Shari and I kicked in the after-burners for a final bit of speed work and cruised into the parking lot.  Elizabeth and Kathy had arrived back at the cars a few minutes prior and joined Beth in stretching.  Our other Beth, “Beth of the Infinite Legs”, couldn’t stay for coffee and had just left with her neighbor.

As we stood around the parking lot exuding our stink on to each other, Sarah voiced thoughts that have percolated in my brain many times over the seasons.  She summed it up so well.  “It is so amazing to be a part of this group, where there are so many levels of ability and no one gets left behind.  Any one of us could lead the pack.”

Shari finished the sentiment – “It just depends on the day, that’s all.  What’s really amazing is there’s no ego.”

There were murmurs of agreement.  So many different ability levels, people who have raced for years, new runners, post-baby runners, new racers… we have a good mix.

I thought about this little exchange all weekend; in fact, it came to define the run for me.  The women in the group ARE strong.  It’s an absolute privilege to run with them.  Sarah has been with the group a few times, as her weekends are full and she’s not always around.  Shari travels so much that it’s always a treat to run with her when she’s in town.  Siga started running with us a few months ago after a several year hiatus.  Juli has ten years worth of racing under her belt, including Ironman.  Kathy is the glue that binds us together, suggesting runs even when she’s going to be out of town.  Elizabeth is stronger than she knows and has an uncanny knack for bringing humor and a fresh perspective every week.  Jacqueline keeps us on our toes, calling back to her to “watch out for the rock” or “pick up your feet, Jacq!”  She sports more band-aids than any adult I know.  Susan is a veritable workhorse, and can power up a hill like nobody’s business.  Heidi hasn’t been with us for a few weeks because she’s training for her next half-Ironman.  Her husband introduced himself to the group at a coffee shop one morning, and asked if she could come along.  She was new to the area and didn’t know any runners yet.

And yet, with all that strength and absolute stamina, there is no ego.  We don’t race each other on Saturdays and there’s no “pecking order”.  I’ve run and talked with everyone over the months, and run every position in the group.  Sometimes people are intimidated to run with us; I know I was when I first started.  But here’s the thing; no one gets left behind and it’s because no one is here to prove themselves.  We’re all out there running because we want to be together and there’s coffee afterward, which means more time for talking.

I look forward to these runs all week long.  If I don’t run on Saturday my entire weekend feels wonky.  The exercise is great, but there’s more; Saturday mornings are about absolute acceptance and non-judgment.  I can show up to a run and be mostly silent, stewing in my own thoughts.  I can be hyper and strong, or slow and steady.  I could be recovering from an injury or illness (like last week) and hear someone say “Hey, I’m so glad you’re back, are you feeling better?  I really missed you!”  I could have the world’s worst stink to me and still have a running partner.  Each of us carries emotional pieces of the other, snippets that have been shared over the miles and weeks and seasons we’ve been together.  Saturday morning is bonding, perspiration, a total lack of masking.

I love each and every woman that I run with.  I could write an entry about all of them, about the amazing character, strength, and utter beauty each of them carries.  I absolutely draw strength from the group, from the energy that the women weave when they’re together.  I am honored to be a part of this group that meets at 7 AM on a different trail each week, and I am thrilled to know that other women in the group are just as awed by the magic we create when we’re together.  So, to all you amazing women I run with; thank you.

I woke up feeling grateful. A lot of people take Thanksgiving for granted; I used to be that way and was flat-out irritated by the ritual of spending all day cooking food that was consumed in ten or fifteen minutes, only to sit around for the rest of the day feeling tired and gluttonous.

As I start my morning routine I mentally question what I’m most grateful for this year. I have a grab-bag full of possibilities, and want to think about my answer before I bring up the subject with my family later in the morning.

Maybe I’m more emotional about holidays because I’m getting older. Maybe it’s because I have children and we watch The Peanuts Thanksgiving and talk about the meaning of coming through hard times and giving thanks by sharing a meal. Maybe it’s because the economy sucks and I’m reminded daily of the things that we have and the things that we can get along without. Maybe it’s because I’ve wrestled with my health so much these past few years and I’m coming to understand what a gift it is to HAVE good health. Maybe it’s because a few of my friends’ children have had health or medical issues that make me so aware of the good health and fortune of my own kids. Maybe it’s because we still have money coming in every month and I’m grateful that we’re not in a position to have to give up our house or file for bankruptcy. Maybe it’s a combination of all of it. I don’t think it matters why I’m so sensitive about it, though my analytical side can’t help but ponder these questions as I run through the hills.

We have a huge group that’s assembled at the Doudy Draw trailhead. Susan and I pull into the parking lot and gape at the sheer number of cars. I haven’t ever seen this many vehicles on a Thanksgiving morning in one place. As we’re gathering in the parking lot and adjusting gear, a trio of women head out on the trail before us. Thanksgiving in Boulder seems to begin with a steady hour of exercise with friends. I like it.

The newly completed trail adds about ten minutes to the run, making the total mileage 7.35 miles by my Garmin GPS. The time it takes to run this varies person by person. I usually do it in a little over an hour, but today might be different.

I love this new trail. The first two miles wind around the side of the hill instead of taking us down into the gully. It’s less rocky this way and more scenic actually, because we can see the sunrise to the east and the bright yellow rays of light touching the hill to the west. I don’t spend all my time watching my feet and can viscerally appreciate the run with my other senses.

Susan, Bernadette and I are in the front of the pack. The dirt trail and the valley bounce the sound of our footsteps in a different way from the Whiterock trail we were on last Saturday. On that trail, the sound of the footsteps is apparent only from the trail. Here, because of the gentle rise of the hills, the echo of our footsteps surrounds us and lingers in the air.

As we start of the dirt-packed trail Bernadette’s chatter ceases. I listen to the distinct cadence of her feet. She’s a slight person, not much over ninety pounds, and stands about five foot two. Her stride length is shorter than mine but she has a faster turnover. On a downhill or a straightaway we’re a matched set; on the uphill I have more power in my frame and can muscle my way up faster.

Soon the sound of her footsteps is replaced by a more insistent cadence. The person attached to those feet sounds heavier and taller, and a lot more muscular. The sound of her inhale is deeper; when the breath comes out again the noise has a deeper resonance.

I’m transported by the sound of the footsteps and how I can tell who it is. Everyone has a different stride length, a different body mass of fat and muscle, a different way of landing. Some strides have a hesitation in them and some have a veritable insistence, like the one behind me. An epiphany flashes through my brain and I realize that I am utterly and profoundly grateful for my feet.

Back in May I dropped a twenty-five pound piece of flagstone pointy end down in the middle of my bare foot. Miraculously, nothing was broken and there was no nerve damage. I was waylaid for five weeks, on crutches for two weeks, and worried I wouldn’t run again for months. A homeopathic remedy of castor oil and flannel pulled the swelling out of my foot and sped the healing process to something my orthopedic surgeon friend had never seen.

My feet carry me wherever my brain wants to go. They’re always there for me, willing and able silent partners that don’t ask more than a good pair of supportive running shoes. When I was injured I was exquisitely aware of my lack of mobility. Now that my body is in good working order I’m grateful and thankful for the health and full range of functions.

On this day of Thanksgiving I’m going to focus on one aspect of what I’m thankful for. There are SOOOOO many things, all of them wonderful, but to go into them all would be extremely tangential and difficult for you and me both. Suffice it to say that I experienced a loss of foot function for a good five weeks, and today I’m thankful for two perfectly working feet that carry me wherever my heart desires. Thank you feet, for all that you do, every day, without complaint. I wouldn’t be here without you.