I leave for Argentina in six weeks.  My family is sacrificing by giving me the freedom to live in a foreign country for half a year, learning the language and culture.  As D-day (“Departure” Day) approaches, my thinking has begun to shift from what I won’t be able to provide for them in person, to what I will miss from them.  My first-born, especially, has been on my mind.

My girl is confident and independent.  Like most 14-year-olds, she knows it all.  Except, she really is brilliant.  I usually think she’ll be the one who survives my absence the best– mother easily replaced by friends.  She surprised me recently by transferring into my high school class.  I had thought she wanted distance, yet she chose to spend a little more time with me before I go.  I get to start each work day with her.  It’s like three whole months of Take Your Daughter to Work.  I am blessed.   And cursed.

Cursed because now my head is filled with dread thinking about the big memories I am going to miss.  I won’t be there for her cheerleading try-outs.  She made it last year, and I think she’ll do it again, but I hate not being able to watch her practice.  She has a steady boyfriend too.  I know teenage romance can change with the breeze, I don’t think this one will anytime soon.  Did I mention he’s a junior?  A junior who will likely want to go to Prom in April.  I actually get a pain in my chest knowing that I won’t be able help her pick out a dress, arrange for hair and make-up, nor snap those pictures.  She’s only a freshman; I didn’t think that I’d miss her first prom.  She also turns 15 in June.  Unfortunately, I knew I’d miss that birthday, but I had forgotten about teaching my daughter how to drive.

Funny thing about her and driving.  You see, she has broken the law too.  She has, through charm and tenacity, taught herself to drive… other people’s cars.  My car, my 6-speed Mini-Cooper S that she helped me pick out, is uncharted territory for her.

My girl asked me to dinner tonight, and I asked her for an hour afterwards.  I promised her she would like the surprise I had in store for her.  As we drove slightly outside of town, she apprehensively asked me, “Are you sure I will like this?…”

I down-shifted, pulled onto the dirt road that led into the empty field, and yanked up the parking brake.  I turned to her and said, “It’s time for you to learn how to drive a stick.”  I ate up every nanosecond as disbelief, fear and excitement spread across her face.

We switched spots.  I watched my tall girl sit in the driver’s seat and begin inching it forward.  I told her to press the clutch in all the way and adjust the seat some more.  We talked about the touch of the clutch and the feel of the gas pedal.  I showed her where reverse is (on a Mini, it’s easily confused with first gear) and how to take off the parking brake.  Finally, I told her to expect the car to jump and stall.  A lot.  The only way to learn how to drive a manual is with loads of experience.

For the next 30 minutes, we did exactly that.  I sat grinning from ear to ear as my Mini suffered through the abuse of one stalled engine after another. I giggled at my daughter’s sheer frustration of not being able to smoothly drive the car.  I told her she only had to do this as long as it was fun.  Then it happened.  Gas was gently applied, the clutch was slowly released, and we glided forward!  She shifted into second and bumped along until the road ran out.  I would have braked, but she chose to stall.  I completely agreed with her decision, remembering how confusing it was when you first attempt to work three foot pedals.

We broke the law tonight; my growing girl driving illegally with me, an approving accomplice.  I can’t wait to do it again… on a hill!

The event charged the evening with excitement.  We talked about the deer while looking up at the bright stars.  Anything seemed possible that night.  That’s when my son asked me to show him what a shooting star looked like.

Mothers are magic, especially when children are young.  Parents can do anything.  Unfortunately, the deer would be the only thing we would see that night.  Nevertheless, I didn’t forget the wish nor the star needed for it.

*             *             *

“Do you want to go see some shooting stars tonight?” I whispered in my 8-year-old’s ear.  It was after 10 p.m., and he was still awake reading a book.  The excitement in his eyes was answer enough.

“You’ll have to put on your jacket over your pajamas, hat and some shoes,” I instructed him.  We loaded up the car with downy sleeping bags, folding lounge chairs and headed north, away from the city’s lights.  The annual Geminid Meteor Shower was supposed to peak on December 13 and 14^th, just days after a glorious full moon and lunar eclipse.  The best viewing time was supposed to be between 2:00-3:00 in the morning, but the conditions were not going to be ideal regardless due to the bright moon.  If we left sooner, rather than later, we had a chance to see a few meteors before the moon rose too high in the sky.

About five miles outside of North Platte, I took a left onto Highway 97.  There the hills are higher and the houses fewer.  Driving into the darkness, I yelled toward the backseat, “I just saw one!”  Just beyond the headlights and the highway, a faint streak of light shot from the stars for the briefest of moments.  I thought to myself that the night’s impromptu plans might actually work.

I pulled over onto a turn-around and set up the lounge chairs in the gravel road.  I tucked my child into a sleeping bag, and told him to stare at the stars.  He would have to be patient; magic takes time.  You couldn’t have asked for a better Nebraska night.  Despite being December, the air was crisp but not bitter cold.  The stars were diamond sharp in the clear night sky.  We did our best to work around the moonlight.  I faced the chairs away from the moon rising in the east; looking to the west, we waited.

“Mom, there’s one,” he pointed to an airplane’s red and green lights slowing making its way across the star-field.  I corrected his mistake, and told him a shooting star is fast, and looks like a line of light.

Just then, it happened.

“Mom! Mom! Mom!  I saw one!  Did you see it?”

I had.  It was quick and faint, but definitely a meteor.  My son’s first shooting star.

We talked for an hour under the evening sky.  Sometimes we would see the same shooting star and sometimes only one of us we catch a glimpse before it faded away.  Equal enthusiasm was given to the science of meteorites as to Martians attacking cavemen and dinosaurs millions of years ago.  I hummed Silent Night and he sang Batman Smells to the tune of Jingle Bells.  Our conversation was peppered with shooting stars racing overhead and gloriously punctuated with a real beauty–a meteor that astounded us.  We “oohhed” as the bluish ball streaked across the starry sky as its golden tail chased after it.  When it nearly touched the night horizon, we awarded it “Best of Show.”

On the Nebraska plains, the prairie grass danced in the moonshadows.  In the quiet, he and I watched the twinkling lights waiting for the universe to set off one more firework.  Out of the black of the night, I heard the reward for a promise fulfilled.

“I love you, Mom.”

*            *             *

It was nearly midnight when I tucked my son into bed and wrote a note to his teacher explaining that he might be tired during class.  I didn’t mention that we had stayed up late on a school night to hang out with rock stars.

If someone would have mentioned snowshoeing to me a year ago, I would have pictured the gold rush days in Yukon, Alaska.  I envisioned grizzly men with ice frozen to their rugged beards and wooden tennis-racket-like contraptions tied to their feet.

I have never entered a 5K race.  I have never snowshoed.  Somehow the combination of these two facts did not make me hesitate when my husband asked if I wanted to try Copper Mountain’s Gobbler Chase while we were vacationing there over the holiday break.  Searching the calendar of events, he said, “Hey, there’s a 5K snowshoe race the day after Thanksgiving.  Should I register you for it?”

“OK.”

Two minutes later, I was signed up for my first official race.

“I wonder how much further it is?  I wonder how long I have been walking?  Do not check the iPod until ‘Times Like These’ comes on.”  Crunch, crunch, crunch… I plodded along.

The day before the race, I had rented snowshoes.  I needed to see what I was in for—it would be better to fail alone than in front of the super-mountaineering athletes.  While I wasn’t too worried about the distance; I can easily walk that on flat ground in the sunshine.  I was also fairly certain I had hiked up mountains on longer trails, although I couldn’t be sure because I had never worn a pedometer on those jaunts.  I was concerned about altitude effects, but I had plenty of water and was planning on slowly making my way up the vertical inclines.  Could I combine all of those factors into one walk?  Could I hike, at a higher altitude, for a long distance, not get too cold, and… (key concern) not trip over myself in the metal, cleated frames I had just borrowed?  I was about to find out.

Putting on snowshoes is extremely easy.  You simply place your foot on the toe pad and pull up on the straps.  I thought I would have to high-step or march in order to walk.  I thought I would have to stand hip-width apart, sort of walking like a toddler does when his diaper needs changed.  The first few steps in the snowshoes were strange, but only because I was waiting for it to feel unnatural.  In reality, it was as easy as, well, walking.

For my trial track, I crossed a bridge and followed a cross-country skiing trail just outside of Copper.  If a person wanted to, they could cross Vail Pass along this route.  I did not; my only goal was to test drive my new “wheels.”  About 50 feet from the bridge, the trail hit a sharp incline.  The test drive was about to officially begin.  I was easily walking, but what about climbing?  I dug in my toe, the cleats gripped and up I went.  At the top of the hill, I was surrounded by trees and snow.  It was peaceful and beautiful.  I sat down, took a snapshot of the shoes, and thrilled at the discovery of a way to extend my love of walking outdoors.

The sun glistened off of the snow, while I walked through the pines and over still-flowing creeks.  The sound of my own footsteps did not disturb the solitude; I listened to the lodgepoles creak in the breeze and watched squirrels scamper across the snow.  I easily walked up and down the hills.  “I can do this–bring on the race!” I mentally rallied.

Part II—The Hare and The Tortoise

I had only one goal for my first 5K— finish.  Before the race, I had no idea what to expect. I thought I would be able to walk/hike/snowshoe the distance, but I really wasn’t sure.  I knew in order to finish it in close to a half-hour, like many of the previous years’ winner did, I would have to run the route.  And I knew that that was not going to happen, snow or dry, flat land.  My plan was simple, walk slow and steady.

I have a friend who lives half her life in Vail,Colorado.  I don’t get to see her much and was excited to meet up with her the day after Thanksgiving.  I asked if she wanted to join me in the Gobbler Chase.  This invitation was a little bit scary because my friend is an avid athlete.  She has boundless energy and puts the rest of us to shame.  She is Lance Armstrong fit; no kidding.  And if that wasn’t enough to envy, she’s one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet too.

That morning, we followed a turkey mascot, shuffling along in the back of the herd of well-appointed snowshoers, just past a ski lift to the starting line.  I was waiting for a gun or horn or some sort of noise to indicate a start, but people simply started up the marked trail.  Bringing up the rear of the pack surely meant that I would also bring it back down across the finish.

Here’s where it got hare-y.  I was walking with my friend, who lives at 10,000 feet and despite being physically smaller, must have twice of heart as me.  She quickly made her way up the mountain; I quickly lost my breath… all within sight of the start.

“Go ahead,” I gasped out, “I don’t want to hold you up.”

She started to run.  Uphill.  In snowshoes.

I stopped for a moment to put in my ear-buds and turn on my iPod.  I had listened to The Foo Fighters’ Skin and Bones album during the previous day’s walk.  It’s a go-to favorite of mine while I’m hiking.  The edgy acoustic rock keeps me moving but at a slower pace.  Not wanting to repeat myself, I switched over to another much-loved band of mine, Snow Patrol.  Snow Patrol seemed fitting considering I was tromping around a ski resort.

All set, musically, and breathing restored to normal, I felt mentally ready.

“Come on, Lori!” bubbled my buddy. “You can do it!”

My friend had run back down the hill to catch up with me. We walked together again, and again the pace was faster than I had planned.  I felt my breath shortening once more.

“Really, it’s OK.  You can run ahead.” I assured her (and me). Complying, she ran back up the hill.  For the first third of the race, my friend maintained a ping-pong like distance from me.  She would run ahead about 40 feet and then run back to check on me, and then run back up the hill.

I asked her if she was worried about her time, and she told me no.  I certainly wasn’t.  We stopped to take a few pictures along the way to remember the day and the blue-sky, beautiful snowscape.  I finally had to come clean with her and tell her that I would not be able to finish the race if I kept pace with her, asking her one last time to go ahead without me.  This time she did.  I was alone, save for a few people much further back than me.

It was about this stage in the race, the route left the wide ski run and diverted into the trees.  We had been climbing vertically, but not over rocks and fallen branches.  The trail narrowed to one snowshoe width.  Physically, I had been struggling up to this point.  The climb was difficult, my lungs were slightly hurting from the crisp air, and I had no clue how much longer I was going to have to last.  I was feeling a little defeated, especially when I compared my abilities to my friend’s.  I decided that a routine was in order and switched back to the Foo Fighters soundtrack from the previous day.

As Dave Grohl belted out song after song, I finally found my pace and lost myself in the surroundings.  My legs felt capable, and I was able to breathe at the slower speed.  Crunch, crunch, crunch my snowshoes stepped one foot after the other, this time with ease.  I walked up the switch-back trail through the trees, climbing higher and higher.  I had been hiking alone for some time.  Curiosity began to gnaw on me, and I wanted to know how much further I had to go.

Here’s the thing, athletically speaking, I have no fortitude.  I always want to quit before I really push myself.  That’s why the rational-Lori was forcing quitter-Lori to hold off checking the time.  I knew my favorite song, “Times Like These” was about three-fourths of the way through the album.  According to my non-mathematical calculations,  I had figured that I would take about two hours to complete the race.  I was guessing that I had only been hiking for about 30-45 minutes.  With the two-hour goal in my head, I wasn’t even half done.

Suddenly, I saw it–a different sign.  Instead of the red ribbons tied in the trees marking the trail, there was a large red arrow stuck in a log, in the snow.  It noted a 90-degree turn in the route and the start of the downward slope.  As I rounded the corner, I looked ahead and saw the bottom of a ski lift.

“That can’t be it?” I thought, “no way am I almost done!”

I picked up my pace and tried to glissade down the slope as best I could.  I was so motivated by this point, I had renewed energy.  I saw a race worker and asked him to take my picture.  I was actually going to finish my first 5K and was no worse for the wear.

Unlike the fable, the hare finished first in this tale.  When I was within sight of the end point, my friend ran to meet her tortoise pal– me.

“Lori, you made it!  Let’s run the rest of the way to the finish line!”

And, we did.

I crossed the same snowshoe race line twice, both times out of breath.  The first time, unsure I would even be able to accomplish the goal I had placed before myself, and again an hour later, proving that I actually could.

]]> http://loribrouillette.wordpress.com/2011/12/05/endeavor-end-ever/feed/ 0 Victory Over the Unknown lbrouillette Snowshoes Trial run Sunny snowshoe hike Tortoise Track The Hare, racing down to encourage me Timber Trail Turning point Victory Over the Unknown