Seven Blessings

(I know it’s not Saturday night but I decided an event that one does every seven years warrants its own private post.)

I was standing in the La Quinta lobby this morning in Chicago. The hotel’s glass windows face Lake Michigan, although it is separated by Lake Shore Drive. I decided to confide my mission of the day to the curly-haired woman behind the counter.

“I’m going to do the 18 mile lakefront path on foot,” I told her. Notice I didn’t say run, just do.  I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to run it all.

“I think I’ll make it back by two,” I added, “But what will happen if I don’t make it back for late check out?” I didn’t want to get stranded without the ability to shower, or charged for two nights because I was a few minutes late.

She had a pretty smile but also the chilly demeanor that seems to be common among hotel employees, probably the result of facing new waves of tired travelers every day.

“I’ll be here,” she said. “Just find me and it will be OK.”

Wow! Blessing number one.

I believe I mentioned a few weeks ago that my hopes of running the Lake Shore Path as I did seven years ago were a little gloomy. My running program was taking a turn for the worse and I was so tired I could hardly go on. But I really didn’t want to abandon it so after chatting with a coworker (who runs for real) I decided to stop stressing about how fast I would accomplish the run. I decided I would not worry if I had to walk part of it. I also moved the date forward so that it wouldn’t interfere with Thanksgiving.

My feet did not get off to a good start.

In fact, their first injury occurred in the hotel breakfast room.

I placed my coffee and breakfast on a small round table and then lifted it to move it closer to my reach.  The top came off in my hands and the coffee went flying all over me. It was so hot I quickly took my shoes off but despite that I felt the tops of both feet were slightly burned.

But after drying my shoes on the register in my room and hiding two bottles of G-2 liquid beside the path close to the hotel for backup reserves, I hopped into the back of the first yellow cab in the line outside the hotel. I asked the driver, a black man with a foreign accent, to take me across the city to where the trail began. I explained my plan to him as well. I got his number and the number of his company so I could call someone when I was ready to be picked up.

“Best wishes,” he said when I had paid my fare and hopped out.

“I’ll call you first,” I said.

I walked to the trail head with about five layers of clothes and a small backpack full of liquid on my back. My pockets were stuffed with glucose gel packets. I saw the John Hancock tower and the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier far in the distance.

I really don’t remember much about the first 10 miles which is always, at least for me, a sign that things are going well. Certainly lithe runners were passing me frequently, but I just kept at my own pace. I ran miles 2 to 6 without stopping at all.

Soon the sky line was looming above me, right beside me.  Then the towers and the Ferris wheel were behind me.

At the 10 mile mark I text my sisters with the brief message “Still alive”.

By this time however I was stopping to walk more often while I gulped down liquid or swallowed the contents of a gel packet.

Also about this time the cord of one side of my cheap canvas backpack ripped. This was a bit of a catastrophe because I had figured out a system to have it strapped on my back in a fairly comfortable manner. Now it would either bob at my side or I could carry it. I tried several options and finally, a few miles later, threw it in a trashcan holding the remaining two bottles of liquid in my hands.

Here I text my sisters another brief message: “a little less alive”.

(By the way check out the keys dangling from that sign! I didn’t see them until I looked at the picture.)

About this time a piece of an article I had once read came to my aid. I think I was googling am I too fat to run? or something similar when I came across a woman who said that the first part of a marathon is run with the body but the last 6 miles is run with the mind.

I suppose it is cheating to apply this to my 18 mile run, so much shorter than a marathon, but I did anyway because I needed the inspiration.

“The last 6 miles is run with the mind,” I told myself as I began to run again after a stop to drink. “The last 6 miles is run with the mind.”

Blessing number two.

And I begin to find that I really was less exhausted than I had been on several of the long runs I had done at home. Perhaps, like my coworker had told me, I had been pushing too hard for a fast run. Co-worker Diana: blessing number three.

I began to think of the mile markers as the distance left rather than the distance run. Fourteen miles meant I had only 4 miles left. Then 16 miles– once I was passed that marker it was only 3 miles and some left.

Still, by now pain was constant in my feet and calves. I tried to stay to the side of the path where there was dirt rather than cement. That helped.

I was nearly exhausted when I saw on the grass beside me discarded gel packets like the ones I was carrying in my pockets, and I suddenly felt so much better. I had supposed that none of the other runners were running the entire 18 miles today. However the fact that they were gel packets in the grass beside the road meant that long-distance runners had been here and not too long ago.

I felt like I was surrounded by great cloud of witnesses, as the Bible says, and again my feet felt lighter. Blessing number four.

I ran up to the place where I had left the two bottles of liquid across from the hotel.  They were still there!  Blessing number five. But I still had a bottle in my hand, so I only took one.

At about mile 15 3/4 a small crisis occurred. I stopped to have a gel packet and when I started to run again my right knee began to throb with a new type of pain. I stretched it and tried again and it still hurt. Well at least if I would have to walk the rest of the way it was only 2 miles. But I continued to try and finally I was able to run very gingerly without causing the knee pain.

In those last miles, the mile markers seem to be farther apart then the two marker and six marker had been.

I limped up to the South Shore cultural Center and finally found this:

I called the taxi driver.

“Hey, it’s Katrina, the person you took to the top of the trail this morning. Can you come pick me up?” I asked.

“Where are you?” He asked.

At the end of the trail of course!  Apparently he thought I may have collapsed under Navy pier, or was bobbing out in Lake Michigan.

“At the South Shore cultural center,” I said.

“I’m on my way. I’ll be there in 10 minutes,” he said.

With the remaining time I took a selfie.

Part of the cheesy smile is just that I feel that way after a run. But I was also happy that even though the run had taken me longer than it had seven years ago (thanks to my increased weight no doubt) I had still been able to run most of the way.  Blessing number six.  And it serves as a poignant reminder to get some of the pounds off before 2023.

The taxi pulled up.

“Congratulations!” He said. “I was thinking about you all morning. When you called I thought maybe you had dropped somewhere. But then I thought you wouldn’t be calling me.”

He had been a cabdriver in Chicago for 10 years.  He was married with three grown children.

“You can probably tell from my accent that I am from Tanzania,” he said.

As we turned down the street to the hotel to where my car was parked, he looked at his meter.

“Look at this!” He said. He had forgotten to turn the meter on.

What cab driver does that?

“I was so excited when you called I forgot to make money!”

I limped to my hotel room and found some cash.

I gave the driver the cash and asked to take a picture of him.  Apparently his grasp of English inclined him to think that I said I wanted a picture with him.

“See you again in 2023!” I said.

No I didn’t.  But he and his enthusiasm were blessing number seven!

Happy Thanksgiving! (If you happen to see me tomorrow don’t be surprised if I am crippled…)