What Would Ulysses Do

Been waiting to write this blog for a long, long time. And now here we are, but where to start? Perhaps at the beginning.

I arrived in Tanzania late at night on June 16, 2010. We were staying a large religious complex called the Msimbazi Centre. I decided hey, why not get things off on the proverbial (and literal) right foot, and having been in country for about 12 hours, I got up and went for a run. It was weird, it was awkward, I spoke not a single word of Kiswahili, but when I finished, I was actually really proud of myself. I knew that the run I’d just finished would be one of the hardest I would ever go on. Not because of the distance, or the conditions. Because as the sun rose that morning on my new country, I got my first, albeit self-inflicted, experience of being estranged in a strange land. A few days later I first heard about the Kilimanjaro Marathon. From that point on, my life as a volunteer has been measured in the dusty miles of Tanzania’s byways, highways, and myways.

I woke up at 5:30 on Friday morning, having slept a few fitful hours. The day before my environmental club had successfully built its first compost pile, and I didn’t get home till late to begin packing for the trip to Moshi (a town at the base of Kilimanjaro where the marathon takes place). I left the house at 6:30, dropped off my bike and some valuables at a neighbor’s, and hiked the 8 kilometers to a nearby junction town where I boarded the bus to Moshi at 8:30am. The bus arrived in Moshi 9:30pm. In between I ate 3 sambusas, 2 yogurts, befriended a lovely mama who said she would pray for me during the race, was urinated on by a 2-year old (no biggie), vomited on by his mother (...yeah), and felt all the tendons in my knees begin to tighten like pulled rubber bands. It was lovely. Arrived alive, and that in and of itself was a victory. Moshi is a beautiful town, we went for a short run on Saturday morning to loosen the legs, and spent most of the day grazing and being nervous. Went to bed early, slept well, with the exception of a few trips to deal with the 6 liters of water I’d drank that day.

Which brings us to Sunday, and the reason for the season, 26.2 miles of awesome called the Kilimanjaro Marathon. The door guy at our hostel asked me yesterday why I was running this race. I didn’t have the language to explain it, so I had to go with “Napenda sana changamoto” (I really like challenges). But that doesn’t quite cover it. Why do people run at all? There are many more interactive, and healthier, forms of exercise, things like basketball, yoga, frisbee, hiking. All of which I enjoy more than running. But then, I never enjoy running while I’m running. I don’t presume to speak for others, but when I’m running, I’m contesting a very bitter and longlasting rivalry with myself. Was listening to Scott Van Pelt on my podcasts, and he said “ a rivalry only exists if when one team looks at the other, they see themselves.” Got that part covered. He also said, “a rivalry only exists if the other side can take something from that matters”. Which is also the case. This might be stupid. It probably is. There’s nobody but me who cares if I finish a run. But the way I work, in all things, involves this weird little duality, with a constant mental conversation between me and a part of me who is a bit skeptical. Of everything. It’s sort of like when NFL players start telling each other that nobody believes in them, even when newspapers are picking them to win Super Bowls and fans are spending millions on their jerseys and tickets. But sometimes you need a fire to fight, and if the friction isn’t there naturally, then you rub some sticks together. Which is basically how it works in my head. Whenever I go running, it’s a contest of pride and principle and self-worth, none of which have any actual connection to my exercise. But it means that every completed run is a victory, and that is what I enjoy about running. The victory of it, the triumph over the weaker parts of myself. Which makes a 5:15 marathon time an interesting thing to deal with.

Started out well enough, running with my friend Randi, with whom I have run many a morning mile in Tanzania. Ran the first quarter together, then I was not able to keep her pace for much longer. Finished the first half of the marathon in about two hours and a few minutes, runnin the whole way. Then the Kilimanjaro Marathon takes a turn, and it goes uphill, for the entire third quarter. And this is when your boy started hurting. I’ve tweaked my knee a few times training, and it started to flare up. The asphalt suddenly feels a lot harder, and each kilometer marker seems to take another year to pass. My slow-downs for the water stops became short walks, then a little longer. Around the 25km mark (there are 42km in a marathon), I slowed, and let up the jog, and began to walk. I alternated a kilometer walked with a kilometer run. Then maybe a kilometer walked and a third run. And by now my knee is screaming, and by the time I reached the turnaround point at the end of the third quarter, my running stints were about ten meters and ended with me limping and hopping on one leg. Wasn’t happening. Fell in with an Alaskan firefighter, started walking back downhill, 10.5 long and rather disappointing kilometers to go.

The verb to win in Kiswahili is “kushinda”. The verb to lose is “kushindwa”. A very small difference. A very thin line. Which is really how it works out, isn’t it? But this isn’t a baseball game. There is only one winner in a marathon, and everybody else is just another degree of shindwa. Just as I was. I lost the marathon. I wanted to run the entire race. I didn’t. I think most of you are still proud of me, and maybe so am I, but my goals were set, and they were not met. Which puts me in that funky little gray area where we all spend so much of our time. Am I a little disappointed today? Yes, absolutely. But I think that too, is ok. I’ve never understood the philosophy of expecting little and thereby avoiding disappointment. To be honest, I expect amazing things from myself, and from life. I’m often disappointed. But I believe with all my heart that those expectations make me chase triumph all the harder, and so often the chase itself, successful or not, walking or running, is the delight.

Which brings us to kilometer 35, 7km left to go, walking downhill, not looking forward to the next hour and a half’s walk of shame. And suddenly, I start to feel good again. And I start running again. Run for about two kilometers, and my knee starts killing me. Slow to a walk again, not at all happy. And ahead of me is a sign that says “kilometer 37”. Five to go. Five K. I’ve run it more times than I can count. And it might hurt, and it might hurt a lot. But tho much is taken, much abides, and it might hurt more, in its own way, to walk across that finish line. So I showed Mount Kilimanjaro, now behind me, my heels. And I started to run. Four kilometers left. I start picking up the pace. Three kilometers. A bunch of African boys are running with me, and we’re passing other runners. Two kilometers. I feel like I just started running. I feel amazing. One kilometer left. The last kilometer. And I look at the back of my left hand, where in the wee hours of the morning I wrote with a black Sharpie, WWKD. What would Kucz do? And setting aside the fact that the skinny bastard would have been done two hours and change before, I almost started to cry at the 41st kilometer of the Kili marathon.

Because nothing prepares you for the kind of friendship I have been lucky enough to find, the depth and breadth of which I never realized until I was far enough away to see the forest, not just the trees. I logged onto my email Saturday, to be greeted with 20 different messages wishing me luck. I couldn’t believe it when Mom told me that there was a tequila shot in my honor over the holidays. Being remembered like that, being present while being absent, is as touching a gift as I will ever receive. I am a part of all that I have met, and just looking at those four little letters, smudged and faded by sweat, reminded me of all the people whose cheers and thoughts were with me, even when their bodies were elsewhere. What would Kucz do? Finish the goddamn race. And at 11:45am, February 27th, I entered the Moshi soccer stadium, by myself, sweating, smiling, running…and people began to cheer. A hundred meters to go, all of my wind back, sprinting like a madman for the finish line while my friends who had been waiting in the baking heat screamed their heads off. And for every person who has ever shown a dusty mile their heels at my side, I thought of you in that moment. Debby Waldron, Tony Waldron, Natalie Struble, Anna Holland, Lauren Fink, Damon Laabs, Randi Walsh, Rocco Chierichella, and miss Kelsey Drake. Thank you all. To anyone who wished me well, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I crossed that finish line, a success and a failure, but proud as all hell. That which I was, I was, and that which we are, we are, made weak, perhaps, by time and fate, but strong in will, to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. Never to yield.