What’s 12 hours roundtrip between friends?

Two years ago this past April, an acquaintance who worked at a bakery that I frequented commented that she, a self-described life-long non-athlete, “could never do a triathlon.” I disagreed and said that it was simply a matter of deciding to do it and then putting in the work, piece by piece, day after day. If I could learn to swim when the mere thought of water gave me hives, she a comfortable swimmer could complete a triathlon. After a few more back and forth comments on the topic, I said that if she really wanted to do one I would train with her. But only if she was serious about it and was willing to commit to the work.

Long story short, she committed and she completed an Olympic length triathlon by the end of that summer. It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t always enjoyable – for either of us. We trained in the heat, the cold, the rain and even some snow. There were tears and more than a few ‘I hate this’ moments. We learned that she has exercise-induced panic attacks when her heart rate exceeds 175 bpm while running. So we got her a heart rate monitor and she learned to plan for and work around this condition. But she did it. She met her self-stated goal of running “every step of that fucking 10k”. In addition, she finished her first 1/2 marathon with me two months after the triathlon.

Over that summer, she introduced me to Ragbrai, talked me through my own panic attacks in the water, and on one (particularly ridiculous and awe-inspiring) weekend, we ran her first 10 miler on Saturday and rode my first century ride (100 mile) the very next day. And we became very good friends.

Last year, she moved away to pursue her dream career and I’ve missed her ever since. I especially miss training with her. I miss her determination and the way she shouted “Hell yeah!” after reaching a new milestone. I miss her goofiness and spontaneous laughter. I miss her loud running outfits, headband obsession, and enthusiastic “Let’s do it!” to life in general.

Last Friday on the phone, we lamented that we didn’t get to ride together anymore. So she called me back later and said, “I’m coming out on Tuesday, we’re riding on Wednesday, and I’m heading home again on Thursday so I can get to class on Friday. Think Shan will let me borrow her bike?” And that’s how it went down. She arrived last night after 6 hours on the Mega bus, we put in a solid 45 miles on one of our favorite trails in picture perfect weather today (but alas, no pictures were taken), we had dinner this evening with Jeff (an excellent vegan chili as she likes her food HOT), and she’s leaving tomorrow. Shan is meeting us for breakfast after she gets off work so she can get her own hugs and hellos in before heading off to bed for her ‘night’.

One of the things I’d forgotten about riding with Jess is how well we ride together. That’s a rare and beautiful thing. Our pacing is synchronized, we anticipate each other’s movements, and the conversation and silences are comfortably organic. We just flow. Something I’ve learned is that no matter how much I enjoy cycling by myself – and I enjoy it a lot – I enjoy cycling with her more. I am lucky to have many people I can ride with locally, but those hours and hours and hours we spent training together that first summer gelled something special between us and I’m grateful to have experienced it. May she and I ride again together soon.


A week ago I got back from a trip to the Pacific Northwest to help my closest friend move into a new apartment. It is, for the record, wonderful. Near the water, the view – especially at night – is enchanting, overlooking a large twinkling metropolis of glass and steel. Her bedroom and the book-filled guest room are separated by a sun-drenched living room. The cheery kitchen, dining and storage area holds more spectacular wine than I’ll likely drink in a lifetime. It was hard to leave the sunny patio during the perfect spring days we had.

The night before I came home though, something odd happened. I still don’t know how to make sense of it except to know that my mind was trying very hard to tell me something and it was determined to be listened to. As I was falling asleep, the word Nourishment kept bubbling up into my thoughts for no reason that I could put my thumb on.

Like the good counselors we were trained to be, relationships fascinate my friend and me. It’s who we are. It’s what we do. So we often talked during that week about relationships, taking care of ourselves, when (and when not) and how (and how not) to care for others, protecting our emotional and mental selves from situations outside of our control, what we needed and what we needed to avoid, how and when to step back, and seeing situations for what they are as opposed to how we wanted them to be or how they had once been. I loved having so much time to talk uninterrupted with her. It felt like our grad school days again when everything was new and terrifying and wondrous and bursting with potential.

On the seven hours of plane rides home, Nourishment kept popping up unbidden as I looked out the window, reclined with an audiobook, rested. Anytime my conscious mind began to wander, Nourishment, and sometimes its partners in confusion Nourish or Malnourished, would pop up like a reminder – only, like Neville in the first Harry Potter book, I had no idea what it was I was forgetting. This was my auditory Rememberall.

Once I landed and had roughly unpacked my backpack into piles on the floor, and I lay down exhausted in bed, it began whispering again: nourish, nourishment, malnourished. Knowing I wanted to make sense of it but also that I was too tired to think clearly, I wrote up a quick tweet to the effect of – weird, but so this is happening – and slipped into oblivion knowing I could think better on it in the morning. It garnered no attention, because let’s be honest Why would it?, and I forgot about it too as the to-do’s and tasks of being home after a week away kicked into high gear. By Thursday though, I was thinking about it on and off, playing with it, watching for the things that popped into my head alone and when interacting with others.

So as I got started on what turned out to be a truly amazing dinner of pan-fried pork chops with brandied cherry sauce and oven-roasted cauliflower, I let myself mull things over. And things began to fall into place.

I thought about the frequent knot in my stomach after reading things on or after posting to social media, which has long been a source of stress but also sometimes of connection and keeping up with ideas and people far away. It was too easy to ignore though that often, social media with its daily outrage and sarcasm, its frequent disingenuousness and circle-jerk tendencies, its flavor of the day and pile-on justice, its preference for witticisms over wisdom and clamor over kindness, leave me feeling emptied and wary, in a word malnourished.

I again felt the force of a No unexpectedly snapped at me, instead of the Thanks, but no thanks, that I would have expected. My desire to offer (or in this case, re-re-offer) was not perceived/received as the affectionate gift of my skills and time that I had intended, but as a re-gifted and inedible fruitcake to be avoided. I admit that it feels good at this point in my life to be able to physically, financially, and logistically offer to help out when people I care about express stress over a situation. I can see the selfish side of that. But I guess it can feel – well, I don’t know exactly how it felt because it wasn’t said – cloying, mothering, suffocating, pompous, or maybe just fucking annoying sometimes. Instead of nourishing a friendship, my ill-conceived offer left me with stomach pain, a deep sense of shame at offering, and probably some resentment on their side.

I recognized the dangers of falling too far off my training schedule in the last couple months. The lack of regular and sustained movement, the not uncommon reduction from three times a week to two in the gym due to ‘circumstances’, some forced rest from shoulder, elbow and knee pain caught up with me. Yet it’s these very physical activities that not only keep my body strong, my immune system high, and my energy levels soaring, they are also part of the nourishment I need to sustain the emotional resiliency and mental clarity that I’ve grown used to. It’s time I got back to working out consistently again.

Many simple and some difficult things flooded my thoughts afterwards. Things that I saw I needed more (or less) of in life. Behaviors that could be eliminated or changed for the better. Things to nourish myself with as I pick my way along personally, relationally and career-wise. Beliefs that need to be re-evaluated. Things to fill-in my areas of self-neglect. Habits that should be supported or dropped. Things to push back the likelihood that simply hearing a song, let alone an entire album, by Julian Baker will cause tears to begin streaming unchecked down my face.

Because sometimes that’s just how it is

A pot of 5 hour spaghetti sauce is simmering away in the oven, some pasta for boiling is at the ready, a vat of homemade chicken broth is condensing on the stovetop, and I’m eating a bowl of Cheerios with 2% milk for dinner because it’s most perfect thing I can imagine right now. The pasta and sauce will make a nice batch of lunches for the rest of the week. The broth will get divided up and dropped into the freezer for as-needed use.

But this odd It’s golf league night for Jeff dinner? Sometimes that’s just how it is.