Crossing Over

July 2, 2010

Last weekend we took a good, old fashioned family road trip.  In classic Griswold style (National Lampoon's Vacation circa 1983), so reminiscent of my childhood years that it was almost eerie, we (my parents, me, 3 kids) piled into the family truckster and headed north on Hwy 101 to San Francisco.  The main difference between my childhood road trips and present day is in the more relaxed nature of my father. When we were kids he would only let us stop to pee if the car needed gas or we had a doctor note confirming imminent bladder infection (kidding, but it seemed like it).  With my kids however, we can stop as needed.  So we paused at interesting places along the way.  Including a place called the Madonna Inn, where they apparently specialize in cakes covered in bright pink chocolate curls instead of frosting.  The men's bathroom there has a fountain for a urinal, so naturally the kids spent more time in the restroom than at our table. 
We did all the classic San Francisco fun.  We rode cable cars (yes I let them dangle off the sides, yes I had a heart attack numerous times), Luke tried crab, we toured Alcatraz, watched crazy street performers, visited the wharf, the aquarium, Lombard street, Union Square, Chinatown.  We ate our weight in sourdough bread.   I woke up early to run, wandered the hilly streets with my people all day, and usually collapsed mid-movie at night.  So many memories were made; it was a perfect trip.  The grand finale was a detour through "17 mile drive" on our way home, stopping in Pebble Beach and Carmel.
Out of all the memories (and my kids each made a list - Grace had 86 things), one thing stands out for this mom.
One day we decided to have lunch on the water in Sausalito, so we had to cross the Golden Gate bridge.  It was a cold, gray morning, and the way the red of the bridge was cutting through the fog was spectacular.  My parents pulled over before the start of the bridge and the kids and I hopped out.  I took a couple photos, like the dorky tourist and devoted mother I am.  And then we started running.
I have to preface this memory with the background information that a couple years ago, maybe Isabelle would have happily run with me, but there would definitely have been complaints and numerous stops (I have a cramp, my leg itches, my shoe is untied, my lung collapsed, I'm gonna barf etc.) from the peanut gallery. This era was totally normal and had a vague charm all its own.  But I noticed this year as we were crossing over the bridge, that we've crossed over an even bigger bridge.  My kids and I ran across the Golden Gate bridge together.
From my mother's pre-trip lessons for the kids (She is a teacher; every experience has a preparatory lesson behind it, and a report or journal entry after it-we are so lucky!), I know that the Golden Gate bridge is 8981 feet, or 1.7 miles.  We relished the entire distance, pointing out the city, the sailboats, the suicide warning signs.  We talked and trucked along in our "going-out-to-lunch-in-Sausalito" clothes paired with running shoes.  We looked ridiculous.  I was wearing skinny jeans and an unzipped thick fleece jacket, and I forgot a hair tie so my hair was whipping in all directions.  To all the runners out for their Saturday morning long runs with Garmins, hydration packs and Gu belts, I looked like a crazy lady out for my first (and last) run.  Dont' worry Rodale, I did not wear my "I work for Runner's World" t-shirt - okay, it was dirty.
I know I grinned for 8981 feet.  I ran ahead and turned around, snapping a picture of my people.  I snapped one for the eternal roll inside my head as well.  Although I can't possibly know at this point what their relationship will be with running, I can tell you that they have each started their own.  We were out of breath and talking over each other when we reunited with my parents, cheering for us on the other side.
I have a lump in my throat just sharing this with you.  I almost didn't want to write about it, because I thought that somehow putting it out there might diminish the intimacy of the experience.  Or that it might lose some sparkle if I tried to translate it.  Some personally significant things are best kept personal.
But in the end I decided that just like crossing over the bridge together, the best memories of all are the ones you can share.
Happy 4th of July weekend!  Celebrate the things that make you feel free.