Runner's High

As long as I can remember Mom and I were close. Maybe that's why it didn't surprise me too much when she asked me to run a marathon with her.

            She and Dad divorced the fall after I left for college at the University of Wisconsin. I was the youngest of four boys, and the last one to leave home. Mom told me later that the marriage had been over for years and that she and Dad had decided to wait until I was moved out until they set the wheels in motion to finalize things. None of my brothers nor I had a clue that anything was wrong, apparently for years. It's a guy thing, I guess.

            Dad worked the Ford Motor assembly line in St. Paul until it shut down. Then he moved on to Northern Aluminum in northeast Minneapolis. He didn't like the change one bit, saying that making soda pop cans was a far cry from making transmissions for F-150 pickup trucks. Most everyone could see his point.

            He was a hunting, fishing, hard drinking, macho kind of guy. I was more of a reader and math. He gave up on trying to interest me in killing things when I was around eight years old saying, "Go play with you dolls, Shirley, I'll take your brothers hunting instead."

            I was shy by nature and slightly withdrawn, but I didn't mind his sarcasm one bit. Especially since by then Mom had taken me under her wing. She worked part time as an administrative assistant for a large reality company. But she always made time for us kids, saying that her children were her first priority. A fun outing for us was to go to the park, play on the swings and read. She taught me how to identify birds and how to count to a thousand in prime number by the time I was eight. (By the way, there are sixty-nine of them up to 1,009.) I couldn't have asked for a better mom.

            When the divorce was complete, they sold the big, four bedroom house in Bloomington my brothers and I had grown up in and split the money. Thus began my mom's transformation from quiet and dutiful housewife to a person who embraced life to the fullest.

            First off, she moved twenty miles west of Minnesota to the small town of Long Lake. She purchased a townhome on western shore with a view of not only the lake, but of the forested hills surrounding it. She told me at the time, "You know, Jack, I never did like living in the suburbs."She was a small town girl herself, having grown up on a farm outside of Breckenridge in the northwestern part of the state.

            A year after she moved to Long Lake, she retired from the realty business. When I questioned her about it, she said, "You know, I've worked in the housing market my whole life. It's time for a change."

            "I thought you liked your job."

            She smiled and patted me on the shoulder and said, "Jack, it was just a job. Something I did to bring in money to help with the bills. It was nothing more than that."

            She got a job working part time the local bakery.

            "The people there are wonderful," she often told me, "Plus, it smells fantastic."

            The place was called Lakeside Sweets and she was right. It did have a wonderful aroma. I went there whenever I could.

            She dated some, saw old friends a lot, made new friends, volunteered at the library and historical society and joined two book clubs. She even started jogging. Her life became enriched beyond her wildest imagination.

            "Jack, let me tell you, I'm having a blast," she told me more than once, "I've never been happier."

            Which was true. I could tell. Her skin developed a golden glow. She cut her hair short and wore simple jewelry made by a local craftswoman. I was very happy for her.

            After she moved, I went out to visit her as often as I could, more frequently after I returned to Minneapolis from college. I liked it in Long Lake. The quiet pace of life suited me. On one of those visits I heard of a job opening at an accounting firm in town. I applied and was hired. I had majored in accounting at Madison so working for the Jasperson's, a father/son insurance company, was a good fit.

            I found a nice, one bedroom apartment a few blocks from the lake. (Well, being a small town, pretty much everything was a few blocks from the lake.) I bought a fat tire bicycle and started riding on the biking trails in the area. I bought bird and wildflower and tree identification books. I even started dating a woman named Meg, a clerk at the hardware store in town. I got a tabby cat from the Humane Society and named her Sunshine.

            Life was good for both Mom and me. We met every Sunday at the local cafe to chat and get caught up on what was going on in each of our lives. It was at our weekly get together that she dropped a bombshell. By then, she'd been living in Long Lake for ten years and I'd been out there for nearly five. We were sitting outside, overlooking the lake. It was a pleasant spring morning, with robins birds singing and the air filled with the scent of lilacs just starting to bloom. In that moment, life was perfect. Then it changed in an instant.

            I had just finished telling her that Meg and I had gone for a nice walk on the Lucy Line Trail the day before. "We're getting along great, Mom. We're thinking of getting an apartment together."

            She smiled and said, slightly distracted, "That's nice, dear. You sound happy."

            I smiled back at her, "I am Mom, moving out here has been the best thing that ever happened to me."

            "Me, too. I've got a lot to be thankful for."

            "So do I."

            She was silent then, sipping her chamomile. I was quiet with her, both of us enjoying a companionable few moments looking out over the lake. Then she cleared her throat, and told me all in a rush, "Jack I've got something to tell you. I've been diagnosed with a brain tumor. It's benign right now, so I don't want you to worry. The doctors are monitoring it."

            Well, shit. The bottom dropped out of my stomach. I felt like the world had just stopped spinning. This couldn't be happening. Not to Mom. God damn it. My take away of that day was this: Life just wasn't fair. Both for her and for me.

            We talked most of the rest of the day. The upshot was that though she was getting progressively weaker, she still could work in the bakery if she paced herself. It was then that she dropped another bombshell. "Jack, I have a favor to ask."

            I took her hand,"Anything, Mom."

            "You know I've been running for the last couple of years. I was planning on running the Twin City Marathon this October. I want you to run it with me. Will you do that for me? Please?"

            Exercising has never been an interest of mine. Sure I rode my bicycle, but that was for fun. Training for a marathon? Impossible. Especially with only four months to the race. But it was my mom. I didn't have to think twice, "Of course, I'll do it," I told her, "Wouldn't miss it for the world." I began training the next day.

            Probably at that time I still hadn't comprehended the severity of Mom's condition. I was probably in a degree of shock and denial. I'm sure I thought that since the tumor was benign she'd eventually recover. Well, I was wrong.

            Her condition got worse, her health went downhill fast and by the time of the marathon, Mom had passed away. I never got to run it with her.

            The one of the last things she told me was this, "No matter what life brings, Jack, you can rise up to the challenge and face it. Give it your best shot. Even if you fail, at least you know you tried. Never, ever run from anything."

            I hugged her tight. There was nothing to say.

            I didn't run the marathon the year of Mom's death. I just couldn't. But the next year I did. I ran it just like Mom had asked me to. And, I have to be truthful here, the way I was able to do it was that I pretended that she was with me, running by my side. Sorry if that sounds weird, but that's the way it goes. Meg was my cheering section. I finished in five and a half hours, way back in the pack. By that time, I knew that even pretending Mom was with me wasn't going to help me finish any easier. It was a physically brutal race. The hardest thing I'd ever done in my life.

            Toward the end of the end, I was laboring badly. I wasn't sure I was going to make it to the finish line. I stopped and started walking. I was getting dizzy and thinking about quitting. I was less than three miles from the finish. It came back to me then what Mom had said, about how she'd wanted to run the race herself, before she died. I knew, then, what I needed to do. I gritted my teeth and made my feet start moving, step by arduous step.  Soon I was jogging again, back in the race. I was feeling good that I hadn't given up.

            Less than a mile from the finish line I was so focused on getting to the end, I almost didn't hear a familiar voice on the sideline, cheering, "Come on, Jack, you can do it. I know you can."

            I looked to the side, to the sea of spectators lining the course. Who was that? It didn't sound like Meg. Besides she was going to meet me at the finish. I looked some more, and then I saw her. It was Mom. She was cheering a waving and laughing. I couldn't believe how good it was to see her. I waved back and looked toward the finish line, now less than a half mile away. I knew I could make. I had Mom there to cheer me on. I ran faster, exhilarated.

            And I made it, too. Yes, sore and in pain, but I made it. And you know what? It's been months after the race and I still go out running. I like being on the trails around our little town, but I have to say, I have an ulterior motive. Just like at the end of the marathon, when I saw Mom in the crowd, maybe, just maybe when I'm out running, I might see her again. Wouldn't that be great? I think so. And even though I haven't spotted her yet I'm going to keep at it. She's got to be out there, right? And if she is, I'll find her. Stranger things have happened, haven't they?