Mira Runs An Ultra

My cousin died on Tuesday. A brilliant man riddled by years of addiction and mental illness, he was just two weeks shy of his 30th birthday. I think I’ve been dreading that call for years now, watching him from a distance unravel across the internet, praying for my Aunt and Uncle, who did every last thing that a parent could to save their child. But for the grace of god go I, in real time. There’s a sound, that regardless of the age of the child, be it 8 days, 26 years, 50 years… a common sound of a parent who has found out their heart has shattered outside of their chest. It wakes me up out of my sleep now. Hamilton Movie needed a trigger warning, Eliza shrieked so perfectly. The thought that I may one day be that parent, or the thought of hearing it again, on a call, or in my family, it creates anxiety in me, a helpless rage that is both paralytic and frenetic. I’ve always believed that love is the only thing, the great healer, but this week has shown me that sometimes love just isn’

Well, I've registered for my race.  It's. All. Happening.  This feels large.  What's funny is that I have registered for big races that didn't happen. Before CRPS, when I was the only one putting limits on what was possible for me.  At some level, the indignity of someone else telling me what was and was not possible moving forward was just too much to accept, but the truth is I have spent so many years living small. Maybe it's being in my 40s, that magical time when you can't really trust a fart, and the chin hairs come with a vengeance, and every moment you get to keep living is steeped in an authenticity that defies anyone's attempts at labels, boxes and boundaries.   I am ME. Fuck off. I do what I want. Because I know now that Alice was so right. 6 impossible things before breakfast. 6 impossible steps that I shouldn't be able to take. 6 reps of a weight that's "too heavy". 6 breaths that are a gift.

The year is 1989. I'm in 6th grade, peak tween awkward with new glasses, a tripod bob (if you know, you KNOW the pain of getting those bangs fipped on all three sides of your forehead), and smelly gym clothes on.   It's the mile run. I. Do. Not. Run. I'm a skier, an equestrian, I hike only under duress, covered in Avon Skin So Soft, black flies and seething resentment at my parents, and there is no way I'm about to let my classmates know how bad I am at ANYTHING.  The buzzer goes off, and I take a step. A petulant, slow, walking step. I made it my mission that day to walk the mile run as slow as I possibly could.   Later, in high school, my bestie and I repeat this performance, and then sneak off to the smoking corner across the street for a butt before our next class. My friend L, not only an honors student, but a soccer star as well, took us running the mile path in the center of town one rainy afternoon. I outwardly suffered, but recall loving the feeling of the rai

Why would any human choose to run 50 kilometers? One after the other? Particularly, a 40-something woman, with a job and a family, and a chronic pain condition that comes with a doctor telling this woman "all you can hope for is 30 minutes on the elliptical"? Hi, I'm Mira. The very best way to get to me to do anything is to tell me that I can't do that thing.  I was told that I could not hope to live the active, outdoor, high-impact life that I was accustomed to, following a 'routine' arthroscopic hip labrum repair surgery in July of 2018 that left me with CRPS in my right leg. In that moment an anger bubbled up into my throat, a rage at this attempt to define the limitations of my life. I held his gaze, and in my best Cartman voice declared, "I DO WHAT I WANT".  This blog will chronicle what living inside that hope looks like.  July 2019 - the first time I backpacked again after my surgery. Bridger was less impressed that I walked more than a mile