Running on Empty (27 page)

The scenery near the Ohio–Pennsylvania border gave us all plenty to appreciate. Leaves were falling, but the colors were still brilliant on the trees and on the ground—the countryside was beautiful, the autumnal carpet dotted with snow, and it offered many views into our nation's past. Going through East Palestine, I spotted a restored log home, probably built in the 1820s, during the decade when James Monroe, John Quincy Adams, and Andrew Jackson were elected, and when Thomas Jefferson and John Adams both died, within hours of each other, on Independence Day. At the state line, I stopped to examine an old concrete marker, an obelisk about four feet high engraved PENNSYVANIA, much more interesting than the modern sign that was erected a few feet away. This area played a key role in our nation's history: the Declaration of Independence, the Gettysburg Address, and the U.S. Constitution were written here.

The quaint country roads with scant traffic, the picturesque landscape, and the throwback lifestyle were all as I'd imagined they'd be. Moving across the commonwealth, we passed Amish families in horse-drawn buggies (and I picked up a horseshoe for good luck); a one-room schoolhouse with a bell on top, girls dressed in ankle-length skirts and bonnets, boys wearing black pants and white shirts; a huge house with an expansive front porch and laundry strung from one end to the other. Signs of fall surrounded us, with cornstalks browned and tied together, pumpkins carved and lit at night, and Halloween crafts floating in the trees.

Crew tensions had disappeared, thank God. That previously constant anxiety was gone, and there was no sign of Charlie. Everyone was doing their jobs, working together respectfully, and Kate had begun taking shifts, too, as Kira, Alex, and Cole had gone home and we'd be shorthanded for a few days until the second wave of friends and family arrived. Despite the few differences we'd had with Kate, on the whole our interactions with her and all the people from NEHST had been very positive. We were grateful to have Kate on board, along with her assistant, Amira Soliman, and Rick, when they weren't strictly on duty with production. It seemed they were nearly always working, though. I can hardly remember ever seeing Rick without his camera perched on his shoulder, or in his lap when he was in the van, and Amira always had her clipboard in hand and pens stuck in her thick, black hair, wrapped in a loose knot at the back of her head.

As I had done since leaving San Francisco, I continued to tell corny jokes to whoever was around, and especially to those behind the camera, hoping to make them laugh or at least groan, but they were too professional, or I wasn't funny enough. Either way, at least I could count on a smile.

Crossing the Allegheny River on day forty-seven: “Knock, knock!”
Who's there?
“Allegheny!”
Allegheny who?
“Y'all-a-gain-y weight if you eat too much!”

We passed a few coal strip mines, which seemed out of place in this bucolic setting. Meandering creeks decorated rolling hills, the curves occasionally contrasted by angular old barns and farmhouses. I enjoyed reading the natural signs around me, which revealed what to expect ahead, such as the way a creek would trickle downhill toward me and signal that I'd be going uphill for some time, or how a tree's branches, inclined to grow a certain way, indicated which direction the wind usually blew.

My crew was giving me signs, too. They'd surreptitiously picked up a few political yard placards and retooled them for our use, using the sturdy wire frames to post notes for me by the side of the road. I could only hope they'd selected an equal number of them from the opposing sides, and it amused me to know that the candidates were getting a little less promotion wherever we passed through.

As we were nearing the end of this transcontinental trip, we were also nearing the upcoming Election Day. This would be the year we'd elect our first African-American or our first woman to serve as either president or vice president, and while I'd been slogging it out across the country, another contest had been going on, holding the rapt attention of many citizens. Although I'd seen a great deal of America during this adventure, there was also an America that I hadn't really seen at all: “Joe the plumber”? Never heard of him. I never watched the debates, saw the slogans, or heard any of the rumors. The political fracas wasn't part of my consciousness, except when I saw those repurposed campaign signs, which made me chuckle. I had no idea what was happening, and I didn't want to know. It's not that I didn't care about the outcome, just that I trusted the American people to make a good decision. This year, my job was to get across the nation; theirs was to choose our leaders.

There was an odd sort of synchronicity between what was happening in our country and what was happening in me. September and October 2008 were the most volatile and uncertain months in stock market history. People were losing their jobs and their homes, and they were being called upon to muster all their emotional reserves. Everyone was tightening their belts; our proud country had been humbled, and no one was sheltered from the economic environment, from the turmoil that had developed that fall and then come to a head right about the time we arrived in Pennsylvania.

Running through huge snowflakes, nearly every muscle in my body rebelling against the daily grind of my current reality, I desperately craved relief.
I just need to hang on for a few more days,
I'd tell myself.
Soon this will be over.
No doubt there were millions of other Americans who were telling themselves the exact same thing.

 

On November 1, I awoke in Pennsylvania at the Millheim Hotel after five hours of my usual strange, deep sleep. These days, anytime I'd wake up a little, to turn over or for any other reason, I was disoriented.
Am I at home, in Colorado? In the RV? What state is this? This bed feels nice. Is this a hotel? Ah, there's Heather.
And I'd drift off again to sleep. The nightmares had finally stopped, but I would replay the days' efforts in my dreams, and Heather would nudge me, as my arms and legs moved in the bed, and tell me, “Marsh, honey, you're running in your sleep again. Rest, sweetheart.”

We'd come to the pretty little hotel the night before, on Halloween, just before one in the morning. It had been built sometime in the 1800s and boasted a claw-foot tub in the bathroom shared by everyone on our floor. Who knows how long that tub had been there, or how many travelers before me had sunk into its warm waters? I do know that no one appreciated the deep soak more than I did that night. The heat eased my taut leg and back muscles, soothed my aching feet (the plantar fasciitis was acting up again), and took the persistent chill off my bones. I went to bed feeling grateful and relaxed.

At daybreak, though, I was confused and emotionally fragile, a condition that had been building slowly for a long time but had seemed to really be charging at me during the last couple of mornings. As I put my tender feet on the hard, cold, wooden floor, I felt unhinged, the pain in my soles shouting at me about the nearly five million times they'd already hit the ground in the last forty-nine days. I hobbled around for a minute or two looking for my socks, to no avail.

When I asked Heather for them, she responded sharply that she didn't know where they were, either. Immediately, I felt the tears come, and I put my head in my hands. My emotions were so raw, and the least little thing could set me off. Seeing my sad state, Heather came to me, held me in her arms, and whispered assurances.

“Ssssh, it will be okay. You will be okay. I'm sorry, Marshall. I didn't mean to snap at you. We're both just tired . . . We'll get through this. Ssssssssh, now. You're all right . . .” Over and over again, she stroked my head and helped me get it together.

My breakdown was over quickly, and I composed myself. I knew I had to put those thoughts of distance and pain aside, tuck them away until after we reached New York and they'd be moot—only then could I allow myself to “process” that emotion. Not now. Gotta run. Only a few hundred more miles to go.

Dealing with this kind of self-doubt wasn't foreign to me. I've had these thoughts before: entering active military service, going into college, seeing my children being born, other races in other places.
Am I man enough to rise to the occasion? Will I fail? How could I have ever thought I could do this?
It would be so much easier to just lie back and not take the steep and challenging high road.

In moments of questioning and self-pity, including the morning when errant socks had me at my wit's end, I've reminded myself that others have gone this way before me. My life, including my extreme adventures, I remember, is so much easier than those of the pioneers who set out on uncharted routes, in inhospitable climates, with wild animals and even hostile people to make it infinitely harder than anything I've ever experienced. My ancestors, most recently my parents, once struggled just to survive; for the most part, I've chosen my hardships and always had the option to make them stop. Even when I don't allow myself to seriously entertain the idea of quitting, it's still there, still a choice I could make if things get unbearable.

On rare occasions, I have thrown in the towel. In training for the transcon, for example, that seventy-two-hour run broke me when I started questioning myself. The sometimes overwhelming desire to quit comes from the mind whispering
I can't
or
I'm not good enough, strong enough, smart enough.
Whatever. Enough. We can be our own worst enemies when it comes to those doubts and negative self-talk. Being around people with positive attitudes helps, but ultimately it has to come from within. In the darkest times, no amount of schmaltzy platitudes will get you through it. When it counts, when you have to pull through, what you need is grit. You wrestle that bear to the ground, chasing it out of your psyche. You remind yourself that it's easy to quit but hard to live with it afterward—it can turn into a virus that spreads and becomes an uncontrollable urge.

Knowing someone loved me and was keeping the faith with me—or for me—made it tolerable that morning in Pennsylvania. Heather and I knew what we had to do. She knew what to say to me, and what not to say. She understood that one of the keys to not giving in has always been to suppress the whispers and never give them voice. I don't say “I want to stop” unless I
intend to stop
with that very next step. If I'm truly done, then okay, I'll say that I'm done, we're packing up. Taking a lesson from some hard-core Russian mountaineers, there's no complaining or else you really are finished. Just because your hands are cold doesn't mean you have to
say
they are.

So we found a pair of socks, I finished getting dressed, and we continued on.