Thirty Two.

Groaning and sputtering like a lawnmower, the engine fired and stuttered and the thick, black cable began to suspend us backwards, contained in the cold, metal coffin, lowering us downward into the darkness of passageway.  As we churned along, my eyes were focused on the half-moon swatch of daylight overhead; robin's egg blue and cheerful, amplified by the dark frame of the mouth of the cavern into which we were blindly descending.  Going, going, going, and then so slightly small and barely there that it became a pinhole before disappearing completely, the only trace being small amounts of illuminated orange shards spanning parts of the wall until we moved into utter, damp blackness. 




It was the day prior to Number Thirty-Two, the Steamtown Marathon in Lackawana County in northeastern Pennsylvania and we were touring one of the abandoned mines no longer in commission.  What a metaphor; it was etched in my mind for the remainder of the weekend and I kept coming back to think of being lowered into its shadowy bowels. 


To say that this marathon was long overdue is an incredible understatement.  The race itself was a complete false start as the first time I had been registered was still within my recovery period after foot surgery which brought me back physically but set me so incredibly far back mentally for the past almost-three years.  I recall at the time finding myself in that same little area of Scranton but sitting on the sidelines, sad and subdued and stolid and splenetic.  I was not existing in my own skin even, and absolutely not whole or in my usual colors.  However, it was not this particular race that was overdue; it was the number Thirty Two that I had been desperately trying to make happen for the time to follow that was simply not taking.  There were four false starts, races deferred, races skipped and plans canceled or derailed either due to physical limitation, but more oftentimes mental and emotional exhaustion and taxation.  I think my weakness had somehow allow Number Thirty Two to exist on its own and spiral entirely out of control into it's manifestation as a Giant. Mental. Roadblock. 


Sure, writer's block, worker's block, runner's block happens.  However, the particularly gruesome part of this monstrosity was experiencing my loved ones' wins for so long against the loud contrast of so many utter losses and failures on my end.  I love to celebrate those close to me succeeding and celebrating in their sheer victories without any ill intent or jealousy.  This remained, but over two years of continuing to be pushed down, down, down, into the mine shaft by this mental block really did a number on my self-esteem and confidence in abilities.  More than that - soon to follow all of this were more mental blocks that seemed to start with this marathon mental block and then seep into the remainder of my being.  I was surrounded by thick walls quickly closing in and removing the air.  It became a twisted briar, growing crooked and dark and barren and rotting and gray.  Failure happened and pierced and bled upon the thorns.  Negativity became the driver.  Back-up plans suddenly became actual plans; I was existing in survival mode and barely breathing. 


So, one can imagine how when I arrived in Scranton I had no intent of running this race because it seemed like the safe thing to do.  I had myself convinced that I would continue more of the same: celebrating loved ones victoriously winning and overcoming their own odds and hurdles and smiling in the triumph but finding myself yet again feinting happiness and enjoyment in the fall air when inside I was screaming, shriveling and surrounded by damp, dark, dank earth. 


But then, there, something flickered and that something was so small and so faint that it was barely recognizable at first glance, but I noticed and focused and that something was running.  It was almost instinctual and stemmed from some deep wild animal habit that had been laying dormant for these almost-three years.


...


The bus pulled up to the starting area in that ungodly hour of a Sunday morning, grass frosted with dew and exhales hanging in the air like ghastly gossamer.  Nervous energy bundled beneath thrift store clothing mismatched ready for discard.  It wasn't until about mile eight that I realized what I was doing and what this meant, but I stopped thinking and just went with it.  Down the hills and through the golden autumn, past the locomotives and through the industrial landscapes overgrown with nature, pushing it back into the wild. 


Wild.  Remember what that felt like? 


The race itself did not matter, but it was that ignition within my soul that did matter.  Something churned and sputtered and turned over and was suddenly in existence again.  When I charged down the hill at mile 26 and into the finish chute to move forward from this number once and for all at Mile 26.2 I was freshly laundered in relief.  I had finally been released from this dark mental block and the other side was filled with possibility again. 


The cable was greased and the car this time groaned forward, back up, out of the mine shaft and I all I could see ahead was blinding, beautiful blue; a bluesky day and nothing but calm relief.  Twice in one weekend, and in two different ways.