to, “Eagles can’t run.”
“Your guardians say you have a tomahawk wedged in your skull from your past life as a bird.”
“That explains it,” I say.
“Our job,” she says, “is to release the tomahawk.”
“That’s your job,” I feel like saying. “My job is waiting for me.”
I hop off the table, write her a check, pop some ibuprofen, and go back to work. There is no time to think about headaches or tomahawks. I have children to feed, meetings to go to, presentations to give, students and guides to care for, emergency evacuations to direct.
After years of this, I finally decide that the stress of my job is not worth the pain of these headaches. I don’t renew my contract. It is not an easy decision. I don’t want to let anyone down. But the headaches have gotten worse, and I don’t know what else to do. The idea is to slow down, work fewer hours, and sit in front of a computer less often. But being out of work means I have more time to worry and doubt myself. Fear doesn’t even wait for nighttime anymore to whisper terrible thoughts in my ear; she starts in on me first thing in the morning. “You’ll be a bag lady,” she sneers, then adds, “Your parents are really disappointed in you.”
It also means I have to face the emptiness I feel on the inside. And that is deeply uncomfortable. Instead of facing my feelings, I distract myself with projects. Some people numb with wine or heroin, I numb myself with busyness. I travel to Guatemala to work with Indigenous girls fighting for the right to go to school. I sew costumes for our daughter’s ballet performances. I drive my son and his friends to the skate park. I lead a running club for sixty-five elementary school children. Then I find a new job; I manage a social-emotional curriculum aimed at fifty-eight million school children. How do I say no to any of this?
When I get home, I am tired and negative. And I don’t make the connection that I am stretched too thin. Instead, I focus on Kurt’s flaws. Why doesn’t he make the bed? Play with the kids? Take me out on the town? If he did more, I wouldn’t be so exhausted.
My body, meanwhile, seems to be insisting that I am the one who needs to change. It begs me to slow down and do less by giving me a debilitating headache when I speed up or add a project to my plate. But I ignore my body. With a clean MRI, I figure I am just a person who gets headaches. I wake every morning with a throbbing skull, but because I feel better after I run, I continue to train for big races and cope with the pain. Eventually, the headaches go away. Or maybe they don’t really go away. Maybe I just get used to them.
#
On my birthday, May 30, 2016, I run a 50-kilometer (31-mile) ultramarathon that begins at an elevation of near 8,000 feet. The “Dirty Thirty” race course is set in a state park in the Rocky Mountains where I live. The course winds up and down on a single-track trail with over 7,250 feet of elevation gain and loss. At twenty-six miles, we climb a 10,000-foot peak before turning around and sprinting the last six miles to the finish, downhill. It’s a tough race. This is my third year doing it. I run it for three reasons: (1) the views of the mountains are breathtaking, (2) I like to do something scary on my birthday, and (3) it is a way for me to raise funds for MAIA; Her Infinite Impact, an organization that helps to support the bright, motivated girls I know in Guatemala, to go to school. In 2014, I traveled to Guatemala, looking for ways to close the gender gap in education. Guatemala has the highest level of gender inequality in the Western Hemisphere. I met with Indigenous leaders, Norma and Vilma. After years of being called a “dirty Indian” Norma learned to use her voice to stand up for herself and for young, Indigenous women everywhere. She and Vilma rallied international support to create the MAIA Impact School, the first all-Indigenous, all-female-led school in the Americas.
I wake up at four in the morning to drive to the start with my neighbor and his friend from college, both experienced ultrarunners. It’s not even forty degrees outside. I am cold and nervous. I am seriously undertrained. I also have a headache. I consider dropping out, but then I think about the girls in Guatemala. I can’t let them down. I fill out the emergency information on the back of my race number, and put Kurt down as my contact should I collapse midway through the race. I’ve run in countless races, but I’ve never actually bothered to fill out this emergency form. This time, something tells me I might need help. I brush off the thought, but write Kurt’s number down legibly anyway.
The gun goes off at dawn. At mile three, I drop my water bottle on the trail. The nozzle fills with mud and clogs it. From that point on, every time I sip water, I get only dirt.
At mile seven, I have to stop running. My legs are cramping, I have a headache, and the altitude is getting to me. I feel like I am breathing through a snorkel. I walk. C’mon Susie. It’s only mile seven! A steady stream of runners pass me. I feel defeated. I walk with my head down. I didn’t train enough. I’ll quit as soon as I make it to a road.
I hear the cheers from the aid station through the next patch of trees. Then two volunteers hand me water, oranges, fig bars, and M&Ms. I shove the candy in my mouth, wash it down with water, and suddenly I feel better. I check in with my body: no leg cramps, no headache, no pain anywhere. I decide to keep going. Lift your eyes. It’s beautiful here. And it is. I listen to the Aspen trees quake, the rivers rush over smooth stones, and sensation the sun on my face. I feel strong and light. I also decide to dedicate each mile to someone, mostly the young women I know best in Guatemala: Norma, Vilma, Irma, and Jeronima. This helps me to keep going.
At mile twenty-six, the point at which marathoners can see the finish line, the race course takes a left turn to climb Windy Peak, a 10,000-foot summit that usually strips the oxygen from my legs one switchback at a time. But this time I feel light and strong. I dedicate this section to Kurt.
In places, the mountain is so steep I have to use tree trunks like ladder rungs to pull myself up the trail. Where there are no trees, I slide backwards on the steep slope that moves with each step. I consider giving up for good. Then, I imagine Kurt’s face in my mind, and I start to cry. I see through his trivial imperfections and remember why I fell for him. Maybe it’s the endorphins. But it feels deeper and more real than a case of lightheadedness. Everything that isn’t important falls away. What is left is love. Suddenly, the loose scree feels solid and the mountain seems less steep.
When I reach the top, I am euphoric. I ask the course official to snap a photo of me leaping into the sky. I can’t believe I am here and have made it this far today. It’s as if running to the summit has lifted me out of a dark cloud of negativity. It’s clear to me that I could never have made it this far without Kurt. It’s also clear that I want to move forward with him, no matter how different we are. But right now, I still have six miles to go, running down a sheer mountainside.
I realize that I haven’t seen many women go by. Maybe I’m doing better than I think. I turn and run downhill, but my legs feel like jello. I’m not sure my muscles can last much longer at this altitude. Still, I notice that if I lean forward, like I am daring the mountain to knock me down, my legs find strength under me. I run by feeling, not thinking. I feel brave. I feel indomitable.
I see our kids not far from the finish line. Cole and Hazel jump up and down, shouting, “You can do it, Mama!” Then they run alongside me in their little sandals. We cross the line together. I end up finishing as the first woman in the masters division, a competitive age group in Boulder, Colorado. I am shocked and elated. There were many moments in the race when I wanted to quit because I was convinced I was doing so poorly. Turns out, that was all in my mind. How many times have I been doing well in my life and just assumed that I was failing?
I lie down in the rushing creek and Kurt brings me a beer. I tell him about how I dedicated the hardest section to him, and he chuckles. He can’t help but make a joke.
