Bagpipes as a Zen moment? What can I say? I’m Scottish.
The soft skirl of the pipes drifted
around the corner of the hillside. The
first hill had been a pain. The incline
did not challenge my body, but my patience had been sorely tried. Foolishly, I had begun the race in the group
with the posted pace for a 10 minute mile.
I knew I could keep the pace for at least 3 miles, though I was
uncertain about the entire 6. As a road
race newbie, I hadn’t realized that this group would also include every person
who planned to run at least a little. A
block or so past the start, the crush had thinned a bit, and my feet had found
a rhythm. Just as I began to feel that
maybe this crazy endeavor was doable, the mob screeched to a halt. Like gawkers at an accident scene, the masses
ahead had hit the first hill and apparently said to themselves, “Oh, this is
too steep. Maybe I’ll just walk this
one.”
Needless to say, by the time I crested
the hill, I was ready to bite someone.
Then the moment arrived. The first
notes wafted down just as I heard someone say, “Bagpipes? Really?”
Yes, really. Silhouetted on an emerald knoll, a group of
kilt-clad pipers played against the mist.
Perfect. Wrong tartan, but that
was forgivable. My grandfather was a McIntosh. The clan motto is “Touch not the cat bot a
glove.” Basically, mess with us at your
peril. A stretch of asphalt opened
before me and my feet found their cadence.
Back in May as I descended from the endorphin
rush of my first 5K race, the 6 mile Wharf to Wharf (Santa Cruz to Capitola) seemed quite
reasonable. ‘Two and a half months to
train. No problem.’ Therein lays the danger of
accomplishment. The human brain is never
satisfied. I caught myself yesterday
afternoon seriously contemplating a brochure for a half-marathon in October. Endorphins are insidious creatures. What I had failed to foresee in the balm of
May was the effect of summer on my will to exercise, or really on my will to do
anything. My physiology functions best
from 65-80 F. I had also been unable to
predict the case of shingles that made the notion of a sports bra unbearable
for a full week before the race. Yet,
here I was. 6 miles. The brochure stated quite sternly that
runners must keep to a 15 minute/mile pace and that the course would be closed
within 90 minutes. I envisioned myself
dragging at the rear of a pack of thousands, calling my husband for a ride
somewhere around mile 3, the pointing and mocking onlookers. I was dragged to the starting line by two
factors. I had told the children that
the weekend camping trip was so that mommy could run a race, and I didn’t want
them to see me backing out of a goal. Also,
my mother had told me that I should rest the shingles and scratch the
race. 39 years, and my mother still
hasn’t learned that the best way to get me to do something is to tell me I
shouldn’t. Sorry mom.
Another hill, another corner. Passing a folk guitarist, a glimpse of the
sea. A Kiss tribute band played on my
left, my feet grinned. Pulling up a long
slope I saw my favorite group of the run.
10-15 tie-dye clad musicians lined up behind a sign that read “Sons of
the Beach.” As I passed, a tambourine
and soap bubble infused version of “Rawhide” followed me. Ah, Santa Cruz.
Balloon arches marked each mile. The first split time depressed me so badly
that my feet almost halted there and then.
‘19minutes, seriously??’ I told
my feet that we had started at least 5minutes back and had been held up in
traffic. ‘Get with it.’ The legs heard and obeyed. The second mile took just over 10
minutes. At each rainbow arch, my body
responded to the called time as to a challenge.
With each mile my pace increased.
Onlookers lined the roadway. Far from the jeering phantoms of my insecure
imaginings, these people projected lifesaving goodwill. Generous with their cheers and encouragement,
they gave the impression that each of us had our own personal pep squad. Some held out hoses or sprinklers for those
of us longing for a shower. One lovely
man offered a tray of strawberries and orange segments. The crisp sweetness of that kind orange
carried me a full mile. One mother and
her two children held out their hands to ‘high five’ each of us as we
passed. Just past a percussion group, a
lone man stood and banged with a mallet on the back of a skillet which rang
sweetly across a slough.
‘Come on,’ called Capitola. ‘Come see me again.’
‘You can do it,’ Santa Cruz pushed me
from behind. ‘You started here.’
Start there, I did. Certain places weave in and out of our lives
like thin gold threads. From early trips
to the beach and Boardwalk with our grandparents through my college years and
into those of my sister, Santa Cruz and Capitola have flickered in and out of
my life. Indirectly, my current adult
life has its roots along that bay. Had I
missed a party in Santa Cruz 20 years ago, I would not have met my husband 5
years later. Strange but true. After all, it is all Dave’s fault.
Saturday had been spent dragging the
kids from one old haunt to the next.
Plugging up the hill to the UC Santa Cruz campus, I
demanded of the backseat, “Do you want to see where Aunt Steph went to
college?”
As we entered the grounds, their
enthusiasm turned to confusion. “Where’s
the college?” “This is it.” “This doesn’t look like a school; it looks
like a forest.” I grinned to hear them
echo my first impressions. 20 years ago,
my roommate and I circled the campus endlessly ‘looking for the college.’ It had seemed impossible that the random
collection of buildings that sporadically dotted the forest was indeed a
university.
Our next stop was Natural Bridges State Beach. Flashes of the essence of Santa Cruz drifted
past: surfers floating like black seals
on the waves, the requisite amateur-painted VW van, the skateboarder towed by a
large, enthusiastic dog, the smells of brine, kelp, fog, and fish. On the beach, the kids caught a connection to
home. “Come on, Aidan.” Caitlin dragged her brother to a specific
vantage point along the shore.
“Look! See it? See the rock; it’s the one from the painting.” They knew the story, knew that mom had
painted the scene in oils from a photograph sent by a college friend. However, this was the first time they
realized that mom painted actual places, and that they were visiting a place
that had hung on the living room wall longer than their own lives. Ghosts of my past walked the sands where my
children frolicked. Past and future
joined near a crashing, grey surf beneath the spiraling wings of pelicans.
As we parked near the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, a more distant
past floated through my memory. The
Boardwalk rang with the excitement of childhood. Screams and laughter danced above the rumble
of surf and roar of rollercoasters.
Grease, salt spray, and tanning lotion ran under the sweetness of cotton
candy. Clutching the hands of my
children, I became the child. My
grandparents appeared at every corner.
Glancing at the waves, I heard my grandmother’s mantra as my sister and
I ran toward the surf, “Don’t go in past your knees!” We stopped for lunch and my husband’s jaw
dropped as his calorie-conscious wife ordered deep-fried artichoke hearts and a
linguica sandwich with grilled onions.
As the crisp grease and metallic artichoke melted onto my tongue, my
grandfather’s grin appeared. My children
had a bag of plastic sand toys wedged under the table; the cups of neighboring
beer drinkers evoked the memory of hops-scented sand castles. Grandpa had always saved his beer cup for us
to use as a sandcastle mold. The first
tower or two smelled faintly of beer and the paper had a tendency to
disintegrate after a couple of trips to the ocean for water, but it was a
tradition. As we draped our bright beach
towels over our patch of pillowy sand, I felt the rough edge of brown and white
striped terry-cloth. Grandma line-dried
her laundry, and her towels had all of the pliability of coarse-grain
sandpaper. As we emerged from the waves,
sunburned, salt-scoured, and sand-crusted, Steph and I stood with meek
trepidation as Grandma rubbed us down with the agonizing vigor of love. We were well into our teens before we managed
to convince her that a) we could towel ourselves, and b) that we would really
rather not change out of our bathing suits in the middle of the beach with only
a towel tented around us. I resisted the
temptation to similarly torture my children.
On the beach, the kids proved themselves
as individual as their nicknames – neither clones of each other, nor of my
childhood. Sierra, our “marmot” played
happily on the sand, shunning the waves, like a good little land mammal. Aidan, the “alligator” was happiest in the
shallows. An overly strong wave would
cause him to tug at my hand with shouts of “Back! Back!”
And Caitlin? Caitlin stood as far
into the surf as I would permit. Two or
more weak waves caused her to raise an eyebrow at the sea and ask sardonically,
“C’mon, Poseidon. Is that all you’ve
got?” (She’s re-reading the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series.) “Do
you really think it’s a good idea to taunt Poseidon while we’re standing in the
ocean?” “Moommm, I’m an otter. I’m a creature of the sea.” And so she is.
Aidan’s hand tucked into mine as we
stood in line for the Giant Dipper, reminding me of the mingled excitement and
guilt as I held Grandpa’s hand in the same line 30 years ago. The thrill of riding a “really big, grownup
rollercoaster” tangled with the fear that Grandma was right. Maybe he really was too old for “those
rides.” What if he did hurt his knees or
back or heart? As Aidan’s face went
still as the lap bar engaged, the old fears seized me from behind. What if he was too young? He was just barely over the height limit;
what if it wasn’t safe for him? What if
he was scared? I screamed with laughter
around the dips and turns darting glances at my son’s white face. The glory of risk-taking fought for supremacy
with my need for a guarantee of security.
There are no guarantees; I abandoned myself to the last swooping turns.
Buckled into the car, the first bite of
my caramel apple caught my teeth and dripped down my wrist. In the back seat, the kids shared a bag of
cotton candy. 30 years ago, the
traditional treat “for the way home” invariably produced the need for at least
one stop in response to my sister’s agonized cries of “I’m stickyyyyyy!” From the back seat, a voice asked, “Mom, do
you have any wet wipes?” “Nope, they’re
all in the back. Do you want a
napkin?” “No, that’s okay.”
Feet flew the 6th mile past
the coast and into Capitola. A man with
a wig like a giant tribble skin ran on my right; I passed a woman with a tank
top that read, “Never tutu old.” She
wore a red lace tutu. I sprinted down
the hill with the long galloping strides of my childhood. My own children and patient husband waited
just beyond the finish as I ran from the past into my future.