Finding Leadville Chapter 17: Nuance

The author enjoying a waterfall near Hoosier Pass

One morning at the cabin, the water stopped flowing.

I was returning from a sunrise walk. A German Shephard at the end of our road had shot out of his yard and nipped my arm. He didn't break any skin, but I had to use my stern, commanding voice to usher him away. No owner nearby. My heart knocked at my ribs as I opened the cabin door. Hankering for a good shower, I turned the spigot. Creaks and squeaks, but no rushing water. Only a few droplets released.

The well had some sort of clog and my roommate Tucker was on the case. Jostling with the levers in the basement, he managed to restore the water after this first incident.

Then, again when it happened a second time.

By the third time around, there was nothing he could do to get the pipes flowing and we found ourselves dry as dry could be on the Fourth of July. There was only one "well guy" in the area and graciously he arrived on the holiday with his crew to tend to our problem. And when he fully fixed it, I'm sure the hikers over on Hoosier's Pass could hear us whooping and cheering.

During those few water-less days, I learned that it took several gallons just to flush a toilet. Buying tubbed water from the gas station 20 minutes away was expensive and laborious. Thankfully, nature gives up copious amounts of water that time of year. The snow was melting, and the fresh cold water ran down the mountain into reservoirs and lakes.  We had access to tons of it. Back and forth from across the rocky lane from the cabin to a small waterfall, I collected as much as I could. The dining room table was a collection of receptacles that my roommate and I took to filling in our down time. Every time we needed to flush, at least two of those gallons went into the tank.

The mini waterfall by the cabin

Another morning, a sinkhole appeared on the dirt road, 100 meters from our home.

The gush of water across the road corroded the structure of it and in no time a hole three quarters of the road's length appeared. Deep enough to wreak havoc on any car trying to drive over it. We parked our cars further down the mountain and walked the short way toward our home. Which meant if we arrived home after dark, we had to be wary of the neighborhood bears.

Bears don't want to hurt you, I'd remind myself as I cut my car engine and prepared to jog up to my front door. The millions of stars above and their leader the moon provided partial light; I clicked on a flashlight, started singing aloud, and scurry home.

Good practice for Leadville! I remember noting.

Calls to the town might as well been notes in a bottle down the waterfalls. It took many days, then weeks, for anyone to size up the hole (visit 1), place orange cones around it (visit 2), and then finally fill it up for our safety.

Soon we could pull our cars right up to the cabin again. I didn't have to be on guard. I didn't have to retrieve water for the toilets. I had a hot shower and a warm bed and this beautiful experience in Alma, Colorado to call my own.

What else have I been taking for granted? It was an obvious question that I couldn’t help but allow to surface. So much in my life felt nuanced, textured, neither good nor bad, not black or white.

I thought of my partner, Chris, and the way he held me, like a lake where I could be buoyant and free. I thought of the space he gave me to be my own person, to float or to swim or to hold onto him for safety as needed. I remembered how I cried in his arms in the painful retelling of my sexual assault. How he listened, how he kissed my face, how he told me he loved me.  

I thought of my mother, the giver, the creator of life and the fierce believer in her God, her religion. I thought of her power, the way she met her life with a ferocity that only now, with distance, could I see as admirable. She wanted a spiritual life for her children, Catholicism her path toward redemption and transcendence. And I took my own way, still discovering it as I charter unknown territories.

I thought of my brother in Puerto Rico and how I wanted to protect him from what happened to me. My boyfriend in college and how he couldn't know the whole story (until now). I thought of the bees and my brother Joe, the ways I felt so scared and yet so taken care of, simultaneously. I thought of my God, of how I believed her to be, of the stories told to me about my place in the Universe over the years, and all the unlearning I committed to do. Of how Colorado that summer felt like home and vacation and work and worship.

I thought, too, of my father, his steadiness to his wife and their God. His vision of a big family and a doting wife and obedient kids. How his hands worked the earth and planted and tended the gardens. The same hands that spanked children and governed inmates, wore a wedding ring and held the Bible, threw plates and shoved my brothers, pointed to the stars and held my hand on nature walks. I thought of his complexity, his nuance. He wanted a life of goodness for his family, to be seen as moral and righteous.

Perhaps we need to plunge into a darkness before we can fully see the light and the love for what it is. Perhaps we need a clogged well and a sinkhole to get thinking in a more complex way about life.

Perhaps we need a bit of space and time to give each other the grace we deserve.

The Leadville 100: Twin Lakes Inbound

When I returned to Twin Lakes I was, once again, relieved – My people! Clean clothes! Fresh shoes! My pacer! 

That relief soon turned to slight despair. There were many more miles to go. A whole night stretched ahead of me, a mighty yawn of forever. I crumpled into the folding camper chair and promptly burst into tears. It had taken me longer than I anticipated to drop back down the front side of Hope, walking down the inclines when all I wanted to do was run them. My body was in full protest. 

“I’m not an athlete!” I cried. I couldn't see myself clearly.

I was covered in mosquito bites. The final miles from the base of Hope Pass, through the water crossing, and across the field toward Twin Lakes aid felt demoralizing. My feet ached as though I’d been barefoot on rocks all day. My body needed food but my mouth refused to cooperate. The sun left for the day, no longer a comfort to my eyesight and skin, and I wouldn’t have her company for a long time. The darkness had fallen. I was getting cold. 

And so, my mind decided to proclaim the silliest phrase I have ever uttered in my life, “I’m not an athlete,” I repeated, softer this time, drenched in self-pity. 

Cindi rolled her eyes with her whole body and Chris kissed me softly on the cheek, rubbing my shoulders as he did so. Someone shimmied my wet shoes off my feet and pulled dry socks on the left then right. Arms wrapped around me as my crew fell into action. Someone else chuckled lightly, a kindness to the sound, reminding me that I just ran 60 plus miles at 10,000 feet altitude and climbed up and over a mountain – twice. My shoes came off, wet sports bra replaced, and someone massaged my calves and feet.

“Of course you’re an athlete! Now here, eat what looks good to you,” Cindi prompted me. I gave in. 

Beliefs can move us forward or they can completely derail us. They are always there with something to say. Thoughts narrate what we are doing with a storytelling flair – and many times that flair can be judgmental, filled with accusation, emotionally-charged. Beliefs and thoughts and accusations and hurt had clouded so much of my life.

There were pizza slices in the tent, and I attempted to chew the bread and cheese, willing my throat to do its job and swallow the damn thing. It was tortuous. A cookie appeared and I nibbled at it. Somehow, cold grapes made their way into my pack. A decision was made by the group: I’d go into the night with gels and grapes in my vest, electrolyte-laden water in my hydro pack, but no extra bottles of Skratch liquid fuel. Up until then, it was the bulk of my calories. I managed mashed potatoes and watermelon, sure. But those bottles had me moving through the most challenging climbs. Looking back, I wish I had the headspace and wherewithal to challenge that idea. It was not the right call.

But, I’m learning that happens in races -- and in life. The roads are paved with good intentions, for most of us. There was good intent behind that decision – I’d lighten up, probably get a boost of positivity from slightly less pressure on my mangled feet. It could have been the right call in any other circumstance. My crew was looking out for me. But when a runner doesn’t get the energy source they need to move in the first place, none of that lack of weight matters. I was kind of… screwed. 

As a result of that one decision, I ate even less and suffered even more. But, there’s no escaping the suffering. It’s bound to happen, arriving in some shape. If not this, then that or something else. That’s okay. That’s part of the game. That's part of life. We make choices, they lead us somewhere new, and we can only learn later on in the trajectory whether it was the correct call or not. 

As my pacer, Trapper, and I headed out into the night, a memory swooped her way inside me and I buckled momentarily. The image was so vibrant. My nervous system seemed to click its way back together. Confidence washed over me in mere seconds, my chest swelled with renewed certainty - I was going to finish this thing. Once again, I knew. And it was my teenage self, reminding me. 

I was a senior in high school and one of the co-captains of my cross country team. We were nearing the end of our season and had performed well. The day of our greatest match had arrived. We were to compete on our home course against our biggest rival. They were unbeatable. We were hungry and ready for a race. 

My coach, the geometry and physics teacher, called the co-captains into his homeroom late that morning. It was raining sideways, with temps in the very cool and uncomfortable high 30’s/low 40’s. Puddles had begun to form. The weather was bound to hold. 

“We have every right to call a rain delay and move the race to another day,” Coach said, arms crossed against his crumpled button down. “What do you both want to do?” 

It was my earliest memory of an adult handing over decision power to me. I was 17 and I wanted to run. Running was the very thing I woke for, went to school for, ate for, lived for. 

Running gave me moments like this, moments I did not have in my patriarchal, Catholic home. Moments where I felt empowered, given decision power. I was ready. I knew the girls on my team were ready. And I was not going to let mere weather change the tides for us.

“We’re running,” I said, “We’re running and we’re going to win.”

There’s a photo from that day. Its image flickered as I gathered up my poles in real time and began trekking up mini-Mt Elbert in Leadville, Trapper chattering beside me. In that photo, my high school team gathered together at the gated entrance to the puddled reservoir. I have a towel wrapped around my shoulders. The team is gathered close and smiling at the camera, hoods pulled over tangled wet hair and mud splashes on tired legs. 

We'd won by a single point. 

It wasn’t pretty and there was enough suffering involved over the 2.7 mile course. We fought, we pushed, we moved with purpose. We knew we had a fighting chance to win– but only if we showed up, gave it all we had, and left our legs out there on the course.

We won. But barely. Only a point. But, with everything we had. If one runner had a different day that afternoon, it'd be different.

My headlamp jostled, offering me enough light to see the next step I needed to take. Spiders dashed across the trail and I kicked a few loose rocks as I shuffled uphill. I was hurting. But – I was in fresh clothes and I was warm. I was with a friend. I had shown up. I was choosing, every minute, to move forward. And I was ready to see what might happen if I just kept putting a foot in front of the other. 

There was so much behind me; there was so much ahead. Suffering and pain and bliss and glory. Good stories and their beliefs, good intentions and their realities. It's all here, all part of life, all part of this race. Texture. Complexity.

Nuance, I thought as we moved in the moonlight. Nuance is my favorite word.