Running. A love letter to lacing up.

Somedays, I just feel so damn lucky to be a runner. Yes, absolutely lucky. For those who say “bah, I only run if I’m being chased,” or “...sometimes on the soccer field” you could stop reading now. This might not be your thing. For my fellow runners: those wonderful people clad in too-short of shorts and mismatched neon, sweaty and chafed in all the weird spots, and endlessly chasing PRS and the esteemed runner’s high...this one is for you.

I realize I’m off the trail of whatever vaguely-defined direction this blog was going to follow in its beginning, but, it wouldn’t be a “Kerry-blog” without a post or two about running. 

Running is freedom.


It’s the time in the day to look forward to, knowing that once the shoes are laced up and begin pounding the pavement, the day’s anxieties and absurdities fall away. Somedays it’s a LSD day (ahem, long slow distance day, even with my tendency to be a little trippy), where you pick the pretty routes, find a rhythm, and simply roll with it. Somedays it’s a grit it out kind of day, where you’re either just “running really freaking fast" or participating in the love-hate relationship of speedwork on the track. Then, of course, there's that small masterpiece and gut check, the race. Whatever its form, the run is a minor escape from the clatter of the day and a few moments of freedom from daily demands.

Perhaps a draw to running is its purity and simplicity. There’s a bit of wildness in tearing across pavement, the sand, or a muddy trail. There's also a singleness of mind that is tough too find today, only present when 100% involved in something and unencumbered by distraction. Shoes, you, and a probably some clothes is all that's required. Or, perhaps you’re streaking and don’t need anything at all, a truly exhilarating moment in running, and freedom at its finest. (WAHOO WAH, U.Va and our traditional Lawn streaking).

In the end, and every runner understands this at the core, there is no space for excuses. There is only a body in motion and acceptance of whatever decisions made before a test. People get fancy with running apps, running gels, and heart rate monitors, but good runners knows when it’s time to ditch them.

On a track, it’s quite simple. You either conquer the long oval, or it conquers you. It’s an ongoing war with many hard fought battles. The heartbreak and the accomplishments are our own, and the victories quieter than most. And those quiet victories, when the only finishing tape you’ve broken is your own? Those can be the sweetest.

I could go on about my love for running for pages, so I'll stop for now. Nobody enjoys the sport of running at first. It’s like one of those people you have to get to know over time, in order to reveal whatever he or she has to offer.

10+ years ago: UGGGGHHHHH,” what did I get myself into?!?” I gasped, soon after crossing my first high school cross country race finish line at Bells Mill Park in Chesapeake, Virginia. It was a sincerely miserable experience. I don’t remember much of that race in itself, just the sharp shadow of pain and thinking along the lines of: “how the hell do these people run so fast?...this hurts a lot....catch that swinging ponytail ahead....thank goodness for Aubrey’s mom’s cookies at the end.” (I’m serious about the cookies. They’re truly the best).

I stuck with it for the year, though, and I think a dedicated year is what it takes to get adjusted to almost anything. I loved my teammates, my goofy yet genuine coach, and the thrill of competition. Once you’ve become a part of the game, it’s hard to leave it.

However, the year I fell in love with running was the year it seemed the rest of my life fell apart. Tough things and craziness ensued after the move with my family to Pecnsacola, Florida in 10th grade. This, along with the normal tumult of the teenage years, was a lot to handle as a 15-year-old. Therefore, I literally ran away from my problems. I logged hundreds of miles along the sandy beaches and on the base’s wooded trails. In the summertime, I’d wake up before the sun to avoid the suffocating deep south heat. I'd jump in the ocean after a lot of my runs.












Competitively, I didn’t PR once. I didn’t even participate in the track season. I was a fine runner, but couldn’t really pull it together in the heat, or in my head. Running for yourself, though, is when running transitions into something beyond sport.

There are various stages in running, with some overlap or returns back to previous stages. Jeff Galloway, a renowned runner and researcher, presents one way of looking at here: 5 Stages of a Runner . I suppose I returned to Competitor Stage when I returned home to my team at Oscar F. Smith High School. (My mom, sis, and I moved back to Virginia for junior and senior year). Running became 100% ‘my thing'. No longer would I “skip out” on my weekend runs. During track season, I’d request extra sets or sprinters to pace with in intervals, oftentimes running solo around an asphalt track.

As I might have mentioned...I loved it. I loved the adrenaline, the excitement, the performance, and the camaraderie. People in the running world are grand. Runners tend to be the most genuine and optimistic people you’ll come across. Even amongst rivals, there’s usually a great spirit. Oftentimes, I’d fall into sweaty hugs with my toughest competitors after a race, when moment’s before we were hunting each other down and throwing elbows. There’s a unique bond and an appreciation for a race well run, whether it’s your own or another’s.

End high school, end competitor stage.

Except not really. It takes time to transition into “Runner” stage again. I had a new, (fast!) team to run with at the University of Virginia, and was still pretty locked-in to competitor mode. Virginia Club Cross Country was a defining feature of my collegiate experience and a wonderful piece of my time at U.Va. My memories with them are the sweetest. I cried, no bawled, when I watched our 5th runner cross the finish line at our National Championship race in 2012, knowing we’d taken the victory. I’d never been that emotional after one of my own races.

When you’re truly a runner, running spills into life in all kinds of ways. Sometimes in funny ways: running home in heeled boots after bars with your runner friend (always seemed like a good idea at the time), lacing up your shoes and running to class with a notebook because you’re late, literally running errands, looking over to giggle/grimace at your friend on a Sunday 9-miler as you questioned last night’s decisions, finding it normal to lay down with your legs vertical against a wall to move the lactic acid around, or while the rest of UVa talked about J. Crew and Vineyard Vines, we compared our Asics to our Sauconies.

Running also affects us in more significant ways. We reached corners of Charlottesville that the majority of students never saw. We planned days around practice or our “run times.” Clarity, calm, and creativity...these are the things my teammates and I found through excellent runs. Running together, we bonded over miles of endorphin-infused conversations, or perhaps in silence as we ran next to our partner, matching pace and rhythm with no excess of words required.

Every runner comes at running with different motivations and talent levels, different quirks and tendencies in their biomechanics, and different levels of commitment. The unexplainable parts of running are what keeps it colorful. There’s both a science and an art to it. Some will never leave the jog-around-the-neighborhood stage, and that’s cool too. No two runners are the same. However, most of us share that universal runner nod when we pass each other on the sidewalk, an unequivocal understanding passed between people with thousands of miles on their shoes.

Finally, and I do mean "finally" because this is such a long post, when someone says “running is boring,” I smile and shut down. Come back and tell me running is boring after you’ve run yourself into the ground, where your blood courses through your limbs like battery acid and you’ve smacked head-on into the proverbial wall. Try a late night December run, where Xmas lights light up the cold, crisp air. Tear up a snow-encrusted, leaf-covered mountainside, because the world makes more sense on top of a mountain. Stride down a beach and into the waves at sunrise. Get lost in a big city or on the trails that surround it. Seek out runs in stormy weather, rather than shying away from them. Let it become your craft, the thing that makes you feel most alive.

I have many, but one of my all-time favorite running memories took place on a morning run in New Orleans. It was eerily quiet and peaceful on the streets, the sky a cloudy gray-blue. As I ran down the seawall, I came across a man with a trumpet, playing a tune oddly upbeat and sorrowful at the same time. Before that moment, I’d been disappointed by the lack of good music I’d heard in New Orleans. I stopped to listen for a few minutes, and he looked up to pause and give me a smile. We connected right then, respecting and appreciating each other’s pursuit of our chosen crafts. He went back to playing, and after a few moments I turned on my heels to be on my way.

Most of us have our own bit of crazy, our own passion that shapes how we see things. Perhaps the only true “craziness” is when someone ignores those things that set them on fire. RUNNING is only one of many lenses to look through, and it’s certainly not the end all be all. In fact, taking a few steps back from it brings a fresh appreciation, and allows other things to fill in the spaces its left. But running, my friends, has its major perks.

If you’re new to running or just getting into it, I hope you’ve been inspired by my ramblings to go outside and lace-up. If you’re a veteran, I hope you don’t forget to enjoy the ride sometimes.


Keep runnin’ peeps. I’ll catch you on the trails.



<PS>: Check out this really awesome, 2 minute film: What moves you? A film for runners, by runners.

Maine Trails

There are only two types of people in this world: those who climbedtrees as kids, and those who didn’t climb trees.”

A  few weeks ago, "my people" came to visit me.

By my people, I mean Kristy and Gail Kelley, my Aunt Nancy and Uncle Marc, and my cousins Nicole, Laurence, and Franz. Oh, and Luke Kelley, the pup too!

By my people, I also mean those who are always up for spontaneous adventures and whims; those who enjoy carrying on conversations that dance from travel plans to hydro-fracking to flying airplanes; those who are OK with my quirks, including uncanny klutziness and a “need” to run daily; and finally, those who are brimming with energy and fun, yet will sit back at the end of the day around a campfire, s’more or good beer in hand.

By my people, I often mean those who climbed trees as kids.

I didn’t realize how refreshing , and hilarious, it would be to be around family. While they were here, nothing went according to plan (ever), but we still had a blast. With so many people to coordinate, with so many different interests and ages, we were an especially lively, but slow-moving group. Wherever we went, we kept the people around us entertained.

On one of our bigger, planned adventures, we went rock climbing with the Atlantic Climbing School in Acadia National Park. Our two guides were wonderful, and the scenery stunning. We climbed a few different routes on Otter Cliffs, where the rocks overlooked the ocean and waves crashed along the shore below us. Our feet hit mossy and jagged rocks after each rappel. Truly, putting words to it is tough.

It was after our final climb, squeezed in right before our trip time ran out, when one of the guides asked me: "Kerry, why are you so good at this?”

From my position, where half my body was dangling over the cliff-face and the other half of me was flat on the ground, I looked up at him to smile with a shrug and said, “I don’t know. I guess I climbed a lot of trees when I was younger?”

He laughed and told Nicole and I that he was once traveling with a stranger, met on trip to Ecuador, who made the following claim:

“There are only two types of people in this world: those who climbed trees as kids, and those who didn’t climb trees.”

That notion has stuck with me, and I’ve been wrestling with exactly what it is that sets the tree-climbers apart from the non-tree-climbers. The thing is, I get it. I have the friends who I know will be game to climb a tree with me…or climb a goal post in Scott Stadium…or streak the Lawn at UVa…or take naps after geology in the grassy patch beside Clark library…or take-on whatever crazy, non-practical adventure comes our way.

It was only recently, on a boat ride, that I started getting into words a few of the differences.

The Tree-Climbers

…remember childhood as a wonderful, fleeting and outdoorsy time, not as a time when thumbs got worn-out and eyes bleary from too much screen time. The rate at which smartphones and TV are taking over kids’ childhoods in the US is alarming. Don’t get me wrong, I spent many an hour on N64 playing Super Mario, playing SIMS on the computer, and watching “Hey Arnold” or “The Wild Thornberries”; however, playing outside was usually the #1 priority.

The memories remembered most fondly are perhaps the ones most ephemeral, i.e., those we can’t press rewind and replay on to do over again. Rather, they’re the ones where we were most engaged with the world and, perhaps more importantly, with the people around us.

For me, a few that came forth from my collage of childhood memories are: exploring with my best friend as “a spy” in the woods of Annapolis, cruising all day on the water with my cousins on Lake Conesus, making mud pies on the shore, catching garden snakes in the creek, making obstacle courses out of hockey sticks and deck chairs, building sandcastles and "merpeople" on the beach, playing with fire and writing our names with sparklers, and endlessly daring each other to do stupid things, like hold barefoot running contests in the snow. My hope is my kids get to have similar experiences and don’t fall to the easy addiction of digital pastimes.

K. Off my soapbox now.

…are tougher than the rest. Bruised shins, skinned knees, stitches in the forehead, slivers and thorns in the fingers…it happened; however, you learned from the bumps and the bruises, and often took pride in the battle wounds.

A lesson learnt in Campfire 101: fires’ embers hold their heat from the night before if you don’t douse them with water (or pee on them, if that’s your style)…who knew? Fourth-grade Kerry didn’t. At my little bro’s Boy Scout camp out, I picked up a seashell from a “burned out” fire, scorched my hand, and yelped as I threw it across the dirt. I never did that again, and I learned how to re-stoke a fire for breakfast.

…take more chance, push more limits. My poor mother. She was so good at letting me get myself into predicaments. I saw her genuinely nervous only once, on one of my tree-climbing ventures in a tall pine tree; otherwise, she would be the last to call me in from going out too far in the water or sneaking too close to the edge of the rocks. I appreciate that a lot. That bit of risk-taking carries into the later years, I think.

For example: our rock-climbing guides. They’ve done a lot of cool things with their lives, like venture around South America finding all of the best spots to climb. That kind of endeavor certainly requires a willingness to jump into the unknown and to brave things we know only so much about. I give huge respect to people who have the courage to take the risks required to follow their passions and create paths beyond the ordinary.

…simply, have more fun. All work and no play does not make for a happy person. Even work becomes more fun when you allow play and creativity to seep in. I could think of examples in the 
adult world, sure, but I was recently remembering how much fun I had on my modeling jobs as a kid in Japan, when work didn’t feel like work at all.

On a photo shoot in an outdoor park, my friend and I were on a lunch break. We began by gingerly jumping across the dozen turtle-shaped stepping stones, which spanned across a river. Then, my friend began running across, back-and-forth. Unfortunately, my legs were a wee bit shorter than his.

On my first “miss,” one leg went into the water. On the next miss, I flat-out fell into the creek. “I’m in so much trouble,” I thought. We wandered back to the dressing room with impish grins, me dripping from head to toe. The hairdressers shook their heads, but laughed at us and mumbled things in Japanese as they used hairdryers to blowdry my hair and pink overalls.

…get perspective. Sitting in a tree all day gives you perspective. 

…share cool experiences with cool people. Friends are made and bonds are tightened when you share good experiences with each other, whether you’re out in the natural world or not. My good friends are always game to climb a tree.

...appreciate the little things. If you can get away for a bit from the stuff that bogs you down on the ground, you can notice the birds chirping and the way the sunlight peeks through the leaves. It gives you a greater sense of contentment. I think you have to enjoy the little things from where you are, just as much as the bigger, planned things.

…have a certain spark and excitement for life. The tree climbers are the people you like to be around. Instead of shaking their heads, they join in the fun and the ridiculousness. They don’t take themselves too seriously and they recognize that we could fall out of the tree at any moment. Might as well enjoy it all while you can. They smile more too. 

Perhaps "ground hogs" and "tree-climbers" is an oversimplified view of the world, but I kinda like the perspective from up here right now.

Post-class naps in the grass.

A note of thanks goes to my unofficial editor, Miss Sarah Turner, who shared her own tree-climbing stories after reading (my favorite part of it all)

Navigating Post Grad Life

I write this post thinking about my many friends and family members at the beginning of new chapters and decisions.

Some seemingly have it together, but most are still working it out. Nicole is figuring out how to become an environmentalist extraordinaire. Kristy (my sis) begins high school next month. Sarah just bought a one-way ticket to Boston to find a job, and Sharbear just upped and left to Denver with her boyfriend. Karquie is preparing for her 2nd year of teaching in Charleston. Kristina just donned her spiffy white coat for Virginia med school. Alexa begins married life. Erika just got engaged. Anna is weighing the differences between becoming a brilliant English professor or a superb family doctor. Jason is killin' it at Google. Racho is on the hunt for a kinesiology job. The list goes on.

I've had so many conversations over the past two years with friends, mentors, and residents about life after school. After 12+ years of following the straight and narrow, pre-defined direction laid out for us, we finally have to fact the "what do you want to do with your life?" question. Small question, infinite answers.

The funny thing is, it's a question we've had over us forever, if even in different forms. My fourth-grade art teacher asked us to draw a self-portrait of "what we want to be when we grow up." A few people seemed to have known their answer from an early age; I was not one of those "lucky" few. I painted myself as a "professional lacrosse player" because I was particularly enjoying running around a field in a plaid kilt, catching and cradling a lacrosse ball...and then also because my best friend had already taken "professional track runner." Other things I wanted to become: a Disney princess, an astronaut, an explorer (your guess is as good as mine), a spy, a dentist, a rock-climber, an author, an English teacher, and an architect.

Then the question became, "what do you want to go to school for?", which morphed into "how are you going to use your degree?" To my parents' dismay, I thought I wanted to go to school for an English degree. Then, for a short lived period, I wanted to transfer to A-school to become an architect. I ended up choosing a major that seemed more "practical" at the time: an interdisciplinary environmental degree focused on environmental policy. There was also a lot of science and economics, with a little philosophy and literature thrown in. I thought I might get into environmental law, work for the EPA or the DOI, or some kind of environmental business/technology company. Turns out, policy wasn't for me.

I got more out of my Leadership minor, where inspiring leaders from all different walks visited our class and gave us some pretty awesome insights, including their own stories. We studied people like Yvon Chouinard of Patagonia, Rachel Carson, and polar explorer Ernest Shackleton. A few of our speakers included a female army general, a pair of engineers behind Edison2 (an electric car), and a representative of a the Grameen Foundation, a pretty sweet microfinance company. My favorite speaker, though, was Mark Lorenzoni, manager of the beloved C'ville landmark and my own place of employment, Ragged Mountain Running shop. What we learned was so applicable to the groups we were a part of outside of the classroom. I think I often learned more from listening to these guys than from slogging it out for hours at the library. It was cool to apply, rather than only philosophize.
But, back to the heart of this meandering thought. Navigating that time after school can be rough.
I did not have it together after my original plan of becoming a Coast Guard Officer, something I'd hung my hopes upon, fell through. That lost, purposeless feeling, along with a number of other emotions and problems, made me to feel I was adrift in a Cat 5 hurricane. A loss of independence, leaving the support system I'd spent 4 years creating, and being away from the lively and vivacious Charlottesville were part of what shook me to my core. (You can read about my OCS rejection here, if you fancy: "Sunset Run, Rejection Run." )
I flailed around a bit. Actually a lot! My adventures in D.C. will have to be a post of their own because they're hilarious, in retrospect.

_________

These are my thoughts on how to make it through the storm. Don't take them as advice, as they are just observations. I'm no sage, that's for damn sure.


No one can make the decisions for you. Indecision is agonizing. We all reach our decisions in unique ways, and I find this a fascinating facet of human motivation. Some chase security, wealth, and comfort. Some are rational and logical. Attachments to significant others or strong family ties often make decisions for us. Sometimes decisions are based on fear. A handful of people will repeatedly do what they're "supposed" to do, while a few others will follow a greater purpose and intuition. In reality, all these factors affect us at different times and with different decisions. In the end, the decision to take responsibility of your decisions is the most liberating.

Think in 6 month time periods. Someone gave me this piece of wisdom when I was having a rough time. Six months, in the grande scheme, is nothing. As long as you're making efforts, it will get better. It doesn't rain forever, but take shelter under an umbrella for a bit if you need to, taking a few moments to enjoy the hard-found beauty of storm while you're at it.

Have fun after school. Really!!! This is a wild and new freedom that most of us haven't had in years. It's intimidating, even. My biggest regret is not using more of this time to continue traveling. I freaked out about my bank account after my original plan didn't work. In reality, I could have gone a bit longer with traveling cross country to different national parks/cities, visiting and staying with friends.

We are freshman at life. By the end of our 4 years at school, a lot of us were badasses. We definitely thought we "had our shit together." Unfortunately, it doesn't really matter so much afterwards. The only thing we can do is take what we learned from our experiences, and apply it to these new beginnings.

Great success follows great risk. Fact of life. Nike apparel is cheaply-made and overpriced (in my humble opinion), but they got it right with their cheesy but memorable "Just DO it" slogan. If that means moving to a new place and struggling to make ends meet for awhile, so be it. It takes a lot of courage to believe you'll figure it out.

Be humble and genuine, or get stuck. If we continuously put on an interview persona and show people what we think they want to see, we end up just where that takes us: a dead end or an ill fitting spot. Therefore, authenticity is paramount. Also, if you did manage to land a new position, it's a silly idea to pretend like you know what you're doing. You don't.

Pick out the passions and pursue them. The money will follow later.

Reality is gritty. Thinking and dreaming in the ideals is lovely. Those with an imagination go far, but reality can bite you too. If your head and heart are in the clouds, like mine often are, come back sometime! Those thoughts ought to eventually turn into actions, and you'll have to face the details when they do.

"Well done is better than well said." - Benjamin Franklin
If the door shuts, look for the open window. Cliché, sure. But so true. And yes, rejection hurts every time.

There's going to be an awkward stage. Freshmen are awkward. We have a lot to learn. We're going to fall on our face a few times and embarrass ourselves with our lack of competence in our beginning careers. However, when you do trip (figuratively, or literally in my case), just be sure to fall forward.

                    

No job choice will be perfect. You don't just choose a job, you choose a lifestyle. Not long ago, I'd make lists of things I wanted in my career: to help people, to work with kids, to work with/on/under the ocean, to have a chance to advance and grow, to travel, to be outside, to teach, to live in a sweet area, to write, to be able to use creativity, and to be surrounded by cool and like-minded people. No job can or will meet all the criteria. Recognize this, and we can stop looking for perfection.

Also, life outside of work can fill in the gaps. Nobody said we can't have oddball interests that don't line up with our chosen career path.

You can hop off the train at anytime. Perhaps you've given it a fair shot and allowed ample time for adjustment and stumbling, but it still stinks. Get off the train! It might be an easy transition. Maybe you'll be able to ease to a stop at the station and walk to your next position. However, it probably won't be that easy. Occasionally, you might have to leap off into the unknown to get where you want to go. It could hurt a bit. It usually does.

Yet, I know we'll brush off and be fine. It's calm that follows a storm.

I'll be here as a sounding board for my friends, always. My job now is certainly not wonderful, but I at least feel pretty confident and surefooted that I'm on a path that's right for me.

Adios, amigos.

Off the Pier at Station Rockland - 2014

“Life is like a box of...bike ‘wrench’ tools.”

wrench- slang for “bicycle mechanic” in the cycling world.

The classic Forest Gump quote,“Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get,” is the perfect two sentences to fall back onto when life starts happening. I’d say it kind of goes along with one of my own little mottos, about how nothing ever goes according to plan, but somehow, it always works out. It usually ends up way more interestingly than ever imagined, too. 

Case and point:  my 42-mile round-trip trek to Marshall Point Lighthouse, i.e. the Forest Gump Lighthouse. In the movie, Marshall Point Lighthouse was one of Forrest’s turnaround points on his non-ending run. Forest was traveling eastward and made it to the lighthouse, realized he couldn’t go any farther east without going off the cliff, so turned back around to continue his jaunt. 

Anyway. I’d already cleaned and studied for half my day off. I decided it was time now to do something fun and outdoorsy. I had no plans, no commitments, and no ideas yet for what to do. Then, I noticed my bike shoes in the corner of my room, starting to gather dust. It was time for a bike ride.

With no distance in mind, I asked at Sidecountry Sports, our local bike shop, for a route that would be “simple but pretty.” The guys pointed me towards Tenant’s Harbor. As I was studying the map, I saw that Marshall Point Light was in that same direction. It was a bit farther than I’d originally considered, but time was on my side. 

A paraphrase of my en route dialogue:

“Dang, they don’t make hills like this in Chesapeake...but this is so fun...ooolala, artist painting on the bridge.... eek, car...wish my Fat Frogs could see this...I wonder how Sprucehead Pizza’s pizza is...little general store to check out...rhubarb stand on the side of the road? wish I had brought a bag...cows!...Knox County Firehouse? we called them yesterday for that flare sighting....phew...and I have to go backwards?....”

Then:

“Pedal....pedal...pedal....tough hill this one....wooo!!! 34mph and not even in a draft line...keep on pedaling...is that the “Welcome to Port Clyde” sign? hell yeah! almost there...uh oh, why does my pedal feel loose?...pedal, pedal, pedal...my foot is sliding...not good...ugh.

The entire left crank arm came off of my bike, my attached foot dangling in mid-air with the pedal and crank arm hanging down. I wobbled off to the side of the road. I flipped by bike over, wearing only one shoe because I couldn’t click-out of the tight pedal without the resistance of the bike frame. I realized that the allen wrench required to reattach the arm was way larger than anything I carried in my saddle bag. BUMMER.

I took off my helmet and shades. For a good few minutes, I debated whether to call back to the station with a “biking MAYDAY” and request a pick up. It would be kind of a long drive for them. Also,  I was going to hear about this one if they got wind. The on-duty crew already thought I was crazy for an attempt.

Instead, I called a friend. She had to take her dogs to the vet, so it would have to be a quick pick-up. No lighthouse for me, and I was only a mile away.

I managed to un-clip my shoe, put it back on, and began wheeling my bummed-out bike to safer ground. I figured the side of a rural highway wasn’t the best place to be. I was dejected, not about my bike (bikes are fixable), but because my journey was cut short,

As I was trudging along, I passed a driveway where two kids were riding around on their own bikes. Their dad called out to me and asked if I needed help. I held out my bike and detached crank and said, “yeah, actually, I kind of do! Do you have any tools to fix a bike?” 

He said he probably did and went into his shed to search for them. In the mean time, my friend called to tell me, “Kerry! This has never happened to me before, but my truck broke down! The tow truck is on his way to pick me up. I’m so sorry.” What?! Now I really wanted my bike fixed.

The father came out of his shed, carrying an open pouch of tools, including a large set of allen wrenches. Hallelujah. We chatted a bit as we figured out which wrench would do the trick. He asked where I was coming from, and when I told him “Rockland,” his eyes didn’t grow wide and he didn’t give me that “crazy cyclist” shake of the head. I appreciated that.

Instead, he mentioned that he had been stationed in Rockland when he was in the service. I’d already noticed he was clean-shaven, and that his arms were strong and tattooed (an often true military stereotype, and I'm not bummed about it). Knowing the answer already, I asked if he was prior Coast Guard. He was, and he had likewise been stationed at Station Rockland, but in the late 90’s as a BM2 (Boatswain’s Mate 2nd Class). 

I love how small the world is, especially in the military.

It was funny to hear that many of the same issues, and good things, that went on at Station Rockland in the 90's still happen today, just with different characters and different boats. 

Ultimately, he’d made Rockland his twilight tour after reaching a few major crossroads. He’d enjoyed his career, but was happy with his decision to retire. Sweetly, he said that if he’d gone on to his next unit he wouldn’t have met his wife and had two kids, who were now standing next to us on their tiny bikes, curiously looking up at this stranger with her bike. It was funny to hear someone talk about the end of his Coast Guard career, especially with me being very much at the beginning of my own.

We managed to quick-fix my bike and the family sent me on my way. I rode that final mile to Marshall Point, which was well worth the long trek. It was a gorgeous destination and I enjoyed resting for a bit, sitting on the stoop steps and watching the waves crawl up the rocky slope.  A kind, older lady ran to her car to get me a Clif Bar after asking me about my trip, then wished me well on the return. I made it back to the station just as twilight began to paint the sky. 

I'm not kidding when I say I have an unusual tendency for misadventure; but, I wouldn’t laugh as much or have any good stories without the inevitable goofs. 

Sometimes the bike breaks along the way; but sometimes, you make it to the lighthouse.

 

Chaos & Stories

I write first and foremost because I love to write. It gives me some direction, it’s enjoyable, and it helps make sense of chaos. 

On one hand, I bring chaos upon myself with a willingness to dive head-first into the unknown and the uncertain. As those reading probably know, I also have an unusual proclivity towards mishap and misadventure. I often find myself in unchartered waters, where my iPhone can’t give me the answers and a guidebook has yet to be written. It keeps things entertaining, but geez louise, if you only knew how many “it’ll be funny later” moments I’ve had... 

On the other hand, a little craziness and confusion is going to happen anywhere you go, perhaps especially in that tumultuous and option-filled time of the early 20’s.

I also write because we all have stories to share. By that, I partially mean my own, but I also mean that of my fellow Coasties and the, er, unique population of where I’m living in Rockland, Maine. Each individual has a story worth hearing, or at least some new way of looking at things. Stats and logic take us only so far; without some pull, inspiration, or connection, action rarely gets taken. I’m a lousy story-teller without a pen, so this is the best way for me to relay those.

As for this blog, there’s no UVa-grad/ Coastie females out there that I know. Usually, when you “google” something about military females, articles and blogs for military spouses pop-up. If I can offer even some guidance and relation to a few female military sea-goers that follow, I’ll be content.

Finally, I have a small group of family members and friends who serve as my primary motivation and encouragement. They’re the ones who’ve stuck with me for the long haul. For whatever reason, they’ve taken a keen interest in my pursuits and ask me every once in awhile, “when my next blog will begin.” It’s always funny when they bring up past tales: “remember that time you almost lost your job in Yellowstone?” (trespassing on a trail closed for bear activity), “what was the name of that pastry-shop that housed the Lady Gaga cake statue?, or ”I ran in the Tiergarten too! Beautiful place.” 

So, here goes nothing. Or maybe it’s something. I don’t know. 

  

Bootcamp.

“It kind of feels like we’re going to meet a set of Korean nuclear warheads,” said Nate, my bootcamp bus-mate and the brother of my friend Rachel from back home. 

“Yep, I agree,” I said.

A little nervous chatter followed after that, but not too much. You’re kind of in your own head when you’re mentally preparing to get your ass kicked for the next 8 weeks. We were en route to Cape May Training Center, where we would be indoctrinated, trained, and prepared for our entrance into the Coast Guard fleet. 

Boot camp is as tough as they say. No matter how many times you’re forewarned by military personnel that the intentions of boot camp are to “break you down then build you back up,” you’re still going to be broken down...then built back up. It’s just how it works. However, it’s training. As long as the end goal is kept in mind, it’s definitely doable. 

My longtime friend, Army 2LT Shane Greaves, sat with me a few days before my departure to ask me what my bootcamp plan was going to be. It was “to be relentlessly optimistic and tough.”  

No matter what happened, it was going to be one foot in front of the other until the bitter end. The advice and insight he gave me that day, including making sure I stuck with those intentions, was the best I’d received. So much of the advice I’d heard previously, which I never could take at face value, was all over the place and contradictory:

"Welcome"

“Hide in the background and slip under the radar.”

“Kerry, don’t worry. You’ll be totally fine.”

“It pays to be a winner.”

“Pray to not have a female company commander.”

“Be loud. Be proud.”

“Eat your protein.”
“Don’t trip!” (Thank you, Kristy Kelley).

Anyway... 

When that bus stopped, it became dead quiet. We were told not to look outside the windows by our bus driver. All we could see were shadowy forms in our periphery and flashing lights.

A man with a “smokey the bear” black hat, with a wide brim hat that covered his eyes, stormed onto the bus. No greeting. Simply, “FROM THIS POINT FORWARD, THE FIRST WORD OUT OF YOUR MOUTH WILL BE SIR OR MA’AM, AND THE LAST WORD OUT OF YOUR MOUTH WILL BE SIR OR MA’AM. YOU WILL RESPOND TO COMMANDS WITH AN AYE-AYE. UNDERSTAND?”

“SIR, YES, SIR!”

“LOUDER.”

“SIR, YES, SIR!!”

“NOW, GET UP. GET YOUR STUFF, AND FIND A YELLOW TRIANGLE TO STAND ON IN FRONT OF THE BUS. DO IT NOW!”  

I stood in front of the bus, clutching my bag, not sure if my arm was shaking from the freezing air or my nerves. Part of me was stifling a laugh at the ridiculousness of it all and as a natural stress reaction. The other part of me was thinking: “Holy smokes. What did I just get myself into now?”

Soon after: 

“Kelley! Wigton! Get back here. You signed below my line! I told you too keep your filthy names inside of the box. How difficult is that?!” 

Whoops. Fail #1 of a million.

 I also managed to “eyeball” (i.e. look at) a few Company Commanders and to even crash into one while we were issued our cold weather gear. One of the greatest takeaways from boot camp was to get comfortable with goofing up.

From there, I’d say boot camp took it’s predicted progression. My heart rate was through the roof for the next day or two. We were poked and prodded through medical, then handed to our company commanders (CCs) to be beaten. For those first weeks, we were the scum of the earth, sloppily marching around grounds in our sweaty sweats and ceaselessly being barked at by our company commanders. 

From there, we slowly learned what we had to do, and what we had to endure. I was constantly sore. I got sick. My voice was unrecognizable from all of the yelling. I was treated like a non-person. I fell asleep standing up. We were rather un-hygienic. We marched on edge, always wondering what our next “mistake” would be. 

It wasn’t fun, but it made us tough. We lost a few along the way, but they often were the ones who came in with doubts beforehand or the ones who were not quite made for the military. By the end, tight bonds were formed between shipmates, some that I believe will last through my career.

One memorable evening: 

A shipmate, while we were waiting for our CCs arrival, asked where my smile was that evening. I usually kept it tucked away until the few moments to ourselves before “racking out” after showers, but I threw caution to the wind and flashed one anyway. 

“Kelley-Kilo! Why is there a shit-eating grin on your face right now. Is something funny?” 

Damn.

“Petty Officer Matthews, Seaman Recruit Kelley-Kilo, nothing is funny.”

“Then why do you have a shit-eating grin on your face?”

I never did know how to lie. With my thoughts going at a rate of a million a minute under pressure, the only thing I could muster was the truth: 

“Petty Officer Matthews, Seaman Recruit Kelley-Kilo [gulp], just trying to stay optimistic.”

Out on the quarterdeck for push-ups I went, for a long time. I never did hear the end of that one. 

I made it through boot camp by looking for the bright spots everyday, and by holding close the knowledge that whatever was happening, it would end soon enough. My bright spots could be catching a peek of the beautiful Cape May sunrise, interacting with the ladies behind the food counter, or simply making it into bed for another night.  Letters and postcards from home and friends made a huge difference.

Eventually, it really did get better. We got better as a team, started respecting ourselves more, and the CCs started respecting us more too. The CCs started revealing their personalities as our training came to a close, and they were both hilarious and fantastic leaders. Slowly, we were melded into something worthwhile.

Someone told me beforehand that I was absolutely crazy for thinking that boot camp could be fun, in a way. I still stand by that. I loved the challenge of it, especially once we made it through the miserable part. I was a part of  wonderful group of driven, strong females (seriously, many times the ladies out-shined the dudes in our company!). We swam, we sang, we ran, and we learned cool things in seamanship and marksmanship. We “jousted” with giant, padded toothpicks. I wrote as a company historian and painted on the art crew.  The ice cream and hibachi dinner shared with a few friends on our single day of liberty, before graduation, was possibly the best I ever had...or at least, it felt like it.  I left boot camp with a few awards, two athletic regimental records, a re-inspired confidence, some of the craziest memories, and a few budding friendships. 

You don’t really talk about boot camp once you’ve made it out. It shows your newness. Yet, I still recommend it. It’s certainly one of the best experiences I’ve ever had, and it’s one I certainly hope to never repeat. 

Don't Think. Just Do

Juliet-189

Company Flag

The Lobsterman, the Librarian, and the Lonely Lady

“How’s your sandwich?”

“Awesome,” I said to the gentleman with graying hair and spectacles. He sat at the table across from mine as he read his book over a bowl of clam chowder, I sat at my table by the big bay window of Camden Deli, sipping wine and enjoying a portobello panini. 

It was a simple question, but it carried us into a conversation about life in Camden, my first “underway” trip with Station Rockland, his two boys, my ambitions with the Coast Guard, and so-on-and-so-forth. I found out he was a doctor, not a librarian, overthrowing my initial speculation. His book was from the Camden Public Library, if that counts for anything.

When I mentioned taking a boat ride to Carver’s Harbor for work, another man jumped in the conversation, sporting a swooping white mustache that extended past his rosy cheeks and also heading his own table. He was a lobsterman and a classic Mainer: a little rough around the edges, speaking with a fantastic accent, and on the salty side(1).

 Traditionally, lobsterman and Coasties don’t get along; however, all three of us, even with our entirely different walks in life, hit it off splendidly. While I don’t quite remember the details, perhaps the wine was getting to me, I remember it was a lively, animated conversation. There was something wonderful in the oddity of the three of us brought together, which made for such a colorful interaction. I walked out of the deli smiling, content after a few days of wandering out on my own. 

On the topic of loneliness: surprisingly, I wasn’t actually lonely in those first couple weeks of exploration (however, I needed “lonely lady” for the alliteration). I had already anticipated the patience I would need before I began making friends in this new area. When the “newness”  of the area and my initial curiosity faded, though, the loneliness did set in a bit. 

That is, until I simply took it for what it was and decided to roll with it.

One night I told my friend Kate, from home:  “I feel like I’m dating myself! I do what I want, when I want, and go wherever I want to go.” It was kind of fun. I even bought myself flowers a few times. 

Going to a bar solo was a first for me, and it’s now kind of hilarious to think about how much effort that took. “Sarah, I need you to talk me through this,” I said on the phone, walking down Main Street to Waterworks for my first nighttime outing. I was laughing as I said it, but it definitely took me a few moments to snatch up the courage to open that door and wander in! 

All-in-all, it was a challenging, but rewarding time. I met quite a few people in this time period. I befriended bartenders and baristas, went on a date with a Ukranian (that’s a story in itself), went on a few random runs, tindered a bit (not my thing), went to breakfast with people from the YMCA pool, and scored a free album while drinking my new favorite gin drink and chatting with a musical duo, Rick Turcotte and his accompaniment, after a show at Rock Harbor.

I found that being willing to put yourself out there, even if it’s initially uncomfortable, leads you to some cool experiences and interactions. It’s even cooler when those interactions lead to something that lasts, which actually does happen. I love and miss my friends from home/school dearly, everyday, but not having that social shield for a bit was a blessing in disguise. Try it some time. 

View from Camden Deli

Seagull?

Sometimes, we even hike solo.