Going Home

This violent Chinese brush stroke is a very accurate illustration of the elevation—actually it’s the logo—of Boise’s Race to Robie Creek that I ran last weekend. I’ve been hearing about this race my whole life—about how hard it is, and all the hills, and how it’s a local rite of passage—but its scope of difficulty somehow failed to impress me. It can’t be that hard, I figured, if people do actually complete it. Now I can attest that it is that hard. It is 8.5 miles of going up. Eight. Point. Five. Miles. That’s a full loop around Central Park and then two times around the Jackie O reservoir. Imagine it all uphill. It’s a long-ass ways. It was impossible to conceive when, from the beginning of the race where it was 75 degrees and we were comfortably loitering around in our running outfits, the race organizers warned us to watch out for ice and snow when we got to the top. (There actually was ice and snow at the top.) And then once you get there, to the top, the way down is rapid and steep and another five miles.

I don’t know how I did it, but one thing that helped was my iPod. I’ve never enjoyed running with one before: I don’t like the extra weight, and any kind of song lineup makes me more aware of the passing time and makes me loathe certain songs that I’d previously not loathed. Still, I decided to give it a try for Robie Creek—I would need the outside motivation. New Order’s “Ceremony” and MJ’s “Wanna Be Startin’ Something” kicked things off to excellent effect. Sadé’s “Soldier of Love” was a surprise hit; I'd been hesitant to add it. U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” and Taylor Dayne’s “I’ll Wait” were big-time misses. I made Whitney’s “Step by Step” the last song, reasoning that by the end I’d appreciate the literalness (and plus I love that song), but by some feat I finished the race before the end of the playlist. The biggest iPod success was Beyoncé’s “Halo.” I permitted myself this sentimental indulgence because one of the motivations behind the race was that my mom walked it many years ago. (My dominant memory of this is that she and her friend Vanice planted themselves in a hot tub afterwards and periodically called for my brother or me to refill their wineglasses.) Around mile six of the climb, when “Halo” came on, I submitted to it completely; I even listened to the song twice.


At the race I feel like I discovered an entirely new aspect of Boise. As part of the pre-race festivities, a drag queen was hosting an aphrodisiac stand, where, she explained to anyone who would listen, she could help you with your stamina. In lieu of a gunshot, the race was kicked off by a bird-mating ceremony performed by two dancers from the Idaho Dance Theater. They were stationed on top of the scaffolding that was piled up as a start line, decked out in painted-on bird costumes; they danced around for a minute or two, and when they finally “mated,” we took off. At a quarter-mile from the top, a drag queen was handing out Hostess goods and a dominatrix girl offered to give me a gentle lashing (“Can I whip you?” she asked. I accepted). It made me believe that there might be a little sanctuary for us in Boise if anyone’s interested in moving out there with me. Except that later on in the race, I was behind a group of kids who had written in glitter glue on their tank tops, “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” and, perhaps philosophically, “Does a Tranny Wear Pants?” While I’d like to believe these were just confusing jokes meant to capture the spirit of the rest of the race, I can’t fully rule out that the kids belonged to some homophobic high school club.


At the finish line—oh, the Idaho Statesman managed to take a photo of everyone as they crossed the finish line, and the galleries make for a “How Are You Feeling Today?” poster devoted entirely to the grimace, my own included—I ran into my friend LL, who I’d not seen for at least six years. I have a hard time describing what an important person LL was to me during my first few years of college. I realize that back then, when I was figuring out my romantic inclinations, I leaned heavily on her. I had no way of gauging my needs; I wouldn’t have even known then that needing her as a soundboard constituted a need. I believed that we were reciprocally amusing and astute, and that my angst and confusion and all the minutia of my self-revelations were enough to make up the substance of our friendship. It's not necessarily that I was oblivious of her own needs; it's that I needed her involvement in every aspect of my life. I dedicated short stories to her; I sent her books and poems and Xeroxes from bell hooks and Michel Foucault books; a scholarship-winning essay I wrote was, verbatim, a letter I’d written to her. For a time she accepted the full weight of it, and what I asked of her I asked of no one else. But clearly she wasn’t able to sustain it. After I moved to New York I got fewer and fewer return calls and emails from her. At some point in 2003 she called unexpectedly from a road trip and stayed at my apartment for two days, during which I tried to contain my neediness and demonstrate how in such a short time New York had significantly grown me up. After that visit we exchanged maybe one more email before we lost touch completely. By then—even as we were hanging out over those two days—I knew that I needed to be okay that.

When I saw her from across the park after the race, I literally ran to her, which is saying a lot. God, how was I supposed to begin the conversation? It was so incredibly dissatisfying; it was torture. I had to tell her that my mom died, which was painful not because I have difficulty telling anyone, but because to have to share it with someone I once counted as my closest, most important friend only further illuminated what had happened to us. We had to talk about our finish times. I got the 20-second recap of her past six years. I have no idea what kinds of tragedies she may have experienced. The whole thing lasted a minute and a half. During a lull, and because she was with her mom and (I think) her boyfriend or maybe husband, I decided it would easier to just hug her and promise that I’d catch her later on in the post-race festivities. This, of course, didn’t happen, and I’ve been brooding over the incident ever since.

I woke the next morning a little bit hungover and a lot sore, but at 7:00 AM due to the advantageous time zone. I took Katie, who flew out for the race with me, to my high school pre-test breakfast spot Raedeans, where you get a cinnamon roll (or toast; blah) with your breakfast. I used to have dreams about this cinnamon roll. It’s a miracle of pillow-ey dough, topped with cream-cheese frosting and a small ice-cream scoop of whipped butter that melts like a glacier and ultimately leaves the bun resting in a foamy pool of it if you don’t eat quickly enough. Afterward we went back to my grandfather’s house and sat on the back patio while we waited for the taxi to pick us up and take us to the airport. Even though the view was everything pastoral—a small horse pasture and, in the distance, the snow-capped peaks we’d raced the day before—I felt restless. This was the fist time I’d been back to Boise without any family or holiday obligations, and to my surprise I enjoyed being there as my own entity and I wanted to stay longer. I felt bizarrely that I was about to leave home, rather than return to it. That’s the sign of a good trip, I’ll say, until I start thinking seriously about packing my bags.