was laying in his modest full-size bed, and he looked like the size of a child in a big king bed.  He was so small, so frail. He was fading.  And I just wanted to give him a kiss and breath life into him. I didn’t want my mouth to leave him until I knew he could breath, he could have my lungs. My liver. My health.  “Nik, I’m so proud of you.”  Did I say I love you? Did I say anything? I think I did. I’m not sure anymore. It all gets lost and shadowed by that feeling of wanting to give to him whatever was inside of me that made me healthy, whatever it was he didn’t have. I wanted to breathe for him, to keep him here for the world to have.  For me to have, to keep my Grandpa.  I didn’t want it to be the last time.

It was the same when I saw Lauren.  Not the visual, not necessarily, though she was small and her eyelashes so long and thick and heavy.  But the feeling.  It hit me instantly, the two moments forever connected.  A flood of feeling that I recognized from 18 years ago.  I wanted to give her whatever my lungs my liver my colon all my cancer free cells, all cleared after small scrapes of abnormal cells came off my skin and my cervix and my right breast clean bills of health each time, and my heart that keeps beating and kept beating and my mouth that lets me drink water whenever I am thirsty and my stomach that will let me eat and eat and stop eating and eat again and my legs that keep running when i take them for granted and my lungs and brain and blood and everything inside me i need to breathe to talk to love to see. I wanted to take this all out of me and give it to her because I didn’t want to lose her. I didn’t want her mom or Mike to lose her. I didn’t want the world to lose and I wanted to keep my friend Lauren. I didn’t want it to be the last time.

She turned to me and said “Nik, I’m so glad you are here. I thought you had to work.”  I had left work a lot to come see her, but I wish I would have left more often.  Because of Mike’s generosity, and her mom’s, I got to hold her hand that day. I got to let her rest her head on my shoulder. I got to talk to talk to her. I got to talk to Mike, and share stories that hopefully were good ones in her head.  I got to be the friend that I wanted to be since the day I met her, when the road I saw in front of us was small apartments and cute boys and boxing classes and runs and long runs and fiances and husbands and kids and surprise parties and co-birthday dinners the first weekend of every October and spending too much money on highlights to stay blond and group trips and career accomplishments and struggling through New York City in our 20s to relish it in our 30s and good food and laughter and having our kids understand how much “my friend” meant when describing each other and have her be the person my kids went to when they couldn’t talk to me and have her kids come to me. I got to be the friend I wanted to be since her sister called me on a Saturday in March 2009 and told Derek and I “Lauren has cancer.” And I said “Lauren who?” Not knowing another Lauren, but certainly knowing she didn’t mean my friend Lauren.  And I went to the hospital and broke down crying when I hugged her despite promising myself that I wouldn’t, and later that day or a day later, bringing her the best smelling shampoo and conditioner I could find when she finally got to take a shower.  They gave me that day, and I am forever grateful.  And that feeling of wanting to breathe my life into her will never, ever go away. It is as strong as I type this as it was that night when I left.

She died the next morning, with her family at her side.  My pain pales in comparison to Mike’s, to her Mom’s.  To that of her sisters and brother.  But knowing your pain could be worse, your heart could ache more, doesn’t make it go away. Your heart refuses perspective that your head has, and aches trying to fathom the pain of your friend Mike. Lauren’s mom.  Her siblings. Her family.

A few days ago a group of Lauren’s friends and family launched The Lauren Beam Foundation, a charity that hopes to impact the lives of young men and women battling cancer.  The timing of the launch, near the anniversary of her death, is coincidental but feels significant. The Foundation was created knowing, first hand, the significant impact that can be made on a daily basis for individuals battling cancer. We want to find people who embody the passion, health, and tenacity of Lauren in some way, and help fund resources that we know will make an immediate impact in their lives during their battle or recovery.  Hopefully recovery.  I’ve been trying to explain our goal that, in contrast to the goals of larger, well known organizations, is more immediate.  More individual.  Tonight, as I drove home from work thinking about my September 9, 2011, thinking about how it had been two years since I have seen her, since I’ve gotten to talk to her, trying, still, to wrap my mind around the fact that I never will again, I was scanning the radio and accidentally landed on a country station playing Brad Paisley’s song “I Can’t Change the World” came on. I smiled, knowing that Lauren was one of the few in New York City that would listen to country music, and I often enjoyed the achy love songs embodied in the genre.  I thought of the day after she died, when I went running in Prospect Park to clear my mind and body from the ache of sadness — it was cloudy, but the sun peeked through around the southeast bend and Sugarland came on and I knew she was singing to me, her energy there with me.  I can still feel that energy as I sit in my car and hear Brad Paisley sing, “I can’t change the world, but if you let me, I can change yours.”  It resonated, as that is our goal.  To change one world, to change one day, for one person.  To give them something that changed Lauren’s world during her battle, even if it didn’t change the ultimate loss.

And it resonated even more because she changed my world.

http://www.laurenbeam.com

Twenty-two years ago, I did what was then my 5th consecutive Oceanside Pier Swim. One mile around the Oceanside Pier. Twenty-two years ago I was likely the winner of my division and one of the first females out of the water, if not one of the top participants out. I could work so hard in the water that I could barely lift my arms afterwards.

Today, I did my first Oceanside Pier Swim in twenty-two years.  It will be my first of many, a rejuvenated annual tradition. Given the number of times I’ve swam in the past 20 years or so, I couldn’t work hard enough to be exhausted afterwards. I can lift my arms just fine (although I am wondering if my RIGHT leg now has a Baker’s Cyst, given how my right calf feels, but that has nothing to do with the Pier Swim). I wasn’t the top in my division, or one of the first females out of the water (but I still consider my performance respectable).  But it was fun.  I don’t have 13 miles to play with or a breakdown of three different sports over 2 hours, but here’s the run down:

1.  Leave my house, 6:00.  This is the earliest I’ve woke up and left since arriving in California.  It’s dark and quiet.  Inside and out. Los Angeles is not awake this early on Labor Day.

2.  The first song on the radio at 6:01 am is Tie the Knot by Kelly Clarkson.  The best wedding song I’ve heard in some time. I love me my American Idols. And listening to the country station reminds me I need to check on my Keith Urban tickets, which might be the last thing I do before I turn 40.

3.  Arrive in Oceanside, 7:20am. I think I even beat the event organizers.  I’m early everywhere. So I sit in my Prius with the seat warmer on and I’m so glad I paid the extra dollars for the seat warmer.

4.  7:30. I can’t see the Pier.  Am I at the Pier? The fog is so thick.

5.  7:30 part 2.  It smells like ocean, and salt, and fish. And coconut and summer and heat and crisp air combined into one. And bonfires and fresh laundered towels and clean beachhouses with sandy shoes at the doorstep.  Good friends and first loves and good kisses and good laughs and heartbeats.  It smells good and I’m glad I’m here.

6.  I get my timing chip and orange cap.  I see that I’m swimming mostly with people younger than 15 years old and older than 55 years old.  I initially think I’m right in the middle, but then I realize, no, I’m not.  I could be the mother of the 15 year olds.  It would be a push to say that the 55 year olds could be my parents. 

7.  I see Scott Wagner, as good looking as he was 20 years ago.  He hasn’t aged! Here’s to being a career life guard.  I see twenty kids wearing their North Coast Aquatics t-shirts, running in a pack and talking about this being their first swim in – gasp – two weeks.  Not much has changed in 20 years.  I see my friend, Will Moore, who I convinced to do this.  Thank god for good friends who humor you.  I see 8 other people I know and I realize that the swimming world stays small and it’s nice to be home.

8.  I see Agatha! My best friend, my ace-koom-boom.  I’m so happy I’m speechless – not then but now.  My heart feels a little lighter and a little more connected every time I see her.  And my laugh louder.  And I re-introduce her to the doctor who gave her a bad spinal during her labor with her oldest daughter. The doctor is married to one of my closest friends from my swimming years, whose daughter is also swimming.  Her daughter is 12 and I realize born about 5 years after my own swimming career ended. And she is going to beat me today.

9. I still can’t see the Pier. But I can see my son, brother, his girlfriend, and my nephew who came to cheer me on.  Yay Cookie & his crew! I try to convince my son to have  Churro for breakfast, and he resists despite his hunger, so I feed him M&Ms.  And I give myself a silent award for mother of the year (why did I take all the snacks out of my bag before I left the house? What kind of mother am I?).  

10.  Ag, Will and I go “warm up” by getting wet.  Will rushes out in front of us, gets wet, and then we see him running full speed back to the staging area.  Ag and I go into the water and as soon as my toes touch my lungs freeze as does the rest of me. Agatha says she thinks Will ran home because the water is so cold, and I think she’s right.  Where is my wetsuit?  And what’s up with the huge waves in the Pacific? Why am I not swimming in the peaceful Cedar Beach water of Long Island?  It’s freezing and I still can’t see the Pier.

11.  8:30 – the first wave is supposed to start, which will mean I go back into the water in 10 minutes.  If I don’t run home.  But nothing is starting.  The lifeguards can’t even see each other as they prepare to line the way to the buoys.

12.  9:00 – nothing has started yet.  We are standing by the water wondering if we should get wet again.

13.  9:15 – nothing has started yet.  We really can’t see the Pier. The fog is not leaving.

14.  9:30 – nothing has started yet. People are leaving in mass exodus.  We sit their wondering why, when I realize we don’t have to wonder. I ask someone, why?  They won’t start before 9:45, even if the fog miraculously disappears.  

15.  Agatha’s in-laws give her kids an ice cream sandwich.  So I complement the morning M&Ms for Kai with a mid-morning ice cream sandwich, and buy my nephew a choco-taco (his choice), and I eat grapes.  I make a note to myself that I need to pack snacks for Kai even if I leave the girls at home and that I myself want an ice-cream sandwich if I actually swim and survive.  I can’t see the Pier.  

16.  It’s 9:58.  I think if it doesn’t start by 10, it likely won’t start at all. I’m relieved I don’t have to get back in the water (it’s freezing, and the waves are getting bigger by the minute) and bummed that I likely can’t get myself an ice cream sandwich if I abide by the deal I made with myself.

17.  It’s 10:00. On the dot.  The fog disappears.  Instantly.  The crowd erupts (literally). Screams of relief and fear.  They are about to start. I need to get wet again.

18.  We run into the water. My right calf tightens into a knot.  Why does this happen every few weeks? Oh yeah, I’m almost 40.  I have to run up to the start line if I want to start.

19.  I make it to the start line.  Everyone is saying the water will be warmer once we get passed the wave break.  I’m hoping so. The gun goes off, I’m not the first one in the water. In fact, I think I’m the last one.

20.  The water is freezing and the waves are big.  But then there’s a break, and I start swimming.

21. Agatha’s right next to me. I breathe every few strokes and see her right there. And we are swimming by kids in green caps (the youngest age group). I pretend that we are in the front of the pack, and disregard the fact that there are more green caps (and orange caps – our color – our age group) out in front.  It’ll be more fun if I pretend.

22.  There’s lots of people! Kicking each other in the face.  Arms flailing.  But I keep swimming.  More up and down than any of my recent swims – these waves are big.  

23.  And suddenly I’m not thinking of anything.  I’m just swimming.  Kicking 4 beats per stroke.  Breathing every 2 or 3 or 4 breathes.  Looking ahead every so often, to make sure I’m following the right people who are swimming toward the buoy and not straying south.  And I’m swimming, and I see my hand go in the water in front of me, then a second later my other hand in the water, and then they rotate, and I’m in a rhythm, and it’s fun. And I’m not thinking of anything. I’m not thinking about my job, or my girls’ preschool dilemma, or the LA Unified School District or the NYC Board of Education or speech therapy or occupational therapy. I’m not thinking of Kai or ice cream sandwiches or homework or tiredness. I’m not thinking of Derek or my marriage or our move cross country. I’m not thinking of my bank account or our condo  in New York or the pictures I need to get framed to hang on the walls in Venice. I’m not thinking of anything. I’m not thinking of turning 40 or what life was like at 30 or my tight calf or the rest of my body parts that just keep working.  I’m just reaching out ahead of my, pushing the water behind me, kicking 2 or 4 or occasionally 6 beats every stroke, without thinking of it, passing more people than are passing me, hanging with a crew of people, and just swimming.  Swimming through warmer water like everyone promised, and swimming through ice patches.  And swimming out past the Pier and around the buoys and enjoying it and just going forward, without a thought, and having fun. 

24.  25 minutes later I’m at the wave break.  And I stop not thinking of anything and start thinking of the waves.  They are huge!

25.  I ride one swell that pushes me forward. I duck dive under 2 big breaks even though my goal is to get to shore, not stay under.

26.  I get to shore 20 yards north of where the channel for the finish line is.  So I “run” toward the finish line, and remember that my calf is tight.

27.  I hear people cheering.  Kai! My brother! His girlfriend! My nephew! Agatha’s husband! Will! How nice to have cheerleaders, I need to hire more!

28. Agatha is getting water and gatorade and shares, and it tastes better than the salt water and I’m glad to be with my friends and family at the finish line.

29.  We chat, we talk, we laugh, we say goodbye.  I tell my friends they are doing the swim again next year and I look forward to it already.

30.  Kai and I get in the car, and Kelly Clarkson is singing Tie the Knot.  Kai tells me that Gemma would like the song because it is Kelly Clarkson, but he wants me to change the channel. I do, he falls asleep, and I change it right back.  And we drive home – which isn’t too far away from this swim that felt like home. 

When I first thought of this blog, I envisioned myself comparing specific people/places/things that were part of my life in Brooklyn with specific people/places/things that are part of my life in Venice.  Talk about how things compared up.  What was missing, what I missed, what presented me with a pleasant surprise, or with a disappointing surprise.

I realize that you will likely never get many of these sorts of posts.  At least on their surface.  They will be a little too simple, and I’ve realized I want this all to be a bit more layered.  Because while my life is chaotic enough, it sometimes is not complex enough. And spending an hour writing about how the taco shop on Lincoln Blvd. compares with the taco shop down the street on Prospect Pl. (Gueros wins! Here’s to the surprise NYC win for Mexican food) doesn’t do my soul all that much good.

If I kept it at straight up comparisons, I’ll tell you this: The Los Angeles Zoo is not the Bronx Zoo. It is less green, less lush.  Less pretty.  Smaller. Under more construction.  Cheaper parking (free!).  Less strollers. Less chaotic.  With some more frustrating animal exhibits — the 4 foot tall hedges in front of the flamingo display are a bit frustrating for the 46 inch tiny people that are part of my entourage.   It might sound like the Bronx Zoo is a clear winner, but the “less chaotic” and “less strollers” make up for the deficits and at least require it to be a draw.

The Los Angeles Zoo is also not the Prospect Park Zoo.  Much more expensive, much larger, longer to get through.  Has some key animals that the Prospect Park Zoo doesn’t have (giraffes! a baby hippo! beautiful tigers).  But no feeding of farm animals, no sea lion meal shows.  Much further than the 1 mile walk from our house in Brooklyn.  Many more food options, including these wonderful slurpee like drinks that come in long yard size glasses that Derek truly believed where pina coladas, vs. the usually malfunctioning vending machines in Brooklyn.  And did I mention it cost this family of 5 less than $20 a visit to go to the Prospect Park Zoo?  Despite its (small, tiny, minuscule) size, I take the Prospect Park Zoo.

It’s hard for me to make a blog out of that, even that I want to read.  It wouldn’t even be that interesting if those yard long drinks were pina coladas!  So the way I compare up Brooklyn and Venice likely won’t be in that format many times.

With that said, we went to the zoo today.  We drove the half hour, EAST.  And I was assured my decision to live west of the 405 was a good one.  My kids were hot.  My husband was hot.  There wasn’t much shade.  It lacked the muggy feel of humidity that somehow made you so miserable it became bearable again.  Everyone was tired.  Our short swim yesterday afternoon with our friends who also relocated from Brooklyn to coastal LA turned into a night cap drinking margaritas and wine (“medication for the day”, and I agreed I needed some!) on their back patio until almost 11pm – the kids hanging tough (sans the alcoholic drinks) the entire time, dancing to Nikki Minaj and eating Pinkberry for dinner.  Despite this, there weren’t a ton of complaints.  Before the trip to the Zoo, I said to the tiny people in my entourage: “It’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to be uncomfortable or upset. But it’s not okay to complain about these things today. It’s not okay to cry about these things today.  If you are about to cry, you tell me you need a break and you sit down until you figure out how not to cry.” I said to the big person in my entourage: “You are only invited to come if you smile, have a positive attitude, and do not bitch one time about anything that happens.”  I listen to myself give these instructions and think: My kids barely understand what I’m saying, and my husband has to be rolling his eyes at me, but I’m desperate.  Better to try and be direct then not try at all. But this could be a disaster.

On the way in, the kids saw face painting being offered.  Kai asked if he could do it, and the girls said they didn’t want to.  This didn’t surprise me – they’ve run in inexplicable fear each time they’ve seen face painting before.  So I used Kai’s request to do what every parent worth their salt would do, and held it as an extra incentive (bribe!) for Kai to cooperate w/ my no complaining directive.  So on the way out, he got his face painted.  But the amazing thing was that the girls wanted their faces painted too.  The fear that was there on the way in was gone, and they were up for a stranger sitting them in a chair, being right within a foot of their little faces, making them sit still, and putting what must feel like thick gunky goo on their faces.  I’m sure they didn’t think this through — much like the time Gemma was at the water park with me in Colorado and was petrified of the beach entry pool but asked to go down the 4-story water slide (and went! without looking back! or crying!).  And I realize that sometimes in life, it’s best not to think things through.  It’s better not to think things through.  And that one of my jobs as a parent is to both help them think things through (“what did you think was going to happen when you squirted all the toothpaste onto the toilet seat?” “what did you think will happen, based on experience, if you try to ride your skateboard over your sister’s legs?”) and help them not think things through.  And know when I’m supposed to focus on which lesson.  (Which reminds me about how incredibly under-qualified and incompetent I am for this job).

So Kai gets his face painted like a tiger.  And Gemma goes next, and she chooses a rainbow butterfly but only on her cheek.  And the face painter puts the butterfly on her cheek and up slightly by her eye, and my gut tells me this is going to be an issue. Because Gemma’s clear instruction was the cheek.  But I have to decide in that moment, do I intervene or do I let this play out.  And I let it play out.  And then her little face isn’t big enough for all colors of the rainbow to fit in a butterfly on her cheek, and it’s just red, orange and yellow.  And it’s missing the green, blue, purple spectrum.  And I wonder again, do I intervene? Because this is going to be a problem, my experience tells me. But I don’t.  And Gemma sits there patiently, and tries to look in the direction the painter tells her to look.  And tries to be still. And I’m so proud of her.  And this stranger is so close to her and she’s handling it just fine. And the 3-toned butterfly is beautiful, and you barely see that it goes up by her eye-line.  And for a minute, I believe that when the painter hands her the mirror to see the artwork on her face, she just might remember my morning speech.  “You can be upset, but you can’t cry over anything today.  If you are upset, you tell me ‘I’m upset and need a minute to sit down’ but you don’t cry today.” And it’s going to be miraculous!

And then Gemma looks in the mirror and sees this butterfly is not entirely in the right position and doesn’t have all colors of the rainbow and damn if she’s not for equality. And she screams, smudges it right away, and jumps off the chair and cries and runs in a circle.

This could unravel quickly and you could have another story that echos our debacle on the way to the airport.  Or it could be like the first half hour of our swim yesterday, at the fancy Playa Vista community pool, where rules abound and there are no Pirate’s Booty allowed on deck and no naked booty of a 4 year old, and Gemma got upset because — she waited a long time to swim? she wanted pirates booty? the pool was further away from the hot tub at our complex? she really just needed time to adjust to the new space she’d never been to? (all of the above but mostly the last one?!) – and so she took off the bottom of her bikini, and sat there until the security guard walked by me 3 times, each time me assuring him, “i’m getting her dressed, really, no need for concern.” At which time I wonder, if she got naked at the Douglas & Degraw public pool in Brookly, what would have happened? I’d either be totally ignored or arrested, and there’s an even 50/50 chance of either.)  Or it could be like the stories I have yet to tell about Kai slapping me in the face four times at our home-away-from-home Underhill playground or Sasha laying and screaming like a banshee in the middle of a sidewalk because a sparkle fell off her pink sparkly shoes. The joys aren’t attributed only to Gemma, don’t get me wrong.

But it doesn’t.  She cries, she sits there, she asks to be left alone.  I leave her alone. I assure the painter that I’m not upset, and remind her this is the first time the girls have been brave enough to get a face painting and its all new.  And I realize how subjective and versatile and necessary the concept of brave is. The trait of brave is.  And it feels slightly silly to use it when I’m talking about getting a face painting at the Los Angeles Zoo, but for this little 4 year old it’s not really silly at all.  And she sits there, and stops crying. And when I go talk to her 3 minutes later, she says “Mommy, I’m tired and want to go to the car to rest.”  And Derek offers to take her (which helps him successfully escape without bitching about anything, and thus being on my good side for the day! Brilliant!).  And when Sasha was done getting a fish painted onto half her face, we met Gemma and Derek at the car, and it was peaceful. And Gemma told Sasha, “You have fish lips,” and laughed, and she didn’t seem to mind that her face had red yellow and orange smudges on it. Then each, one by one, Kai, then Sasha, then Gemma fell asleep since we had longer than a 1-mile drive home, and because they’d stayed up dancing to Nikki Minaj until 11pm the night before.

And I had time to think about how boring comparing east coast/west coast zoos will be, but maybe there was something inside the zoos that might be more interesting.  And I realize that if I give the day and my entourage just a little wiggle room – am just slightly forgiving – considering how badly the scene post face-painting could have gone, my instructions were followed near flawlessly!  So it wasn’t miraculous, but it was damn near close.  Close enough for me not to need a margarita tonight. (Want, yes; need, no).

So here’s to using New York-bred directives (and directness) to bring about tiny miracles – so long as you recalibrate expectations and practice a little forgiveness – at the LA Zoo.

It’s me again.  Following her around. I should never just say “her”, because she is rarely alone.  Except this week she has been again – alone. After just about a month of being with those three little terrors – corralling them, herding them, preparing them, talking to them, swimming with them, reading them their books, answering their questions, feeding their hungry mouths, being their audience – she had some time to herself. In her car.  Some fancy small little car, far different than the big trucks I used to drive.  18 wheel or 4 wheels, her car is a different machine than either of them.  And at work. I guess she’s not necessarily “alone” at work – there are people there.  And there are moments and even hours of interaction. I sat today and watched her talk about swim toys, goggle, backpacks, and shoes for two hours. I can’t say it was that interesting to me – but I can’t say that listening to her read Olivia the Princess and Olivia and the Puppy Wedding is that interesting in itself either. But I still like floating around and taking it all in.  Anyway, my point.  She was alone in her office sometimes.

It’s different following her around here, in Los Angeles.  Not just the car thing – that hasn’t been as different as I would have thought. I cozy up in there (I prefer the new one, it is a hell of a lot cleaner than that one she drove across the country, which still hasn’t been cleaned out), listen to her music and her thoughts and have some solitude I didn’t have when I’d join her on the subway.  But this isn’t about me, it’s her solitude.  And this time in her car, it doesn’t seem to bother her.  She flips around the music stations, and tends to rest on those damn love songs.  I was getting bored of the ‘easy listening’ station and right when I was about to cause a circuit break in that radio, she started listening to Ryan Seacrest in the morning.  He reminds me of Dick Clarke, but I’m not sure what she is thinking. I know she was excited for her Sirius radio and to hear some long haired funny Howard guy during the drives, but she complained to her husband that the Sirius didn’t include his channel.  What Sirius is or who the guy is beyond even me, as I don’t really care.  But I swear to god I think she wanted to compare this Ryan Seacrest guy to the Sirius guy, which without knowing anything, seems ridiculous.  It kind of reminded me when she was in high school and someone told her if you freeze raisins, they almost taste like peanut M&Ms.  So she tired it, and it tasted nothing like a peanut M&M.  She wanted to hear the Sirius guy, so she was trying to tell herself the Seacrest guy actually kind of sounded like Howard. Interviewed like him.  Was blunt like him. But she sat there with this thought in her own car, not voicing it to anyone but settling in with it, and I know she appreciated this time in the car to have these ridiculous thoughts.  Then she also found a country station.  If I know one thing, it’s that every country song is really a love song.  Most are love songs about love, some are love songs about beer and whiskey.  I could appreciate both in my life, and I’ll be damned if she doesn’t listen to that station more often than not.  I get a kick out of it – watching my granddaughter who described herself as an “urbanite” move from Brooklyn, drive around Los Angeles and listen to some station that announces “That was the Zac Brown Band singing Goodbye In Her Eyes.”  She’s listened to the song about 100 times now, and I’m tired enough of it that I almost wish station 100 on Sirius was working or she’d flip the radio over to the Seacrest guy, but she likes the song.  So she doesn’t.

Anyway, I am supposed to have a point to this story.  The car isn’t so bad, for me or for her. She’s working again, although if you ask me, her job seems a little too easy.  She’s talking with people.  Talking some more.  Typing some things, who knows what.  She takes breaks and laughs with some people.  She’s not lifting anything, she’s not driving anything. She’s not moving anything around.  She’s not selling anything.  But I supposed I always knew she’d be using her mind to work even though she’s more than capable of manual labor.  She doesn’t want anyone to think she’s not physically strong, even though she doesn’t have to be to do what she does. But I think I heard her talking about doing some long bike ride in a few weeks – did I really hear her say 100 miles? – so I guess she’s finding other ways to prove she’s physically strong.  I’ll tell you this, she hasn’t gotten on a bike in months.  Months.  Damn near a year, without that much exaggeration.  That 100 miles on a bike should be a good story. I’ll let you know.

Anyway, and then I see her swim in the middle of the day.  She’s working, then stops, and swims, and then works again.  Her standing by the pool, chatting with some colleagues, cap on her head and goggle tucked into the hip of her suit – I felt like it could have been 2013 (or, I suppose, it is).  It could have been 1990. It could have been 1981.  She was the same person out there, more natural in her ways around the water than I see her anywhere.  Confident in a way that her son is confident when he is at the dance studio in New York.  Confident in a way her husband is when he is training those Type A bankers and getting their butts in shape.  Confident in a way one of those girls is when she is drawing or around animals.  Confident in a way that her other girl is still figuring out how to be.  I can’t say I really felt that doing much, except being a grandpa. That was one of the few things I knew I was good at.  I knew I was a natural at.  Even at my worst, I was a good grandpa and I knew that. Which is why I stick around now watching them all.  Her cousins in Colorado.  Her sister and brother in Colorado.  Her brother in San Diego.  Her cousin in New York.  Watching over them, still, gives me that confidence that I see in her when she’s on a pool deck. She laughs, puts those goggles that look so damn uncomfortable on her eyes, and she dives in, swims, swims, and swims some more.  I know it isn’t a competition, but I’ll tell you this, there aren’t too many guys in that water faster than her.  You would think she swam more than she does.  But if I know her, this just makes her want to swim more. Remember, she hates the thought that not everyone – everyone – knows how athletic and strong she is.  She could do the heavy lifting sort of job if she needed to, not just the thinking woman’s job.  She swims, and then she climbs out of the pool, as gracefully as she did when she was 16 (have you ever thought about how hard it is to get out of a swim pool? That is what you really need practice at every day, more than the swimming part.  I watch a lot of people, and most people look foolish doing this.)  She takes the goggles off, tucks them under the hip of her suit so they are dangling by her leg.  She talks and laughs, and I forget she’s not 15 again, finding out who she is on the pool deck.  I think she is even, very briefly, forgets she’s not 15 again.  I wish I could have seen her more then.

But she’s not 15.  So she goes back to work, talks, gets back in her car.  Alone for a while, then picks up the kids.  Takes those three kids to the park so her little guy can play football and her girls pretend that they are putting some doll in jail (the jail being a gated up restroom).  One night they even find a little boy to play with and he goes along with their idea to put him in jail.  Which tells you how much he wanted to play with those girls.  They ignored him, and ignored him, and ignored him. Most kids would go find someone else to play with, but not him. He kept trying.  He tried again. He even asked her “How can I play with them?” and she just said, “They can be funny, but they’ll play with you.” And soon enough they did.  They put him by the gated up restroom, made him stick his arm through the gates, said they locked the key and he had to stay.  And he said, loud as could be, “Oh man, this is the best day of my life.”  Playing with two little girls who put him in jail.  What a riot, but hearing that sure did make Nikki smile.  It made her so happy – to see another kid be patient with her girls, not give up on them, have fun with them – that I wanted that kid to be my own grandson too so I could start following him around.  So anyway, this has been the scene many evenings. It ain’t a bad scene.  Especially the other night, when the Blue Moon was out, nice and big in between two palm trees and sitting low to the skyline.  The air just chilled enough to need a sweatshirt.  Kids of all ages playing team sports, parents sitting on lawn chairs laughing and forming their own bonds.  And for a guy who raised a family in the 1950s and 60s in Denver, playing catch on the front lawn with my oldest daughter and later, maybe not as often but still doing it, with my sons, it’s one that I can get used to a little better than the chaos of Brooklyn.  Trust me, there’s still plenty here that I could do without, but she’s headed in the right direction, if you ask me.  Although, knowing her – all the things I could do without are the reasons she’s happy right now.

And she’s happy – she is.  There is a weightlessness to how she’s carrying herself, I can tell.  But don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen her cry these past few days.  She’s cried when her daughters started school.  She’s cried listening to that damn Zac Brown Band song (which also makes me feel, this could be 2013, or 1990, or even 1985 for Christ’s sake).  There haven’t been the kind of tears people might have seen during that incident where her little girl went ballistic in the car on the way to the airport, but there hasn’t been that kind of incident. But the tears are nothing to be concerned about.  She’s cried easily since she was 3.  Her sister used to torment her once she figured out Nikki would cry.  She’d tease tease tease, singing some song about fatty fatty, and Nikki would just cry.  And if she had to say goodbye to one of those puppies my dog Queenie had, she would cry.  I remember when the woman who lived across the street from her died in 1986, she cried. I don’t think she even knew the woman.  She cried at her high school graduation.  Point is, she cries.  It’s usually not the kind of crying to be concerned about.  It’s not usually the kind of crying when she came into my bedroom that summer of 1994, knowing how sick I was, knowing she wouldn’t see me again, and kissed me good bye. I told her I was proud of her, and she cried and cried and cried. She cried the entire plane ride home.  None of it was like that this week.

She’s also laughed a lot.  At the beach, at work, and her son’s school.  Her son’s big into this football thing and he wanted to play football with her before school, and another little boy joined.  They wanted her to be the center, Kai was the quarterback, and the other boy the wide receiver.  She has a short dress on, so she didn’t really want to hike through her legs.  But those two little boys didn’t get the idea of the fake side hike she was trying to do.  Every time she politlely knelt down to the side and tried to toss them the ball, they moved right behind her and bend down to try to force the ball back through her legs.  Every single time.  They both did it when they switched position.  So there she is – at an elementary school – playing football in a short skirt and having to be the center. It was hard for me not to laugh, and she sure did (she also found a way to convert her skirt into shorts, don’t worry).  Some babysitters came over to meet them, and her girls dressed one up like a “fairy princess” and the poor sitter tried to indulge them and have a regular conversation with Nikki, and Nikki couldn’t help but laugh.  She’s even laughed with her husband, which is saying a lot after the month of stress they had moving cross country.  After just about buying him a plane ticket back to New York when they stopped in Vegas.  But rest assured, they have laughed together and that’s a good thing.

There are no more boxes in her home, but she still looks like she’s moving in.  She slows down every time she gets to the cartons and bins that have old photos, old journals, books she loves.  She won’t throw those books away – History of Love, Story of Forgetting, Half of a Yellow Sun.  I Know This Much is True (even thought it is bigger than 5 bibles combined).  Too many others, some I think she barely remembered reading or why she saved but as soon as she flipped it open, it seemed to come back to her. By just glancing at 5 words, 2 sentences, 1 paragraph.  She flipped through every one, read some pages she liked. Smiled.  That too could have been 1983, her sitting in my living room, reading a book.  She’d do it then, and not much has changed.

The photos slow her down, yes, she loves to look at them.  I think of the photo albums her mom put together while she was growing up, and her eagerness to look at those photos even when they weren’t such distant history.  I get the impression that she sees stories in each picture – her own, the one that really happened, the one that could have been, different versions, different endings.  Maybe we all do that, without knowing it.  Pictures capture a moment, but they tell so much more than that moment. And what followed the picture, sometimes it’s hard to separate what actually followed from what we wanted to follow.  I never would have talked about this much back in the day, but I see some snapshots of my life, and I certainly like to blend together what was going on with what I wish was going on.  What followed with what I would have follow if I could do it over.  I tell you, there’d be a few more love songs in my life about love and not about beer if I did it over.  But that’s not to say there wasn’t lots of love in it.  There still is – it’s why I can’t quite leave.

Then there are those journals. She spent hours reading what she wrote.  She dove in, that is for sure.  She’s struggled each time she went to write something this week. I wondered why – I would have thought those journals inspired her.  And life has been filled with enough big events to inspire her too – seeing old friends, meeting new friends, starting a “new” job, getting the kids over the threshold of monumental school days, interviewing babysitters to be part of the family, worrying about her dog, who is a little skinnier than when they left New York, meeting sitters for her girls and trying to figure who would fit into the family best.  The combo seemed ripe for some good writing – but she kept pausing, stopping. I took the liberty of looking back at those journals, to see what she wrote.  She didn’t put them in storage, she kept them in that great big giant closet that is in her bedroom, easily accessible, so it wasn’t hard.  Man, she wrote a lot! All different ways of telling a story.  And I tell you this – I think I figured out why she couldn’t write much.  She saw, as did I, what she could do when she was writing things that she intended no one to read.  Stories in which she could be brutally honest, tell all the small details, give context that was layered.  When her story could blend over into someone else’s story, and it was okay, because she wasn’t making them vulnerable and exposed as well. She wasn’t exposing herself to anyone but herself.  No one was going to read, so she could lay it all out there. It’s got to be different now, when she is thinking maybe someone, somewhere, is reading.  Maybe even the people that might be part of the story.  She’s got to filter, to hold back.  Naturally, she’s likely holding back the bad stuff. The hard stuff.  The complicated things and the dark sides.  But then when she goes to tell the good stuff, the fun stuff, the other stuff, it might not feel as genuine or true.  Of course it all is, but without that other side, it is just not the whole picture.  I really don’t know for sure, but I think this is making her pause.  She knows what she is capable of, but she has to find a way to do it now that others might be reading.  She’ll do it, I know.  She’ll walk the line and tell a good story.  She just needs to keep practicing.

I’ll keep checking in on her.  Sit with her, listen to those songs, make sure she is practicing.  Pull out the journals and maybe try to lead her to a good one to share. Or recreate.  Or be inspired to lay an LA story out there, holding nothing back.  But for now, I’m just looking forward to next Tuesday, when I get to see her on that pool deck again.