Finding Leadville Chapter 12: My Body Belongs to Me

The author in the Colorado trails

Approaching Outward Bound Aid Station

23.5 miles

Elevation 9,520’

I barreled down the other side of Sugarloaf Pass, affectionately known as Powerline. The sun was awake now, as was my body. Miles before, I let the handkerchief fall from my nose. The heat was beginning to creep into the air. The trees all seemed strong, powerful, applauding me as I passed them by.

The force of gravity pulled me down the zig zagged dirt trail in long, loping strides. Without thinking about it, more so a guttural urge, I whooped with a frenzy. Someone echoed it behind me. My lips exaggerated upward, my tongue shot out, and my nose scrunched with pleasure. Hell yeah.

There was an invincibility in the air that can only accompany the first quarter of an ultramarathon in the mountains. The biggest challenges hadn’t yet emerged, and the power of a strong taper and an enthused start pressed us runners forward. 

Earlier, I had arrived at the first aid station, Mayqueen, with a pep in my step. After traversing around Turquoise Lake, sidestepping roots, watching my every step, and reminding myself to “keep slow and steady,” I opted not to stop. Planted on the road once the runners emerge from the lake, it was as inviting as a cup of coffee. Comfortable, steaming with fog drawn up by the early morning air, Mayqueen is a gentle 12.6 miles into the race. It was my plan to bypass it, a purposeful part of my strategy. Instead, I pulled out a gel and sucked it down, grateful for the reminder from other’s tending to their bodies. 

“Love it,” I thought, “Don’t need it.” Onward I shuffled, ten more miles or so until the planned stop at Outward Bound. 

Clicking down the Powerline dirt, whooping and galloping like a herd of horses, we emerged onto the pavement. This is the grandest amount of road on the whole 100-mile course, bringing runners to the aid station then sending them back on the blacktop once again, all before loping into the trails toward Half Pipe, then Twin Lakes. 

I settled onto the side of the road, whispering to my legs: carry me easy. They ignored me. I churned, dropping the fastest miles of the day. 

Whoops. 

I knew Chris was planning on meeting me at the big field. We didn’t know what to expect, other than it was a crowded location. Like a beehive up in a Colorado blue spruce, I heard the buzz of people before sighting them. Cheers for names of runners in front of and behind me. I trotted down the road and turned right toward the open field. Tents with volunteers stood to one side and the throng of the crowd on the other. I could hear shouts and music, dogs barking and KT tape ripping. But I could not hear Chris in the mix.

I slowed to a walk, searching for his familiar face, hoping he still had on his recognizable flannel shirt. I was hungry and eager for the peanut butter slathered bagel he was to have on the ready for me.

Nothing. 

After a few moments or swiveling my head, I resorted to plan B. In the days before the race, I prepped drop bags for several of the aid stations, including this one. It was time to ask for it. Giving my name to a cheery volunteer, he ran to get my clear plastic bag with butterfly stickers pressed all over it. Thrown from not seeing any sign of Chris, I elicited the help of another helper beneath the tent. 

“What do you need?” A friendly face was peering down at me, watching me watch the crowd. 

“Uh, I got to mix my bottles up. Can you fill these with water?” Passing along my two bottles from the front pockets of my vest, I clutched my clear drop bag in my busy hands.

Once freed-up, I opened the bag and took out a smaller baggie of white powder: high calorie nutrition. Typically, one needs to fill a bottle halfway with water, then drop in the scoops of powder, shaking it all up to mix before filling the bottle the rest of the way with water. I knew this. I knew this very, very well. Lots of practice all summer led me to know this. But the distraction of looking for Chris was enough for me to bypass all of this and allow the volunteer to fill the bottles fully. I scooped in the powder, a heap of it atop the brim of the bottles, and, clasping on the nipple, I shook the powder and water together. After doing so with both bottles, and still not seeing Chris, I stuffed them into the front of my pack and decided to keep going. 

Sticky hands. No support for 20+ miles. The sun creeping out and no one knowing my name. The miles stretched ahead, and I knew it would be about 10 more miles before I saw anyone I knew. I started to feel sorry for myself.

All I could do was keep on running. 

About a half mile from the aid station, I leaned down to take a sip from one of my bottles. Nothing. Exasperated, I tried the other bottle. Nothing there either. They were clogged. I groaned, annoyed that I didn’t take a few moments to focus and help the volunteer assist me properly. I slowed to a walk, working the bottle as best I could to get it unclogged. More of nothing. I’d have to depend on the gels and a bar in my pack, along with the water in the back bladder. 

As if the moment were a swirl of mosquitos, I was bit. 

I felt the life energy that I started the day with seep from my body, a wave of self-perpetuated sorriness rising up in my chest. Were those tears? Wasn’t it too soon to cry? But the sun, not seeing Chris, missing out on a peanut butter bagel… it all stacked, each a mosquito that created a swarm.

Keeping my bottles as they were, without giving it much thought on how to fix the issue, I pulled out my headphones and decided to get pulled into the music. Set to shuffle, I pressed play on my Spotify playlist. 

Atmosphere. Best Day. I laughed as I listened to the words: “Every day can’t be the best day. Do what you can right now, don’t hesitate.” 

Fine, I thought. Doing what I can. Just because I couldn't find Chris and the bottles were clogged, doesn’t mean this race is over. Do what you can right now, don’t hesitate. 

Within a moment, my phone buzzed with a call coming through. Astounded that I had service, I fished it out with sticky hands and saw that it was Chris calling. He was there, at Outward Bound, looking for me! We exchanged annoyances mixed with relief. In my hurriedness and assumption, I missed him in the crowd of people – something easy to do at that aid station as it is a mob of people looking for their runners. He thought something happened to me and I was not yet there. We reassured each other, allowing the moment to be what it was.

We said our goodbyes and I continued to strike ground toward Twin Lakes. 

Hold on, Barbara, I thought. Less than 10 miles until you get to see your people. 

And so, I pushed on. Me and my strong body, the one who carried me so far already -- we pushed on, along with my ever-beating heart, the cheers of the aid station far behind me now. It was just me and my body.

The author on the Colorado Trail

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Running can offer so much to a person: Time to oneself. Quiet and stillness of the mind. Immersion in nature and the freedom to choose where to venture off to. Making decisions that impact your body and mind for the better. Friendships rooted in support and the genuine thrill of how you’re developing as a person. 

If I could bottle these ingredients, shake them up and sell them on the shelves, I totally would. It would tout a label that claims: Become more connected, grounded, and resilient. Your body belongs to YOU.

Truthfully, my body never quite felt like my own. From early on this felt true. People I did not know tugged me close as a child, my parents insisting a kiss from a stranger land on my cheek. The churchgoers who said, oh how beautiful, as they touched my hair, my shoulders, the small of my little girl back. The priests who pulled me onto their laps at the altar. I learned I could not say no. If I objected, I was naughty, I was rude, I was sent to my room. 

I learned women’s bodies don’t belong to themselves, but to societal norms and needs. In the second grade, I joined my father for the March for Life. A parade of posters and prayers in Washington DC, this event, attended by thousands, announced that women were making bad choices. Men with images of bloodied embryos encircled by thick print lettering proclaiming a path to Hell clipped over me as we walked toward the Capitol. Even at 8 years old, I felt condemned.

This sense of condemnation surged throughout my upbringing.

As a preteen, my body was changing, and shame regularly enunciated the awkward awareness of my breasts developing. Once, I leaned over the dining room table to stuff a book into my school backpack. Unbeknownst to me, my sleepwear tank top drooped at the front, revealing a small window into my still-forming chest. Barely-there cleavage, a crack. My father’s voice boom: “Go put a shirt on, it’s like looking down the Grand Canyon!” 

Mortified, I complied. Again: This body was not my own.

Later, as a teen, I arrived home from track practice. It was a steamy May afternoon, unusually warm for Spring. I had on a Walmart sports bra and Dollar Tree running tank, complete with hand-me-down Umbro shorts. The workout at the track had gone great. My coach had just finished telling me he was noticing my improvement, and I was ready for the 800 meters next month at the Western Mass championships. I returned home elated that an adult had noticed my strength and potential, noticed what my body was capable of. My father met me at the door, took one look at my chest, and declared: Your nipples are showing! That’s so disrespectful to your coach, put a shirt on! 

Again, mortified. Again, compliant. Again, my body was not my own.

I wondered: What is wrong with my body? What is wrong with being a woman? 

I struggled with this confusion in high school and then took that struggle into my college years. It felt more important to rebel against Catholic values than it did to really learn what unconditional love and respect for my body was all about.

I think back to when I was 13, barely a teenager. The afternoon sun, mighty in his arrival, prompted small beads of sweat on a summer afternoon. Glistening, my two sisters and I left the house together. The old farmhouse groaned when we closed the red door. Short denim shorts, long swishing ponytails, and Old Navy tank tops – we were off on a Cute Girl Parade. 

Walking, we passed by the neighbor houses, our heads bent together in light laughter. We were so aware of ourselves – aware of our legs, pretty faces, and the ways our clothing fit just right. We were on display, and we meant to be. 

That farmhouse door had closed on a home that demanded certain things from us girls. We were meant to be seen and not loud, respectful at all times and obedient by all means. We knew that motherhood was our future and that one day our husband would have the pleasure of our bodies. 

I could hear my mother saying, “That’s for your husband,” when we toyed with anything remotely sensual. 

Short shorts and a low-cut shirt as I entered into puberty: that’s for your husband. 

Throwing my hair back flirtatiously and batting eyelashes with clumps of teenage mascara: that’s for your husband. 

Biting my lip or letting my tongue dance in my mouth as I sang lyrics to a top 40: that’s for your husband. 

It was engrained: this body is not yours; your pleasure is not yours – it belongs to a man you do not yet know. 

And so, we walked on. Showing off our bodies to see who would beep at us, who would slow down to leer, what man we did not yet know would affirm our value.

It was, of course, a shallow sustenance of worth. But I didn't know that as a young teen. I kept seeking, again and again, the approval of men, of the body I had. I kept seeking love and validation and worthiness through the eyes of others.

Leadville was the most elevated and transformed version of the Cute Girl Parade. I was there to perform for no one but myself. I was there to experience the power of a body that belonged to me, and only me. I was there to run, in my power, for me.

Running has always had a way of transporting me away from the shame I felt within Catholicism and patriarchal values. As a teen and later in college, I felt powerful in my track uniform. I loved how strong my legs got the deeper into the season I progressed. Every time I took part in track or cross-country practice in high school, I was able to shed a shard or two of what other's had to say about my body. I was mighty when I ran. My coach believed in me. My teammates encouraged me. I worked hard and enjoyed myself. In the confusion of what my body meant, I turned again and again to the sport that supported -- celebrated -- all aspects of myself.

Sometimes I wonder who I would have become without running, especially at such a critical age. But all I know is who I became because of it. 

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The following chapter recounts cases where the author did not give her consent, an important part of her story to Leadville. Please read with a tenderness toward the author; and an awareness of how these stories may impact you, dear reader. As always, please seek support as needed ❤️