Sixteen.

I feel I don't have much to say about it, really, but I'll try, because when a course throws hills and bumps and challenges, it's best to at least try, rather than walk, I think.  

In American culture, a sixteenth birthday represents a coming of age, a rite of passage, a corner turned, a milestone hit. There are gifts and rituals and celebrations, decorations.  My 16th marathon this past weekend, however, was the polar opposite.  No t-shirt, no medal, no pre-registration, no bragging rights, no frills, no timing chip, not even a bib with the event name.  Perhaps this is fitting for this shade of life?  Perhaps it was a way of cleansing the last 15 marathons from my system, especially the last 8 that I emotionally marched through this past year?  Perhaps this was the washout before the next phase of life begins to stage itself?  There are a million different ways to twist this, mold it, meld it into something meaningful and emotional, but on the surface, it was another race even though it gave me nothing tangible to line my shelf; emotionally, it gave me a lot.  

This race felt different than the others.  It was very, very small and as we all stood shivering at the start line, glancing around and overhearing a lot of banter, I felt like a complete novice.  Most of the other runners were very decorated and storied:  ultramarathoners, 50-staters, super fast award winners, others with dozens underneath their belts.  And me; but this was just my sweet sixteen, so I felt like the equivalent of the awkward high school buck in the crowd, clad with a bad perm and braces. 

*GO*

No cannon boom.  No National Anthem.  No pre-race pontificating, no air horn, just the race director yelling "GO", not even into a megaphone - and off we went. 

Although this race had less than 130 runners covering the 26.2 distance, it sure felt like a bigger race and I think it's because of the course layout.  The first four miles were an out and back leg on rolling dirt roads.  At the time this seemed rather ominous to me because in everything I read about this particular race, everyone had advised to add 30 to 40 minutes to my average finishing time due to the nature of the course.  As I ran along and tried to find a good rhythm, I heard one runner exclaim "This isn't really even a race!  It's a long fun run with friends to escape holiday shopping!"  I smiled to myself, because it was so true. 

There were a lot of marathon ghosts during this marathon, and I suppose where my last few didn't provide me with any, I had been long overdue for these marathon confessions and conversations. 

At mile 4 a familiar face fell into stride with me, her running pants making a comforting swishing noise.  She introduced herself and I told her that I recognize her from these races and it's a shame that we've never introduced ourselves until now.  She was an ultramarathoner, and ended up doing several of the same marathons that I had completed earlier this year.  We ran together until mile 14.  New friends, new ghosts.

Once the first 8 miles on the out and back were complete, the course became ugly and revealed why it's referred to as a complete beast:  The next 18 miles consisted of 5 loops on a 3.5 mile hilly, dirty, muddy, rocky, pot-hole ridden trail.  Not only was the terrain difficult, but the added mental Olympics of doing 5 loops of the same thing was crazy-making.  Just after the second loop I lost the ultramarathon ghost when she stopped to walk.  I kept marching, and found a strange comfort in yelling out my lap number to a particular course volunteer who was handing out water.  If anything it just helped me keep count and kept me from going insane.

On and on and on and on.  Repetition.  Loops.  Dirt.  Mud.  Wind.  Hills.  Hills.  Hills.  I fell deep into my own head, dark thoughts, light thoughts, and thoughts on the past year.  Thoughts on the past 8 marathons, the Half Iron, who I was before all of this, and who I am now.  It's all good and noble, but is shifting and changing.  I'm improving and have improved, but in the words of my best friend at the same time, I am growing and I will get there.  What a year.  What a way to end this year.

When I crossed the finish in 4:02, the race announcer yelled out that I was number 37 and I was given a heat shield blanket and a high five.  Nothing more, nothing less. 

I drove home feeling blank.  I drove home feeling nothing but content.  Cleansed. 

...

Later that evening after napping and showering and breathing, I attended my running club's holiday party and couldn't have imagined being anywhere else.  I found myself laughing and warm and surrounded by people who I care deeply about and who love me in return, as fractured and crazy as I can be at times.  We are all imperfect, but together and with running, we are perfect friends.  I cannot even put into words how much these people mean to me, and how fortunate and happy I am to be their friend have them grace my life. 

Walking home after the party, in the dark and in the cold and still feeling that warm glow and thinking about my sweet sixteen, I passed one of the town square Christmas trees.  The tree was tall and perfectly shaped, adorned with white lights and silver bells and white and golden ribbon; not unlike an angel or an omen, or some ethereal symbol of something pure and hopeful.  I stopped and paused, drinking in the cold air that held whispers of snow and cold and the promising next few months.  Silence.  I stood underneath the branches of this gleaming lit beacon feeling like it's shadow.

Silence.

And then I felt a few slow, salty tears running down my cheeks, but they were good tears.  They were tears of happiness and tears that made me feel so full of love at that moment that my heart was going to explode.

I don't know how life has gotten to this point, but I'm here and that's what matters.  Through all of these growing pains this year, these miles covered, these demons exorcised and running and being chased; I'm here, and I'm present and I'm open and myself.  I feel surrounded by only loving, happy positive people in my life, and of course things are not perfect, but running has gotten me through this rite of passage.  Running has given me my sweet sixteen.

I gently plucked a silver jingle bell from the tree that had a small, soft swatch of gossamer and golden ribbon attached that had a small reindeer, a wild animal just like me, embroidered into it's sparkling, thin veil.  I stuck it in my pocket, and clutched it with my gloved hand the whole walk home.  Maybe it's not a medal, but it represents this moment, this coming of age, this sixteenth marathon, this rite of passage, this point in time.

I'm excited for the next milestone, although I don't know when or where that will be, but there will be running and marathons and friends and laughter and races and miles and miles and miles in between.  It's a blank slate.  It's the next chapter.  I cannot wait to see what happens next.