It won't matter what I write here, no matter how eloquent, how thoughtful, how articulate... it won't matter because he isn't here to read it. And that matters to me. He isn't here to...
When the announcement came through that the 2012 New York marathon had been cancelled, I was already in New York; I had already picked up my bib and walked the EXPO. But when the message came through, I have to admit that I wasn't disappointed. Amidst the aftermath of "Sandy," a celebratory run through the broken boroughs of New York, beginning with the devastation on Staten Island seemed, well, distasteful to say the very least. And so it was, thousands of runners had come to the Big Apple to run a race that, wasn't going to be run.
In 2009 I ran my first marathon for AIDS Project Los Angeles and I did my training runs in Griffith Park with the Sunday group; Biff Campos, Matt Richmond, Kevin McDonald, Arianna Metchik and other volunteers helped to make up the coaching crew dream team. I owe these people much more than I will ever raise in fundraising dollars for this wonderful organization. That first marathon changed my life and anyone who knows me has seen clear evidence to support that fact. There was another training group that year and in other years, Saturday mornings, led by Coach Scott Boliver and while I wouldn't meet him until the following training season, I kept hearing his name and stories were repeated about how amazing he was, as a coach and as a person. I say this because when I met him for the first time, the skeptic that I am, I was, well, amazed. He not only knew my name, but he actually asked me questions about my family, my running, my history with fundraising. He made me feel as the other coaches had, but in a different way; he made me realize that I was now part of a family - a family of which I was now considered an integral part. I believe that those Sunday runs and that team made me understand the real significance of what it meant to "give" and it would be two years after that, that Scott would reinforce that meaning for me.
What do you do when you are in a city, in an area that has been devastated by a natural disaster. If you've been taught properly, you move, you step in and you help. And that is what we did. Hunting down a Volunteer group the Saturday morning after the marathon was cancelled, Scott, his sister Cyndi and I made our way to Brooklyn where we found Occupy Sandy and in the basement of a church that day, we blended into the landscape of souls who came to do what they could. We spent the day sorting clothes, cutting food, taking out trash, moving through the piles of donations, wishing that there were more time in the day because soon enough it was dark and it was time to clean up. As we made our way back to Manhattan and to dinner that night with other runners from APLA Chicago and D.C., we jumped on a bus, a subway, we walked, we laughed, we chatted and they reassured me when the subway stopped, under the water, when the lights began to flicker, that everything was going to be okay (unfounded claustrophobic that I am). When the train started again, I assured them that if the train stopped again that they would be carrying me out. Scott walked with a cane that day. His leg hurt; it was obvious. He never stopped, he never complained, he never said a word. He simply just moved where he was needed.
In November 2011, we came to New York to run; my second time, Rosh, Sal and Emma for the first time and Coco, to celebrate her 50th birthday. While there, at the expo, I got a text from Scott, who I had only met twice then. He told me that he was there to support his brother in law who was running and to help cheer on the other T2 runners. He also said that he couldn't postpone his entry any longer as this was the last year he could get his entry into the marathon, either that or forfeit it. Scott wasn't about to forfeit anything. But he couldn't run. He was ill then. And I will not remember him as ill so it seems pointless to dissect his battle. Those who know him and who know of him know what a difficult journey he took and the tremendous strength and courage that he showed while taking it. He texted me and asked me if he knew anyone who could use his number... we met him at the Expo where we also met his lovely wife Dolly, and his wonderful sister Cyndi. The meeting could have been awkward, it could have been bitter, particularly for Scott, it could have been so many things had it been anyone but Scott. Instead, he embraced each of us, literally, as did Dolly and Cyndi. He was in pain, tired, but I will always remember his eyes. Scott had kind, happy eyes. What is it that is said, we see people's souls in their eyes? If that is the case, then there is not a shred of doubt that Scott has the soul of an angel... that we already knew. He gave Coco his number and told her to have a good run and run she did. I only thought about this today, while he will not physically run the race, he was with her the year that she did it, he was with me, with all of us and in 2013 when we go back to run it again, he will be there. The next day we headed to Staten Island to run the marathon where it was going to take me almost 6 hours; I wasn't sure, but I was feeling pretty good that day, up until mile 21 and then it started to fall apart as it sometimes does. I went slowly, plodded ahead, tried to find a groove, began to cry and watched as the numbers got bigger, 22, 23, 24... when I crossed 25 I was hurting, I was done. I wasn't going to stop, but I was emotionally, physically, psychologically finished. And then, I hear "YVETTE, YVETTE, OVER HERE, GO YVETTE" and I swear, it was like one of those moments where everything moves in slow motion and each second is crystallized in your memory. There, standing on the sidelines, in the freezing cold late afternoon, 5 and a half hours after I started was Coach Scott and Dolly and Cyndi, but all I could hear was Scott yelling and I saw them all waving their arms, clapping and cheering, motioning for me to come over. It was a life raft. I ran over and Scott threw his arms around me and kissed my cheek and said, "You are doing so great. Hang in there. Keep at it." Then Dolly bear hugged me and then Cyndi. Dear Cyndi. Before I went back out, Scott hugged me again and told me to "Just Go." That's it and then I was off and they were clapping again, smiling and I went on my way.
I told him later about that moment and how they got me through that marathon. How it must have been so difficult for him to stand there in the cold for hours, cheering on runners when all he wanted to do was run. I hope he knew then and I hope he knows now that moments like that have meant more to me than crossing any finish line ever will in any race that I will ever run. When I did cross the finish line, the tears came fast and furious. I didn't see them again that trip but I will remember that moment for the rest of my life as the greatest moment of that race. The Bolivers.
When I ran LA in 2012, there they were again, Scott and Dolly and Scott's lovely and kind parents, right there at Mile 25, with hugs and encouragement and warmth that sent us all off to reach our goals. Ever the fire that needs to be lit under each of us, Scott pushed you until you got there and I never doubted for a second that if I couldn't physically get there, that he might just carry me if need be or, at the very least, walk along side of me or any one of the runners to get them to where they needed to be...
Our second day of volunteering in New York came in the form of a day of distributing supplies with the National Guard in a barren and broken place, Far Rockaway Beach. As the day progressed and as we spoke with people and gave out what supplies there were, I noticed something that I had filed away in my mind for later. When we first arrived, Scott didn't wait for someone to direct him; he just stepped up and started to help. He saw a need and filled it. There was no hesitation and as the day went on, I noticed that he continued to do that. He didn't wait for someone to ask, instead, he volunteered. He just did... he just simply did. Later that night at dinner, we shared our appreciation for one another and for the day and for our lives. Simple, beautiful, a fitting ending to a trip with an auspicious beginning.
On my last night there, I texted Scott and Cyndi and asked them if they would wait for me so that we could go to dinner and I remember Scott saying that they would wait as long as it took for me to get there. That night, after a delicious Italian meal, the three of us headed to an Irish pub where we sat and just talked, sharing stories about our families, our friends, our lives. It was a conversation that will always define who Scott was for me. We hadn't known one another for long and I really didn't know anything about him before that night, but after just a few hours, after hearing about his battle and his family, his amazing family, his children and the deep love that he had for Dolly, I felt like I had known him my whole life. One of the last statements that he made that night was that we should all get our families together, that we all would get along great and that was simply true, there was no pretense with Scott and Cyndi. It was easy, comfortable. Another of his gifts, an ability to make you feel as though you always belonged right across from the table with him, having a beer, shooting the breeze.
That was the last time that I saw Scott Boliver. That was the last time that I heard his voice. That was the last time that I had a chance to tell him how inspiring and meaningful his speeches were the year before in training. That was the last time.
I never made it out to the training site this year, at least I hadn't until last week. Coach Scott had sent me a message on FB asking where I was and how we should all do New York this year so that we could do it together. I replied that I was going to make it out soon.
I would very much like to articulate in the most gracious way how devastated I was to hear that he had passed away. How the tears came instantly and wouldn't stop throughout the days that followed, intermittently, fiercely, every time I thought of him and his children, of Dolly, of his parents and selfishly, of myself and how I would never get that bear hug of encouragement or hear that voice telling me to keep going again. I did think that. I did. And then I sat down and really thought about what it means to lose a friend, someone who makes you a better person for having known them and I realized that the time that I knew him, although too brief, was enough to change something in me. The time that we spent, training, volunteering, sharing meals, meeting his family; those moments are some of the most precious and will remain with me in every victory, in every failure, in every attempt at something new. I will carry Scott's ferocious desire to live his life, with me in my heart every time I put on my running shoes, every time I fundraise, every time I kiss my children or my husband. His passion for others, guiding them to be more, to be better, will guide me the rest of my life. And while I know that I will shed more tears for Scott and for his family, in those tears will also be shreds of joy and compassion, of hope and of the knowledge that his legacy will live in everything good that we do, all of us who knew him, for the rest of our lives.
There is no good-bye. When we love, when people affect us deeply, they are always with us. I will miss you Scott and I will look for you in every run, in every finish line, in every place where there are people who put others' needs before their own. Thank you for being my friend.
Run home softly...
No comments:
Post a Comment