the exit door.

I arrived in this place a few days more than a week ago. I had been here but once a few years prior, on a four day weekend trip with my father to meet his cousin. They hadn’t seen each other in a few days shy of forty years, as they were both the wanderers.

She had left the Northeast to reach Washington, specifically Capitol Hill, with policy on her mind. Contrastingly, my father left with no intention; his father had given him a one way ticket to Oklahoma. He was under the false impression that he would eventually return to Oregon, though this was not a part of his father’s plan. Once my dad realized how much he loved the heat and loathed the cold, he warmed up to the idea of staying in the Sooner State.

Our roads finally met (theirs again, hers and mine for the first time) during the month of May, two-thousand and eight. At the time, I was working at Starbucks, and perusing tickets to South Korea to teach English for a second. The morning of the trip, my father and I managed to miss our six am flight, and were redirected through Denver on a plane to Dulles, the same airport we were specifically instructed not to fly into. The long story made short is that we all had a really good time, and my cousin made it her agenda to get me out of Tulsa.

This is the part where I feel it’s quite appropriate for me to say just how much I love Tulsa, and also, how important it has been for me to let go of it. I have this vision in my head sometimes of a small diner in a small town. I see the local police officer eating his eggs and the character waitress taking the regular orders. She started doing it, what seems like to her, before the invention of the wheel, and the people that walk in each day look forward to knowing they will see a familiar face when they enter. It’s a place where the customers are known and valued. Comfort, as well comfort food, are served in droves. In my vision, I enter, stand on a chair, and in the most passionate tone I can muster, “GET OUT HERE! TRY SOMETHING DIFFERENT! VARY YOUR EXPERIENCES AND ORDER YOUR EGGS A DIFFERENT WAY!” And this is Tulsa to me. It’s my diner, and was, in so many ways, a sincere season of comfort that was completely necessary. I was known and valued. I had my places and my “regular orders”. Friendships were abundant, as was fun. And then there wasn’t anywhere else to go, save the tacky diner bathroom or the exit door.

After the season had ran it’s cycle, I headed for the door, though I didn’t run. It’s a truly wonderful place that doesn’t merit an unnecessarily speedy exit. I was headed, eventually here, where I am now.

First I had to run a marathon, and also fall in love with Seattle. Before leaving Tulsa, my friend Matt cautioned me, “Be careful in Seattle,” with a look of concern about his face. “Why?” said I, perplexed. “Because you won’t want to leave.” Had it not been for the lovely Pamela, who resides in Watertown, a suburb of Boston, and the fact that I was leaving Seattle to see her, I would have begged one of my family members or acquaintances to please. let. me. stay.

I left the city that far exceeded my expectations in the dark hours of an unassuming Monday morning, and spent the next eight hours in a state of exhaustion, hobbling my way through airports and time zones. My string of days in Boston were essential for my sanity. I had been bobbing around from acquaintance to acquaintance, perfecting the task of making potentially awkward situations as comfortable as possible. I craved the feeling of being in the presence of someone who knew...knows...me. Boston was full of goodness: food, history, beautiful things, the water, accents and wonderful characters. Characters like Connie, for example, my server at Strip T’s, a little cafe famous for their chocolate cake and caesar dressing, and the two men with thick Boston accents on the bus reminiscing about their old bar tender, “what was his name,” over on so and so street. And from there, the joy of Greyhound transportation. A twelve hour day that began at four-twenty-five, entailing a bus ride to the subway to the bus station to another bus station to another bus station to a taxi-cab to the where I am staying now.

And for the first week and a half, I reacted as someone from an outside perspective would assume I would. From my perspective, I just felt strange, out of mind, and out of place. I was bothered by this, and also confused.

A few weeks before I left, I was lucky enough to see my dear friend Melinda marry. Prior to the wedding ceremony, Melinda and eleven other ladies she is crazy about piled into vehicles and drove to a dreamy cabin in the woods, which was also a foreign environment, as none of us had actually ever been there. Within minutes, some of the ladies had all of the groceries put away, garlic sauteing in a pan, and fleet foxes playing their dinner making tunes. I walked in to this scene, immediately became uncomfortable, and made my way to the front patio, where pine trees served as the official backdrop, and the wind and voices of friends were the pre-dinner tune.

The following evening, I found myself at ease in the kitchen, glass of wine inches away, making a vegan pie crust while brownies baked in the oven very near.

Through the process of rolling out the dough that had been refrigerating until it was ready to use, I began to realize why I had been uncomfortable the previous evening, and why I was just fine replicating the same behavior and scene that had forced me out of the house twenty-four hours before.

I am drawn to the stages of things because it’s a part of myself; the crust refrigerating, after the apples and pears have been sliced, while they are being tossed with sugar and lemon juice, ginger and cinnamon, and corn starch. I don’t mind that things take time, because I do too. In my world, the previous evening’s chefs were too comfortable with a strange environment much too soon. I needed time to adjust, as well as assess the situation and my surroundings. I had to walk on the floor with my shoes off, and find out where the forks were because I needed one, not just because I wanted to know. I won’t ever buy an apple peeler-corer-slicer. I am comfortable with a knife, and the pace at which hands slice an apple.

Walking into this section of my drift, into this luxurious house and queen size bed with sizable thread count sheets, in a district where streets go by the names of states, was much like walking into that foreign kitchen full of comforting music and familiar smells; it didn’t feel wrong, as I was surrounded by goodness. It just felt too soon.

This isn’t just a kitchen. It was an upheaval, and it is a whole new kind of life. Alleviating the strange and out of place-ness takes, well, time. So that’s what I am giving myself...pure old fashioned unadulterated keep it at a steady pace sort of time.

score.

I took a seat at the bar.

When you're "just one" they assume that's where you want to go.

I maneuvered my body awkwardly into the seat, as the man to my left had his chair tilted intensely toward me. He complimented my food choice as I bumped my elbow into the chair to my right, which was also turned in the same direction as the chair to my left. I wiggled into a comfortable position and attempted to block out everything around, as I sunk my face into the local reading material in front of me.

I perused the movie reviews, sipped my americano, and enjoyed the music-like chatter giving tune to mid-morning meals. It wasn't until the entire cafe erupted in cheers and applause that I realized just why the chairs were turned and just what everyone in the place, with the exception of myself, was paying attention to. Soccer. One of the US players kicked the ball right where it needed to go.

I went into the space feeling seperate and disconnected, which was amplified by my bar stool neighbor's choice of spacial arrangement. Realizing, however, that I was surrounded by such excitement from a crowd supporting a common goal, and one I could support as well, changed things. It was a lack of connectedness that got me out of the door an hour or so before; The US soccer team and a crowd full of rowdy strangers, served alongside an americano and multi grain pancakes, allowed me to exit Open City feeling quite the contrary.

the run.

The weight of the day didn’t really hit me when I arrived. Though I had been preparing for this morning for nearly three months, filling my days, weekends, and sometimes evening with lots and lots of running, I was more aware of my potential for failure, as I compared myself to all of the people that spoke to each other with such confidence and ease. “I wasn’t going to do this one,” a man said to a woman with a shirt displaying a “marathon maniacs” logo. “I emailed Steve a few days ago to see if there was a slot for me,” he continued. We were all waiting in line for the port-a-pottie, an experience I usually dread but paled in comparison to what my next potential five hours would hold. As I stood there, having been dropped off by my third cousin I was just getting to know a few hours before, I managed to feel mostly alone, and also, due to the nature of conversation and gear of the other runners (including belts that were fastened with multiple water bottles full of colored super power liquid), intimidated.

“Why are you here, Meredith?” I reminded myself. “Did you need the gear up to this point?” No.

Still waiting in line, I see runners pass by our circle that did opt for the early start time, something I consciously (and feared shortsightedly) chose not take part in. I just had to finish in five hours...The early start was for the runners that would take longer. I feared starting early would make me feel handicapped, and mess with my mental stamina, something I knew had a lot to do with finishing. Under the most ideal circumstances, if everything went as planned and according to my most delightful and seamless longer runs, I would finish in four and a half hours. But if I got a cramp, like I did during my longest training run, and had to stop every mile or so to stop and stretch, I didn’t know how long finishing would take. If I began to hyperventilate, like I did during my eighteen mile run that turned into fifteen, I would have to walk to the finish for who knows how long, without a doubt missing the five hour limit. In this case I would miss the aid stations which, since I was magic liquid water-belt-less, would be just a really awful thing. I had also never run twenty-six miles, and had only heard tales of the dreaded “wall” where your body starts to “shut-down”. So the last unknown six miles that usually would take me sixty-five or so minutes could take, well, much more.

Despite the unknown and potential disaster, I opted to start with everyone else, choosing confidence in myself and my training, instead of fear. I reminded myself of this as I stared through the lense of doubt at the runners around me. I also reminded myself how how much I love to run, which is another reason why I was standing there. Because of this love, I was actually looking forward to the next five hours, and that didn’t have to have anything to do with the other athletes in my midst. These were the things I was telling myself, sheepishly, as I walked closer to the start line.

I watched wives kiss husbands and husbands kiss wives and moms walk away from their children, wishing them the last few “good lucks” and “we’ll see you at the finish line”, prompting me to look down at my forearm to read the messages I’d scribbled onto there the previous evening, with one of those pen like sharpies. There was a “good luck Sis,” from Ash, “puking is normal,” from Michael, my old landlord, “watch out for the cracks in the sidewalk,” from Allison, “Go Mer!” from Lindsay, and a “we’re cheering for you,” from mom and dad, among others. These were my kisses, my hugs, and my well wishes that ushered my legs into movement, and my mind from its sheepish state to the needed place of confidence, excitement, and once I began to run, ease.

I didn’t know my progress until I had reached the first aid station. I had switched my ipod on at the beginning, and though it was tracking my progress, I chose to not look down. I don’t like the feeling of thinking I am further than I am, looking at my counter, and realizing I am not. To avoid that disappointment that just requires me reach further into my positivity stores, I don’t look down. A mile or so before I reach the second aid station, I wonder to myself in sheer curiosity how long I have been going, and decide it feels like it’s been about nine miles. After all of the training, knowing how long nine miles feels so many times over, I have begun to develop a pretty accurate internal distance calculator. I am filled with confidence and satisfaction as I reach water covered table and the man standing behind tells me I am at mile ten.

Somewhere between here and the half way point, I pass Vince. A mile or so later, he begins to pass me. We keep the same pace for a bit, and I ask him how he’s feeling. “Good,” he says. “And you?,” he inquires. I give him the same answer he gave me. With a tone of genuine concern he says, “I saw you stretching a few feet back? No trouble there?”. “No,” and I continue to explain how I had a painful and ill timed cramp on my twenty mile run so the stretching back there was “just a preventative measure.” It felt nice to have someone looking out for me. He let me know that the thirteen mile aid station, also known as the halfway point, is just ahead.

A few evenings before, after arriving in Seattle, I sat on my relatives’ couch and perused “what to do before your marathon” articles online. Sometimes too much information is not a good thing, but more knowledge makes me feel more prepared. One of the articles mentioned that if you are used to training alone and conversation is not normal for you, don’t hesitate to tell that to anyone you pass along the way. It reminded me that the race is about finishing, not entertaining near strangers. I reminded myself of these few sentences as I began to get a little worn down by the pressure to keep up pace and conversation with someone. I hadn’t trained like this, or for this, and I knew as we ran together that if I kept it up for too long, I would lose my mental game. Over the past three months, I had found a running rythym with myself. Though I was thankful for the human connection and interaction, I knew I couldn’t keep it up for much longer.

At that point, I thanked Vince for his encouragement, and let him know I was going to slack behind for a bit to preserve some energy. I told him I would see him at the finish, or maybe before, and jokingly responded, “yeah, I’ll see you when you run past me!” This made me chuckle, as I could tell he was just being gracious. He had informed me that this was his twenty-fifth marathon, and I observed that our conversation didn’t seem to be difficult for him at all. I had no intention, nor did I nurture the possibility, of passing the tall kind man in the red shirt.

Throughout the next ten miles of the race, I would use Vince as my compass. There was a patch of the run around mile nineteen where I felt my body begin to slow down, and the possibility of pain in my muscles and joints began to rise much closer to the surface. I ran along the shoulder of a road, through a town, pushed buttons for cross walk signs to light up and allow my pass, and eventually reached a point where there weren’t any orange arrows pointing to where I should go. I stopped, looked around, exclaimed an expletive, and eventually caught side of a “Duwamish Trail” sign I hoped was the direction I had been searching for. I took that route, without the prodding of anyone else as at this point I was all alone. I pushed my body up a hill, around a corner, and eventually spotted the trusty red shirt. It was Vince, and I was assured that I was going the right way. He knew this course, possibly better than the race director. It was his first marathon back in two-thousand and two, and he’s run in the Green River Marathon five more times over the next seven years.

By mile 22, I was beginning to feel euphoric. I ran up a curved hill under an overpass, feeling the breeze and the shade and reaching one of the most beautiful views of down town Seattle, and I literally began to cry. The endorphins were working their magic and I couldn’t hold back the tears. After reaching the next aid station, a little less than half a mile ahead, I was informed that there would be one more, somewhere around mile twenty-four. I didn’t feel the need for water at this point, but reminded myself of the sort-of pact I had made to take in some liquids at every stop, whether I felt like it or not. So I stopped, took in some gatorade, and left with the confidence that I would attain a timely finish.

Reaching mile twenty-four, despite the pact I formerly mentioned, I ran right past the table. I got a half a mile ahead and felt this surge of energy I still can’t quite explain. The is the point I had envisioned myself lifting one foot at a time with my arms. It was the unknown, the part I had feared the most, and there I was...Booking it. I began to inch my way, unintentionally, closer and closer to my red-shirted friend, and eventually I passed him. As I whisked by, fulfilling his prophecy, he exclaimed to the air, the man running to his right, and presumably to me, “there she goes!”

After dodging strollers, dog-walkers, and a conglomeration of leisurely folk, taking a moment to take in the picturesque view of Alki Beach, I confidently and thankfully reach the finish, and accidently ran past it. “Was that the end?” I ask, pointing to the meager orange line feebly painted on the concrete path.

A race coordinator chuckles at me and says, “Yes, that was the end.”