Author: Sloan

A Much Needed Breath

/ Sloan / Leave a comment

The morning came and I ran. The streets of Grand Rapids were damp from an early morning rain, the river black, only because it was not yet past sunrise, and fluid because the rapids have slowly been let loose. 5:26am the Tuesday of a long week was ahead of me and I ran to clear my head. I’ve yet to run any miles consistently since my injury, I’ve yet to feel good since my injury, but the feeling of familiar streets under my feet was comforting. A bit of rain fell to cool me.

 I ran passed the park, passed my old gym, along the dumpy streets I used to call my own in G-Rap. On my way back I passed the 6th Street Bridge, a bridge designed for many modes of transportation: train tracks embedded, a road for cars, a smooth sidewalk for bikes, and the whole thing is boardwalk. Two by fours pieced together with nails for my pleasure. If you know me at all, and you know my running at all, you know that I love to run across boardwalks. I dream of designing a 5k race all on boardwalk so that other runners could maybe experience the feeling of raw, grainy wood underfoot and appreciate the hallow sound it makes are you step step step across. Swiftly, quickly, fluidly over the bridge to cross a river beneath is blissful. That Tuesday morning I ran across the bridge in the dark, unsatisfied I ran back across to return to Monroe Avenue, there and back gave me my fill of boardwalks for the early morning.

My run was interrupted by needing to walk, stretch and hope that my bones hold and remain strong without re-injuring. Frustrating, but it was good to be outside and moving. I made my way back to the hotel and was out of the shower before my roommate even woke. It was a good start to long week that was then clouded by copious amounts of information, schmoozing and boozing, dancing and working.

Throughout the week I made it back to the bridge multiple times. Walks with co workers while on breaks were the breaths of fresh air needed to clear my head and bring myself back to the ‘now’. The two by fours underfoot were a destination and a turnaround point, always pausing to look over the railing at the never still water of the Grand River. Always on the move. Always pushing forward to find what’s next.

Buckets of Sweat

/ Sloan / 5 Comments

My sweat glands always decide to release all at once. I don’t sweat much during the day, even when I go for a run, unless I’m doing sprints I don’t really sweat a lot. But when I do other sports, sports that I don’t think I can do well and then I succeed, well, I sweat. I sweat the success. I think my body hits a button, the adrenaline, holy shit I just climbed that rock, button. And I start to sweat, and because of my smile I taste it and the saltiness tastes good.

This past weekend I spent in Ashland, Oregon visiting my awesome big brother, Zane. In the past few weeks he’s gotten super into rock climbing and decided to spread the love when we rented shoes and hit the trail at Rattlesnake to climb some rocks. I’m not very good. I’m not horrible, but I’m not very good. I sat around the majority of the day lacking the confidence to try many routes, watched the boys climb, and enjoyed the Oregon sunshine. Finally, Zane found me a 5.8 to top rope. It was a short little thing, but it was a challenge for a novice like me.

 “On belay?”

 “Belay on,”

 “Climbing,”

“Climb on, sistah!!” and off I went. Falling, slipping, getting my fingers stuck in holds I thought I could use. Never once did my brother stop the encouragement, never once did I believe him when he said he knew I could do it! He was a voice of power from below. A voice I needed to get me a few inches higher off the ground.

Finally, what seemed like hours later, the sweat came. The sweat that felt like it could fill buckets, the sweat that got me up the rest of the rock, the last few hold, I touched the anchor and looked down at my brother—his smile was as big as mine, his effort was just as needed as my effort. His encouragement got me up the rock; along with my muscles!

This was just one moment, of many, that I had over the weekend where accomplishment seemed so far away. By doing, pushing and finding out what I am capable I’ve brought it back with me to the east coast. I CAN step up my work outs, I CAN power through and succeed, I CAN beat this damn stress fracture and bounce back even stronger!

Go out and do something you don’t think you can. Take an encouraging person with you and use each other, feed off each other’s support and positive words. You CAN do it, put your head down and power through—I know you can finish!

Water Sounds the Same Everywhere

/ Sloan / 1 Comment

Dad and I wake before school and notice the sun cresting over the horizon. Melting backwards above the water line, shining pink, purple and peaches over the water. Early mornings call for low voices, as if we talked any louder it would disturb the peace, so we whisper. The lake laps the sand, kissing it good morning.

Sitting on the beach on the edge of Lake Huron at 2 in the morning we listen to the fresh water lap on shore, the blanket under us and the moon bright above out heads, just our voices and the water. 17 years old, I felt rebellious being outside with a guy, my dad asleep at the house and the lake as beautiful as can be.

That same beach three years earlier, a small fire and remnants of marshmallows and Hershey wrappers, giggling girls worrying about soccer games, boys and finals week. We were a club that didn’t do anything special. We were watching the crescent moon rise, the stars fall and at 3am the Northern Lights peak above the horizon in an eerie glow that danced to the rhythm of the waves.

Lake Michigan: the other side of the state and bit further south. Eating ice cream with a man I’d later call my boyfriend—the conversation ranging from our pasts, to the confusion of the future. The lake laps laps laps and talks back to us. Months later we call it quits near that same beach. The water listens and doesn’t take sides.

The ocean. I live in the Mid Atlantic now and recently found myself on the beach at 1:30am wrapped in a Mexican blanket having one of those conversations; we talk about the greatness of having paddle boarded this morning, the uncertainties of jobs, relationships, life and decisions that need to be made sooner rather than later. The ocean laps too, the moon shines bright over head and the stars fall just the same as they do over the Great Lakes.

We whisper while putting the kayaks in the salty water, afraid to wake neighbors or disturb the osprey’s nest that is being built not far off shore. Hot coffee (with a nip of Kaluha) is bungeed in front of each of us, PB and Jelly sandwiches in a dry sack for later—we watch the sun rise over the Atlantic, we listen to the lapping of the waves and I notice as drops of water drip off my paddle. I propel myself through the oily water in a smooth cadence. Perfection in a silent sunrise. I’ve  learned that water sounds the same everywhere. Water and water people come together and create something great.