Juggling baseball games, and bike races, Big Sis and I tried to schedule a run together while she was in town. She was trying to do me a favor in the sisterly kind of way, but as it turned out, Sis needed to run a lot more than I did.
We met at my house, changed, and left the kids with her husband, Carlos. Again, pushed for time, we quickly headed out to the ranch for a hill run. Time was limited, as we had dinner reservations to take my Mom out for an early Mother’s Day feast.
Out of the van, we were running almost as soon as our feet hit the dirt. By the time we hit the uphill portion of the run Big Sis had changed her tune. No longer was she cheering, “Hurray! We *finally* are running together.” Instead, her own version of loss, sadness, and frustration began to pour out. She began venting, slow and careful at first. The first of many stories came as we worked the hill.
We continued upwards. Her words began to flow out with more fluidity. It seemed that the story was picking up speed and intensity, and Sis’ steps kept pace with ease. With Sis just a few steps ahead of me, I was working to keep up. I strained to follow the story, trying hard not to interrupt her, ever aware of it’s importance. I was also acutely aware that we were not in my long run pace. My body was straining to keep up.
Periodically, in the middle of the story, Sis would offer some tips on form. “Use your upper body,” she would say, and then she would return to her story. It almost didn’t register as different. I tried to find the context to the story. By the time I figured it out, she was back with another serious of helpful hints. But I was cooked, and I was fine with my efforts. I would have blocked her out to focus on the hill, but the rest of the story was to follow.