Kristine Joy, Writer

CHAPTER 1

5K Passageway

January 2017

“Coach!”  

With teeth chattering, I peered through the crowd in an attempt to locate the beckoner. Being only a few inches more than five feet tall, and too cold to jump up and down without tearing a calf muscle, my attempts were futile. I recognized the voice, but couldn’t place it. The only folks that I knew in this small town were Kylie, her husband Ryan and their 3 kids. And Kylie happened to be standing next to me (with a baby on board, she would step aside rather than run at my side upon starting gunshot). And Ryan was back at their house Dad-sitting, and likely clothed by now – I had accidentally walked in on him in his underwear earlier that morning. With most anyone else, I would have knocked, but they and I knew that our friendship had surpassed that formality years ago.

On top of having landed myself in the middle of a cornfield, in the middle of Iowa, where I only knew 5 members of the town population, there were only a handful of people in the World that would reference me by the title of Coach. I stood semi mummy-like with shoulders tucked in high and tight, as if I was permanently stuck in the up position of a weight room shoulder raise exercise. This posture was because of the temperature rather than size of the crowd, with the latter perhaps being more appropriately deemed a gathering. I swayed back and forth to peer around the surrounding bobbing heads.  My upright position made this look rather penguin like.

Minimizing the size of the crowd wasn’t entirely fair to the village of Amana. Put in perspective, if one were to calculate the ratio of race participants to city population, the Freezer Run came in at a whopping 68% (300/442) in comparison to 1.7% (45,000/2,705,000) for the Chicago Marathon.

Technically, the town of Amana is one of seven villages that make up the Amana Colonies. But, even if I were to use the combined population of Main Amana (Amana) and the six villagurbs, the Freezer Run was still accommodating 18.3% (300/1639) of their population. Can you imagine 500,000 runners showing up at the starting line of the Chicago Marathon, or 1,500,000+ in New York City, and the ensuing chaos?

Thus, we will move forward under the pretense that the town itself was jumping, but not necessarily the pre-race frozen living statues.  

The term “accommodating” in reference to the town of Amana and this particular Freezer Run was used loosely also. Race registration took place in the Old Appliance Center, behind the Amana Woolen Mill, which was effectively a deserted addition to the General Store. The brick addition had been constructed in 1890.  Historically, I had appreciation for it, but that didn’t make the packed dirt floors any more inviting. Nor did it add bathroom stalls to the two that existed; one for Men and one for Women, each pint sized, making for the removal of outdoor gear and redress in a timely fashion nearly impossible. The equation of restroom usage also included a degree of mental pressure given a lengthy line of antsy runners, whose feet seemed to tap as if a stopwatch had been started, and whose eyes were burning a hole in the real wooden door, waiting for it swing open each time. With the wildfire spread of fitness watches that had even made its way to the Midwest farmlands, I wouldn’t be surprised if restroom goers were actually being timed by those waiting to complete their pre-race routine. One could easily have a melt down under these conditions, but I suppose they’d at least be warmer than the rest of us.

As tradition would have it, I had used the outdoor bathroom on the backside brick wall of the General Store, with Kylie serving as blockage.  A quick jaunt through the parking lot landed us within a 100 yards of the starting block. It was there that I was trying to locate the external voice. My internal voice of reason had already been located and was incessantly pestering me with a question that had been boiled down to one word – WHY?  

I wasn’t even a runner. I have the body type of a runner, or soccer player as I prefer to think, with quads and sprinter-like glutes being the only parts of my body that fill a size 0 pant. I was an athlete, and an athlete that had dabbled in most every sport during my lifetime, except running. I had been on the Track & Field Team in middle school, but finagled my way onto the Field only team. I did the high jump, long jump, shot put and discus throw. Being of small frame now, you can imagine how much smaller my frame was then. It didn’t jump very high, far, or throw objects further than a stone’s throw.

My plague-like avoidance of distance running hadn’t changed in the last 20 years. I had always said that the ONLY non-forsaken reason to complete a marathon would be at the end of an Ironman.

I felt a hand on my right shoulder, which was still locked in the upright position. I turned to see Scott, a soccer coach at the institution where I was employed as a tennis coach. 

“Hey Coach!” I said back to him, embracing him in a quick hug, partly in an attempt to steal body heat. Being a coach, I had inherent respect for anyone with the title, and always tried to show this in my salutations. In fact, one of the many reasons I loved our work environment was the mutual respect amongst the coaches. Upon crossing a fellow coach, the exchange of “Coach” and “Coach” was a near guarantee and always brought a smile, backed with pride, to my face.  

Somehow though, it seemed that all of the coaches were coming up short when it came to respect from the towers of the new administration, our Athletic Director aside. I knew that Scott was at the top of that list and it wasn’t a list that one desired to be at the top of.  

“I’m done,” he exclaimed. I wished we were done, but we hadn’t even started the 5K that loomed ahead. I knew he wasn’t talking about the race though. “Seriously?!?” I beamed back. “Yeah, I just got back from an interview yesterday and will be turning in my two weeks on Monday.”  I gave him another hug, this time congratulatory.

I was honestly happy for him. I had genuine like and respect for Scott as a person and coach, and knew that he hadn’t been happy under our institution’s current leadership. I also figured that Scott’s girlfriend, Chelsea, who served as an athletic trainer was likely to tag along. This was later confirmed. What I didn’t know was how many more members of athletics would be out the door this year, and whether I (and/or my “fiancé”) would be one (and/or two) of them. Fiancé was in quotations because as crazy as this may sound, I didn’t know what our status was at the moment.

The Freezer Run was an annual race that served as one of the many festivities making up the Amana Colonies’ Winterfest. The race name was derived from the sponsorship of Amana Refrigeration, and of course, the sometimes, NOW, below zero temperatures.

It had somehow, and with much reluctance over the years, become an annual event on my calendar. If I were one to swear, without the self-imposition of push-ups, I would call it the *&^%’n Freezer Run. I had come to think of it as a rite of passage into the New Year, and a renewing of my friendship vows to Kylie, my long-time and dearest friend. It had been over twenty years since I can remember sitting on the floor of a hotel room, with my back propped up against Kylie’s shins, while she sat on the edge of the bed and put cornrows in my hair. My entire club soccer team, The Force, was spread across that hotel room watching the OJ Simpson chase.  I also vividly recall how free it felt to speed demon down a soccer field with the whoosh of air between those corn rows; freer than OJ Simpson ended up being for one.

Kylie had influenced my life in immeasurable and measurable ways and across many facets. One of those ways was as a runner, though I still didn’t feel qualified to deem myself as one. Kylie is a runner. A once working teacher, she was now a stay-at-home Mother and homeschooler, whose warm smile and outlook on life always shines through it all to light up the World (mine included). Her release came on the running trails around Lily Lake, and within/surrounding the Amana Colonies. She sought out and had finished many marathons, half marathons, 10K’s and 5K’s over the years, albeit fewer since bearing children.

I didn’t seek out any run-only events, but they’d come knocking and the only person behind that knock was always the one and only. I had joined Kylie for the Freezer Run six of the past 8 years, a 10K at a park in Cedar Rapids the previous Fall and a half marathon on the 21st of September in ’12.

I always caved when it came to being a joiner because of Kylie’s ultimate belief in me as a runner, not to mention her belief in me as a person. A full marathon was where that ball stopped rolling. Apparently, our friendship had not transcended a feat that would require my feet to travel 26.2 miles.  

Though I didn’t train as a runner, Kylie had always conveyed the utmost belief in my ability to finish, and even place in the events I was dragged along to. I swear she thinks that my friendship to her is what keeps me at her side, instead of my sprinting ahead to a more appropriate finishing place. The truth is the reverse of that. But for her friendship, I’d be back at the starting line, or even more likely, on a dog walk without a finish line.

I was an athlete, and always in training, but mostly for the game of life in general these days. The demands of parenting, coaching and significant othery left little time for my own sporting endeavors, which once included DI athletics, grad school flag football intramural, college and post-college club ultimate frisbee, entry level pro tennis and adult co-ed softball. I was a triathlete also; sort of. I had willingly done a few, numerically literal, sprint triathlons over the years because I loved to swim, “fiancé” Eric had made me a cyclist, and Kylie’s run influence was enough get me through the final leg. But, when asked if I was a runner or if I RAN triathlons, my response was always in the negative.  “I swim, and bike triathlons, and then have the will to finish that which I’ve started,” was my claim to (not very much) fame.

I sure hoped that will was strong since the always intrigue of being an Ironman had finally caught up to me. In a moment of stupidity, weakness (or strength?), inspiration or a combination of each of those, I had signed up for the Boulder 2017 Ironman just over a month ago. I was 140 days out from an Ironman, wasn’t actively training, didn’t have a training plan in place, and STILL wasn’t a runner. Nor had I completed more than a sprint triathlon in my 37 years of life. That equation was potentially adding up to be more disastrous than the Freezer Run bathroom situation.

$750 Entry Fee + 0 Training + Altitude + 2/3 Short Distance Triathlete = #$%^’d

I think I was correct with my first descriptive word. That is surely the definition of stupidity.  

stu·pid·i·ty

st(y)o͞oˈpidədē

noun
noun: stupidity; plural noun: stupidities

1 behavior that shows a lack of good sense or judgment.

I will submit a picture of myself at the starting line of the Boulder Ironman for Mr. Webster to place alongside his textual definition in the next edition.

Or, was it optimism? Hope?

I loved Kylie as more than a sister, but I dreaded the Freezer Run. There was a degree of dread to every running-only endeavor, but the combination of running AND cold weather created a scene out of a horror movie in my head. I had come to relish winter weather, as one of the Midwest seasons, but mostly from the comfort of my Dad’s leather chair that sat in our front reading room, next to the warmth of a fireplace in which snowfall and icicles hanging from the gutter could be seen through the large picture window.

The only upside to the Freezer Run was that I dreaded it ever so slightly less as each year passed. And despite my outward complaints, very deep down in the trenches of my mindset, I knew that I bought into the Freezer Run stock. This was backed by the fact that I ran by myself every year that Kylie found herself pregnant, and that was more years than not these days. Perhaps because she saw Ryan in his underwear everyday?  

In the end, I knew that the underlying value of that stock laid in the concept of betterment and I was always trying to be a betterme.

And, participants had the option to get a meat bag instead of a t-shirt as part of the entry fee. The Amana Meat Shop & Smokehouse was part of the General Store. To me, a meat bag option, though seemingly cavemanish, was much preferred to the alternative – another t-shirt that Marie Kondo’s Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up book would have me rolling up in my closet for a few years before discarding. Granted, that shirt would last longer than a steak, but the steak was sure to Spark (more) Joy in my life.

I suppose I can’t forget the free beer coupon that was included as a raceday giveaway also. The Millstream Brewing Co. was a mere block from the finish line.  

The optimist sitting atop my left shoulder winked to the counterpart on the other side, with inherent implication that the reasons FOR participation had outweighed the pessimist’s perilous cries of WHY. I winked to the optimist, knowing my glass would soon be full of beer.

Momentarily, I wondered where right-shouldered sourpuss was when I clicked the mouse to submit my registration for the Ironman.

Scott had meandered away; his voice and person lost again amongst the masses. As it turned out, our Athletic Director informed us of Scott’s departure via email a few days later, and my congratulatory hug had also served as a good-bye to my fellow colleague and friend of 5 years.

Kylie joked that I didn’t have her to hold me back this year, and encouraged me to try and keep up with the tallest of the bunch, a lanky late 20 something male dressed in shorts and short sleeves that always claimed gold. I knew that I’d be lucky to NOT see him during the race since the first and last mile were on opposite sides of the same highway that lead out to a neighborhood loop. I vividly recall my first Freezer Run and dropped jaw that froze in place upon seeing Crazy Runner round the corner to his homestretch before I had even completed a mile.

The gunshot sounded.  Kylie pushed me on my way as she stepped off to the side. Little did she know, I needed a shove in the forward direction since my right shoulder prophet of doom was telling me to high tail it via backpedal.

I lurched away from her, and found myself enraptured in my own thoughts that churned like ice cream in a vat. Was that a real gun? I supposed so since we were in the middle of Iowa such that it wouldn’t be a shot heard round the World. How long would this take me? I knew that the faster I ran, the sooner I’d be done with this nonsense, but that didn’t give me RoadRunner-like leg turnover. Was I engaged to Eric? If so, when was the wedding? How, if at all, did Eric want to celebrate his upcoming 60th birthday? Would I be bestowed with Ironman status on my Dad’s birthday this year? Would my Team avenge a Conference loss from the Fall to qualify for the NCAA Tournament for the 6th straight year? Would I meet my administration imposed recruiting quota? Would Eric and I still be working as coaches at “the shall not be named” institution?

The thoughts that didn’t roll around in my head were those that were unknown to me. In the year ahead, I would add another Kylie to my life (whose husband had seen ME naked in the last year), burn up 4 of my 9 allotted lives, stumble upon bears in the wild in Yelllowstone (surprisingly not one of the lives I burned up), be called a pessimist in a face-to-face meeting with upper management, interview for a dream job, adopt a 4th dog, acquire 2,000 users of my app, add a Half Ironman to my race itinerary, welcome a Russian physicist into our home for a month, end up at the Christmas Morning breakfast table of my ex-husband and write a best selling book.

The latter didn’t actually happen; everything else did.

I was glad, unknowingly of course, that these thoughts were not top of mind in addition to those that already had my head spinning. In trying to hear out the voice on each shoulder, my head was turning left, right, left, right, left, right, as if I were viewing a Wimbledon rally between Murray and Nadal, in unison with a metronome.

I prodded along the straightaway highway that felt and looked as if it were the very basic 3 dimensional never ending tunnel that I had been taught to draw in middle school art.  I preferred, instead, to look at the ground in front of each step, than ahead, which was perhaps necessary anyway in order to avoid patches of ice.

I passed the 1 Mile sign, knowing my pace was close to a 10 minute mile, and turned left to trudge up the hill.  Flying down the hill was, you guessed it, Crazy Runner.  I cheered him along, and patted myself on the back for having made it more than a mile this year.

Lost in my own thoughts, the rest of race went by quickly enough, but not quicker than Crazy Runner, had flown by me.  

I crossed the finish line with exasperation written all over my face. I was elated to be done, and didn’t care about the less than stellar time that I’d turned in at the Freezer Run in Amana, IA. Instead, my concern had instantly transitioned from crossing THIS finish line to crossing the finish line of an Ironman. My performance today didn’t bode well for my future race docket.

I found a swinging bench on the front porch of a storefront to sit down on just as Kylie found me. If I were in any other mood, the thought of sipping an “ice-cold Cherry Coke” on this porch swing, and in this small town “where people pass by and you call them by their first name,” would have brought a smile to my face and hum to my purple lips.

Instead, the cold air made it difficult to catch my breath; I could only inhale to the point that my chest would allow, and that wasn’t very much. Kylie sensed my disgust, and started the process of peeling my crime scene dead body outline off the ground, “Good job Kristopher! Only 23 more miles to go,” she joked. Though part of me wanted to cry, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Hey, you got 3 miles of training in today!” she continued. That was true, and it was 3 miles more than I would have done by myself. 

We walked over to the brewery and studied the menu before settling on their infamous Millstream Root Beer. We found a cozy corner table that would allow us the one hour we had each year to catch up without the interruption of children. We clanged our pint glasses, “Cheers to you, my friend, and the 364 days ahead until I have to do THAT again.” Kylie’s warm smile flashed back. I continued, “And I’m sorry that I walked in on Ryan in his boxer briefs!” She laughed, and I knew that she didn’t care in the least, which was an even clearer testament to our friendship than my annual participation in the Freezer Run.

Our glasses were soon empty, but figuratively, this was never the actual case for either of us.