Another Army Ten Miler Down

It seems that for the past decade-plus, my life has been measured by Army Ten Milers. I used to count by deployments, but that got both depressing and confusing. Somehow along the way my annual milestone of choice became the huge race that starts and finishes at the Pentagon and every year draws tens of thousands of friends and fellow service members from all over the world in one big show of camaraderie.

Or stress and nerves, which is what I most often felt. I have never run the ATM for fun, or by myself. I’ve always been outfitted in a team jersey, glued to my watch, worn down by the complicated logistics of team travel, and a ball of nerves generally. I had run the race several times, I remember, before Michelle- who runs it for fun every year, and enjoys it immensely- said something about how great it was that the race ran by all the monuments. I was dumbfounded. I had no idea what the course looked like. I had always been focused on the watch, the pavement, and the runner behind me.

That said, ATM weekends always had happy memories too. Generally once the race was over. There were lots of surprise run-ins with old friends and celebratory post-race nights at Murphy’s. There was the year my Bragg team almost got cheated out of our trophy and Jackie grabbed it and ran off the stage. The year I feuded with the coach over our post-run beer habit, and then beat her by minutes in a resounding moral victory. The year Michelle won an Irish car bomb- drinking contest when she was (unwittingly) pregnant with Scott. The year we won, stayed out all night, and had to drag ourselves hungover to the AUSA convention at 7 the next morning for an awards presentation, reeking of beer and desperate for water- which, post 9/11, was prohibited in the convention center. The year of the hilarious and unfortunate chain of events at Murphy’s that resulted in the nickname “drunk monkey” for our most straightlaced, Catholic team member (now a mother of two.) The year Kala tried to start a bar fight, all 92 pounds of her. The year I was the captain and coach and learned the true meaning of “pride” when my team won after a tough season of juggling deployments and schools and long training events.   

Yes, as much as I said I hated it, through deployments and PCSes and relationship ups and downs and even a career change, the Army Ten Miler had always been there. And this year was no different. Except that it was. I was in the worst shape of my life. It had not been a good year for running. I still had a team, but it was an odd, loosely affiliated group of ragtag runners in Belvoir jerseys that had no camaraderie and no chance of winning. But it was still the ATM, and it was important to me, and Seth had foregone some hunting trip or other to be there.  Actually, at the last minute, he had decided on a whim to hand cycle it with the wounded warriors, never having actually hand biked. I was worried about impending disaster, impressed as always by his casual "can do" attitude, and exceptionally proud that Team Nieman was going to tackle this thing together.

 And tackle it we did. Thanks to a badly-timed team meetup and a major security snafu, I didn’t get to see Seth on his handbike at all (the wounded warriors started early and finished waayyyy before us.) He apparently did a terrific job and had a good time doing it. I barely made the end of my wave start after having waited in line to be patted down at security (seriously, that’s necessary when I’m clad mostly in spandex?!) My race started off slow and got slower, and at mile 8 I very seriously considered quitting. Then again, I think I always consider that at mile 8. I finished almost 4 minutes slower than ever before, and was tempted to be depressed about it until I decided on a back pat instead. After the year we had both had, Seth and I eked out those ten miles like champs, and that was something that could not be reflected in finish times.

We would both get back in shape, but we were doing pretty well, all things considered. I was proud of us. And of all the years of ups and downs and good finishes and bad finishes and mediocre finishes… the best finish of my life was this one, because I heard a familiar voice call my name, and Seth lifted me up over the barriers for a hug, having stowed his handbike and walked over half a mile back to the finish to see me come in. As milestones go, this ATM marked the best, craziest, toughest, and most rewarding in my life, and I was the happiest I had ever been, even without a team and a win. It was crazy to think that, when I sat out last year’s race- my first to do so, but Charlottesville didn’t have a team and I was pouting because I had had to leave Bragg- I had biked to the finish line from Belvoir and visited friends and been sad and talked to Seth about it that night when he called from Afghanistan. That seemed like lifetimes ago, but here we stood, on the finish line, happy and grateful just to be there together. (And, OK, at least one of us was thrilled to have the damned race over with. But still. Serious “we’ve come a long way” moment.)

Belvoir, predictably, won nothing, and I didn’t see most of the team after the race. There was no reason to wait around for awards, a kind of disappointing first for me, but it did save hours. We hung out for awhile with Michelle and Susan, who had run with the amazing organization TAPs in honor of Paul, and headed out for celebratory brunch and beers with the Trimbles. Another ATM down.

Since fitness seems to be the theme this week, there are two photos of the week, both of our already-athletic little nieces!

This first is of Lisa and Nat, who braved freezing cold temperatures to do a local 5k. I’m so proud of my sis-in-law for not letting a crazy schedule and being a single parent while Ben’s deployed get in the way of her fitness goals!

And here’s the little rock star-in-training Lehua with our brother-in-law Daniel, who somehow managed to find an ice rink in Hawaii!