Chapter 8
Nepal
St. George was perfect for a new
start on life. I didn’t want anything to be the same, and St. George was the
exact opposite of Northern Utah. Northern Utah had long cold bitter winters
often dipping below zero and hot short summers. Saint George, by contrast, had
mild winters. Some winters it would snow, but it usually didn’t stay on the
ground for more than half a day. The summers were extremely hot. A local told
me they didn’t even consider it hot until it was over 105 degrees which is most
of the summer.
Unlike Northern Utah which sits at
the base of the Rocky Mountains, St. George is a desert. I’m always amazed at
the short distance between two totally opposite climates. Just forty five
minutes north of St. George is a small town called Cedar City. It sits at an
elevation of nearly 6,000 feet. Heading south from northern Utah, the change
comes quickly. Fifteen minutes south of Cedar City is the Black Ridge. This is where
the nearly 3000 foot descent to St. George begins. Shortly after passing the
Black Ridge, the temperature rises with every passing mile. In the winter, the
contrast is quite amazing. Severe winter storms change to mild weather in a
matter of minutes.
The landscape of cedar trees is
replaced by incredible views of bright red sandstone hills. I always loved the
beauty of the Rocky Mountains with the quaking aspen tress that glistened in
the wind and the huge pine trees that stayed green all winter, but the desert
had a different kind of a beauty I would come to love more and more each passing
year.
We arrived in St. George on July 4,
2004. It was the perfect time of year to see if I was truly ready for St.
George with its brutally hot summers. During the summer, business and most people’s
homes are kept cool, a little too cool. In fact, it is usually so cold that the
blast of heat felt when going outside is actually welcomed—especially when
leaving the movie theaters where you almost need a parka. The summers can be
unbearably hot in St. George, but I preferred it to the unbearable freezing
cold weather in Northern Utah where the winters lasted six long months.
We found a house to rent in a small
town adjacent to St. George called Washington. The area was called Washington
Fields because the neighborhoods weaved in and out of alfalfa and corn fields, dairy
farms, grazing land, and undeveloped property. The house was quite a bit
smaller than where we came from in Heber which was good—less yard work, less
house work, more time! And, compared to the fifth wheel, it was a mansion. It
only took a day or two of, “We’re bored.” for me to join my kid’s efforts to
find some new friends.
Two houses up our street lived the Pugmire
family. They had five kids. The mom, Esther, had long dark naturally curly hair
and her smile was warm and welcoming. Her and her husband seemed like an odd
couple to me at first because Lindsey was short and Esther was tall. She had
lots of beautiful curly hair and he had none. He liked sports and she enjoyed
reading. He was a physical therapist and she was a stay-at-home mom like me.
Right off I knew I liked Esther. She was friendly and down to earth. She grew
up in a small town like me. I felt so comfortable around her.
Two of her kids were the same age as my
kids. Ashley who was Danielle’s age was shy. She had dark hair and long legs
like her mother. She and Dani got along really well (Danielle became Dani
shortly after we moved to St. George). Esther’s boy who was the same age as my
Jared was also named Jared. We were astonished to find out that Jared Pugmire’s
middle name was Ray—my Jared’s middle name was Raymond. Jared and Jared loved
this commonality and believed it somehow connected them as if they were
brothers or friends in a different dimension, time, or era. They were so
different in appearance but so alike in so many other ways. They loved to
analyze the world, play sports, and explore nature. They both loved biology,
astrology, and bugs. It was great that our kids got along so well….most of the
time. Pugmire, as we came to call him, was small compared to my Jared and the
difference would only increase as they grew. Pugmire’s sandy blond hair, fare
skin, and freckles were a definite contrast to my dark Samoan boy. They almost looked
strange together.
I often found myself at Esther’s home trying
to reclaim my two children and remind them that I was their mom and they were
not up for adoption. If Esther couldn’t find her children, she knew where they
were. On a few occasions when the children were not at neither house, we would
head off together to find them. They usually were not far, and they were
oblivious to the stress they caused us.
The next neighbor I met was Mara. She
lived right across the street from Esther. Mara was one of those girls who
didn’t know how pretty she was. She was modest and conservative and seemed
intimidated by women who were nowhere near the woman she was. She had long
thick dark shiny hair that hung to the middle of her back and beautiful dark
brown eyes. She had two young children of her own and three step children who lived
with her every other weekend. Mara ran a daycare out of her home to make extra
money to supplement their income. Her husband was a school teacher and football
coach at the high school. Mara’s life was a little crazy at times. Kids can be
really trying, and with five to eight extra kids in her home crying, fighting,
and making messes… I couldn’t even imagine. Mara and Esther were already good
friends and they let me into their circle of friendship.
Being in St. George was just what I
needed. I was determined to be different—to be better. I didn’t want to fall
back into the same old trap of doing everything the way I was supposed to. Who
made the rules anyway? Who decided what the perfect wife was or the perfect
mother, neighbor, Christian, and daughter were. Who were the Jones’s and why
was everyone trying to keep up with them? But more importantly, who was Sally Thiriot?
Or not even Sally Thiriot, because that identified me as someone’s wife. I
prayed God would help change me—not into some mold but into the person I was
meant to be, not perfect, but just me, whoever that was; the way God intended
me to be with all my flaws and weaknesses.
I spent so much of my life trying to please
everyone and to be what everyone wanted me to be and trying to fit in. I thought
I knew who I was, but I didn’t even know what I wanted. I let everyone else
tell me that. I had built a life around what others thought I should do or be. I
got my self-esteem from giving and never taking. It made me feel important and
accepted, but it left me empty. I thought I was being a good Christian, but I
was doing no one a favor by giving in and giving up who I was.
Had I ever known who I really was, or
had I gotten lost as a wife and a mother? Both of those roles require a lot of
compromising, giving, and sacrificing. But, perhaps it was deeper. Even as a
child, I always liked pleasing my parents, especially my dad who was very clear
about his expectations. I knew he wanted me to be a “good kid”. I loved being
his little girl and I never wanted to displease him. His death may also have
something to do with it. His absence left me longing for him—for his love and
his strength. I’m not really sure how or why I got where I was, but it was who
I had become. I didn’t know any different and I really was not even aware of it.
I didn’t know where to start. I
didn’t even know what I wanted. I looked around my bedroom and decided I wanted
to sleep on the other side of the bed. I had always slept on the right side of
the bed because Chad wanted to sleep where the alarm clock was—on the left
side. I threw my husband’s pillow on the other side of the bed and informed him
I was now sleeping on the left side of the bed. He was a little baffled and
mildly annoyed at my stern announcement, but he just shook his head and let it
be.
The next opportunity came we went out
on a date and the question came up, “Where do you want to eat?” My first
thought was, I really didn’t care, but I resisted. “Where do I want to eat?” I mulled
the simple question around in my mind. Mexican food sounded good to me. “Let’s
go to Los Hermanos,” I replied. Then came Chad’s usual response when he didn’t agree
with my choice, “Oh really?” he said calmly. “You want Mexican food?” He had
said that so many times—almost weekly. Normally I would come up with suggestion
after suggestion until we found where he wanted to eat, but this time was
different. His response triggered something inside me and I just about jumped
across the car and strangled him. Of course I wanted Mexican food. Isn’t that
what I just said? I just looked at him and firmly said, “Yeah.”
I was in St. George trying to start
over and do things differently—be different. Living in Utah for most of my
life, I was well aware of the St. George marathon. You couldn’t live in Utah and
not be somewhat familiar with it. Each year it became more and more popular
eventually becoming one of the largest in the country. Not only did it attract
first class athletes from around the world, it attracted all kinds of people
from every walk of life—from the very young to the elderly, the Boston Marathon
hopefuls to the one timers, the very large to the very tiniest, and people like
me who wanted to find out who they were and what they are made of. The marathon
had been here for almost thirty years, and I had never been tempted to run. But
things were different now—I was different now.
I felt like I was in Nepal with the
view of Mount Everest in my back yard—challenging me, daring me. I couldn’t
explain it, but I just had to do it. I just had to. Although I would love to
stand on the top of Mount Everest as Sir Edmund Hillary did nearly 50 years
ago, I have no death wish, and I am kind of attached to my fingers and toes and
plan on keeping them attached to me. So there it was on my list of things to
do:
1.
Go grocery
shopping
2.
Do the laundry
3.
Pay the bills
4.
Call the bank
5.
Write in my
journal
6.
Run the Marathon!
When I mentioned to Mara that I
wanted to run the marathon, she was excited and immediately offered to help. I
found out her outlet was 26.2. She had run the marathon the previous year—it
was the one thing she did just for her. She thoroughly enjoyed it and it was
now her thing. She told me about her experience—how there was just something
about setting a goal and then achieving it. She said although the actual
marathon was amazing, it was the months of training that were the best part. She
had a training schedule she got off the internet and offered to train with me. As
we talked, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time. I felt alive and powerful.
I felt my heart beating with excitement. It didn’t make any sense to me and I
couldn’t explain it but I just knew there was no turning back. Just thinking
about it over the next several months was exhilarating and gave me renewed
energy.
The deadline for us to register for
the marathon was approaching. Registration began in April and the sign-up deadline
was May 1st. Entrants were put into a lottery as there were more
people who wanted to run the marathon than were allowed. Luckily, Washington
county residence were assured a spot if they registered by the May 1st
deadline. I didn’t want to miss that opportunity. I met Mara at her house and
she grabbed her visa and we began to walk to my house to register on the
internet. It was a beautiful day and the weather was perfect as it usually is
in St. George this time of year. As we walked the hundred yards to my house we
saw Esther in her front yard. On several occasions, Mara had tried to convince
Esther to run the marathon. Even though Mara and Esther had been good friends
for quite a while Mara had not been able to convince her to run the
marathon—and it wasn’t from the lack of trying. When Esther saw us, she asked
what we up to. “We are going to sign up for the Marathon,” I responded. “You
should come.” I added just to be polite. “You guys go ahead.” She said as she
turned back to her yard work. Mara pleaded, “Oh come on Esther, Please.” Esther
didn’t even waiver, “No.” she responded in a matter of fact tone. “Why would I
want to do that? That’s just ridiculous.” I chimed in, “Well, I’m doing it to lose
10 pounds. Mara assured me that would just happen.” Mara pleaded one more time,
“Oh, come Esther. Do it with us.” This time Esther hesitated with her response.
It wasn’t the firm “No” anymore. There was a little pause before the no as if
something had weakened her resolve. It was ever so slight and almost unnoticed,
but Mara and I both caught it. What was it; was it the weight? I looked at her.
The expression on my face saying, “Well…..” I waited for her response. Esther
admitted she had a 20 year reunion coming up. That was all it took. The foot
was in the door. We pushed and pleaded until Esther relented. “Alright,” she
said grudgingly as she went to get her visa, “but it’s just going to be a waste
of fifty bucks because I probably won’t do it.” Mara and I took Esther’s credit
card without any guilt.
With only one day left before the May 1st
deadline, all three of us were signed up for the marathon. Training would start
on Monday.
I wondered what Esther’s husband,
Lindsey, would think. He had never been able to convince Esther to run a 5k let
alone a marathon. Lindsey had run the St. George Marathon seven times
before—this year would be the eighth. He looked forward to becoming a part of
the 10 year club (runners who run the St. George Marathon at least 10 times),
and he hoped to qualify for the Boston Marathon. Lindsey hadn’t always liked
running though. His love for running began at age 18 when a couple of his
buddies convinced him to run a 10K. He didn’t like the training at all, but
something happened at that race that changed everything. Lindsey passed both of
his friends with ease. The fast pace he set turned many heads. He was in the
zone. The endorphins released into his blood stream gave him a surge—he felt
amazing. At the end of the race, one of the elite runners made it a point to
let Lindsey know that he was impressed. He said Lindsey was a runner—built like
one and ran like one.
Lindsey was hooked. One month after
the 5K, Lindsey ran his first marathon in Salt Lake County with only three
months of training. He immediately signed up for the Dixie State College track
team his first year at college in 1981. He finished last in the 5K at his first track
meet—not 2nd to last, but dead last. That didn’t discourage him
though; it only gave him more determination. He set a goal to finish in the top
five at the conference Championships at the end of the season. With the
conference meet only two months away, Lindsey started running 100 miles a week
sometimes running twice a day. He was
running at a 5 minute per mile pace in the 5K and the 10K. Lindsey won 3rd
place at the conference championship accomplishing his goal.
Shortly after Lindsey’s victory,
everything changed. The driver of the
car in the other lane took her eyes off the road for just a second. Lindsey was
riding his motorcycle in cut-offs and with no helmet when she swerved into his
lane and hit him head on at 40 mph. Lindsey was lucky to be alive, but his leg
was in bad shape. His tibia bone was protruding from his shin at an almost
perfect 90 degree angle. Lindsey
underwent several surgeries. The specialist said his leg would never be
straight and advised Lindsey to “pick another sport”. He doubted Lindsey would
ever be able to run again. Lindsey told the doctor where he could stick his
advice.
Lindsey was in a full leg cast for 7
months. During that time he couldn’t get running off his mind. In addition to
therapy, he played basketball on one leg, hopping around and dribbling, and he
thought about being the first person to run a 5K on crutches.
When Lindsey was finally able to run again, he suffered
injuries every time he ran more than six miles. So, that was what he would have
to settle for—six miles.
It wasn’t until Lindsey finished
college as a physical therapist that he learned what was going on with his leg
and how to fix it. With the help of his colleagues, he designed a special
orthotic to slip into his shoe. Sixteen years after his accident, Lindsey was
finally able to run the St. George Marathon in 1998. He never returned to his
level of skill, but that didn’t matter. He loved running.
