fife and drum, their barked “Lay down your arms!” warning, and then gunfire and smoke that left the green dotted with fallen patriots to whom women and children went running while the redcoats marched on through.

Good-byes all around before my parents and Marilyn started their two-day drive home. I breakfasted with a dear friend downtown before walking up Commonwealth Avenue to Fenway Park, meeting Alaskan friend Mike, who had managed to scalp coveted tickets for today’s Red Sox game. We devoured cotton candy, basking in sun-drenched bleachers beside the Green Monster for a few hours, then stepped outside in time to watch the marathon leaders run through Kenmore Square, gradually making our way toward our buddy Bart, who had staked out his usual spectator spot around 25.5. We joined him until the phone summoned me to work—Patriots’ Day isn’t a holiday everywhere. We reconnected for dinner before I returned to Brookline for a long talk with Seth that evening, his big cat Rudy purring in my lap.

Life Goes Ou

I remained out East another week, savoring golden, sun-kissed spring days while couch-surfing from Rhode Island to New Hampshire before returning to Michigan, with leisurely runs along sparkling Narragansett Bay and a 5K around picturesque Portsmouth.

Returning to Rochester Hills, I packed up my Tienken room and drove west to my parents’ place in time for the reception celebrating Dad’s retirement from Ferris State University. We celebrated my 38th birthday early: Mom had baked an angel food cake (my favorite), which we devoured along with mint chocolate chip ice cream and fresh strawberries, before relaxing in friend Barb’s hot tub over champagne.

I promptly came down with a cold, spending most of the next week sniffling, sneezing, and generally miserable—typical postmarathon crud. Frantically scrambling to catch up on work I had let slide, I was on call on my birthday, pleasantly disrupted by calls from across the country. I attended the local board meeting for Habitat for Humanity to provide an update on my “Run for a Reason.” I had decided to give my Trials run a greater purpose by encouraging others to donate to Habitat for Humanity in my home county—Mecosta—the second-poorest in Michigan, in hopes of raising enough money to build the shell of a house while I trained for the Trials.

Reflections Closing up shop this early-May Sunday evening, I realized that two weeks have now passed since Boston’s battle: another milestone come and gone, and already the world is moving on. At least I wasn’t troubled by postrace ruminations, berating myself over strategic blunders like going out too fast or too slow. I just wasn’t as fit as I had hoped, ran out of gas, or simply had an off day. It happens. i

Every Morning | Run

Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman Inspire Me.

y cell phone alarm goes off underneath my pillow to start my day. I fumble

out of bed and grab my running clothes off the chair. I laid them out last night, so I dress in record time: sports bra, long-sleeve shirt, tights, gloves, and socks last.

Teeth brushed, hair in a ponytail, I’m on my way down the stairs. I stop by the rack of running shoes at the door and grab mine off the top. I wear the dirtiest pair, and I am proud of every mile that I ran in those brown, broken-down shoes. I keep my watch inside my left shoe because otherwise I would probably forget it. I struggle to get my shoes on. . . I wiggle and stomp until my heels slide in. I will tie them when I get to the track. I’m out the front door.

It’s still dark; the sun has another 30 minutes to sleep. As I step into my kellygreen Ford Focus, I think to myself, /’d like to sleep for another 30 minutes, but then I remember that I chose to do this. In Whitman’s words, this is the “song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.” I do it every day.

My teammates meet me at the track. Ina circle, we wait for the others to report for duty. There are 11 of us, and we are a sisterhood—bonded through suffering and determination. Dickinson says that “the Soul selects her own Society,” and they are mine.

Teammates must have trust, patience, and love for one another—and must willingly accept brutal pain. Running is a sport about the human body and sacrifice. There are 11 girls on the Mississippi State cross-country team, but to me, we are one. We strive for team unity. Each season between August and November, each member must “close the Valves of her attention/like Stone.” We must focus on the goal.

I’m not really awake until I’m running. I catch myself closing my eyes while I wait for the others. When it is time, we stand up, strip down—and run. On my favorite mornings, the mist sits low in the valley surrounding the track. The bleachers, the weight room, and the locker room are concealed by the canopy of white clouds. The outside world disappears. I see only the red track and the grass infield.

We start our warm-up run by striding into the white foam.

As we run, the mist moves to the sides. Moses must have felt exhilarated when he led his people across the Red Sea as it parted before him. I know I feel empowered.

Finally, I am running. I appreciate “my respiration and inspiration . . . the beating of my/heart . . . the passing of blood and air through my/lungs.” When I am not thinking about the rhythms of my body, I keep track of the color of the sky: black, deep gray, faint orange, dusty pink, and finally pale blue. The sunrise is my cup of coffee. When the sun is up, I am running. I am awake, but more important, I am alive.

Inevitably, every runner is asked, “Why do you run?” Dickinson and Whitman give me the answers. Largely, I run to feel alive. There is more to it, though. For one, I think that I am trying to outpace “the Carriage.” Dickinson personifies death as a carriage driver who “kindly stopped” to take her on a ride to eternity. For fear of age and death, I long for “the feeling of health” that Whitman mentions. He would understand why I am compelled to run. I also share his love for nature: “I am mad for it to be in contact with me.” I strip down to minimum coverage: only a sports bra, spandex, and shoes—and I savor the breeze on my bare stomach. During hard workout sessions, my chest pounds and my mouth

hangs open. I inhale desperately, deeply, quickly— mouth forever . . . 1am in love with it.”

Second, I run to observe the world around me: “We passed the school, where children strove/at races—in the ring;/We passed the fields of gazing grain/We passed the setting sun.”

I can imagine looking back on my life and seeing myself running through the stages of it. My grandma said that I learned to run before I knew how to walk. Running has been my preference since then: tag on the playground, elementary school races, middle school running club, high school track, and now here— college. I will continue. Someday, I will run in marathons and jog miles around town, pushing my babies in a stroller. [run to experience the “‘sniff of green leaves and dry leaves” in the fall. In the winter, I dash through the new-fallen snow and make the first footprints. In the spring, I run in the rain, and mud splatters across the back of my white T-shirt. In the summer, I “delight alone” in the coolness of the morning and jump into a lake when I am done.

Despite the enjoyments that running provides for me—nature, friendship, ealth—the reality is that running causes immense physical pain. I suffer every day. My days do not feel worthwhile unless I have been exhausted, depleted, and weak from fatigue.

‘It [the atmosphere] is for my