By the Seaside

Upon returning to St Andrews at the close of my Christmas holiday, it seems that I have spent nearly every waking moment with the people in the above photo. In many ways, these people are very different from myself. Each of them hails from various corners of the United Kingdom, have been on wonderful adventures, and believe in things that really challenge me. Yet like a window made from pieces of stained glass, each one of these people possesses their own unique color, design, and opacity to create a vivid and remarkable whole. I find that each one of these people are beautiful and special in their own unique ways, and while they contrast with each other and myself, by putting them together you create something truly wonderful.

Such are the feelings that can appropriately sum my experience traveling down to Brighton the weekend of January 30th for the British Universities and Colleges Sports (BUCS) cross country event. Initially I was a bit hesitant for the 20+ hour car ride (roundtrip) following so soon after my wearying flight back to Scotland. Yet the Taylor Swift jam sessions, quality banter, and getting to look out the window and see the whole of Britain pass me by actually made the car journey rather pleasant, as I got to see things I had never seen before and was in the company of people as enjoyable as the cross country team.

While my time in St Andrews has made looking upon the sea a rather commonplace experience, being able to see the sea at nearly the opposite end of the country was something I found rather special as well. This trip marks the first time I had ever been truly south in the United Kingdom, truly in the thick of English culture. In St Andrews, you at times lose perspective on where you actually are since this wee town is so incredibly international. That, paired with the multitudes of old American golfers I hear under my window, at times make me forget that I am 3,000 miles away from home. This in many ways has become a bit of a comfort to me, the Bilbo-esque homebody, as the familiar sights and sounds of St Andrews have slowly but surely become my second home. Yet, as I said before, I am beginning to forget that I am abroad, that I need to be drinking in as much of a new and different culture as I can before I graduate in a year and a half. Thus, this jaunt to Brighton was perhaps just what I needed to remind me of this incredible opportunity I have to be in the United Kingdom, to see a land and meet a people that, while similar to my home in some ways, are still beautifully different.

The actual cross country race, our main objective of the trip, took place on the Saturday following our long drive. As this race was just after the Christmas holiday, many in our company were worried as to how well this race would actually unfold. While cake, wine, and movie marathons seemlike a good idea for the entirety of December, they become your worst enemy when attempting to race some of the most competitive people in the country a few weeks later. The women’s event, 6.4 kilometers of punishing hills, pits of peanut buttery mud, and a field of nearly 500 runners made this race one of the hardest and most competitive I have ever participated in. While I used to be considered quite tough, cross country wise, in high school, that girl would not have stood a chance against the elite women participating in this race. With that in mind I started my race with the objective of having fun, knowing full well that I was not in any kind of superstar shape. Yet the mud, the hills, and the large field proved to my advantage as I finished in a respectable time of 33:25; I was able to use my strength to charge the hills, and the mind-boggling number of racers only meant that there was always someone to chase down and pass. I even shocked myself by out-sprinting four girls in the finishing strait, something I am never usually able to do. Thus, this race served to prove to me that I am actually in a bit better shape than I thought I was. Not only this, but the BUCS cross country race was simply good, muddy fun!

The hosting team, the University of Sussex, threw a great big after party for all the universities competing as a way for all the various British university cross country teams to celebrate together. This weekend in Brighton, for me, was full of new experiences not limited to being so far south in the country, for this after party marked my very first club experience. As I turned twenty-one back in December and anticipating the start of a new year and new semester, lately I have been saying how much I’ve been wanting to do something crazy, to carpe diem and keep adding to the list of all the things I have experienced since moving to Scotland three years ago. So, while a club is not really my kind of scene (and by “not really” I mean “not in one million years…”), I decided to give it a try as part of my New Year’s Resolution to abandon my reservations and simply dothings. As my friend Sam was telling me before we went out, “A club is really all in what you make it,” advice I really took to heart. Thus, I looked at the evening as simply a fun night of dancing and singing to grand ol’ tunes like “Don’t Stop Believin’” with some of my favorite people.

While it was a wild experience, one I will most likely not repeat, I am glad I did it, for it now occupies a space in my list of “Things I Have Done.” When I started university three years ago, I promised myself that I would say yes to as many new experiences as possible, for if I had the gall to agree to move 3,000 miles away from home at eighteen years of age, there really is no limit to what I can do. So, while going to a club in a place like Brighton completely defies who I thought “Maggie” was, I am beginning to be okay with the fact that I am multi-faceted, that I can enjoy a variety of experiences, and that I am willing to try new things even if they aren’t necessarily what I envision myself doing. In the end, this night out was actually quite fun, just being goofy and celebrating with some of my best friends before knuckling down for another semester. So while my introverted self may need to do lots of this for a few weeks to recover:

Bilbo: “I just need to sit quietly for a moment.”

I am starting to appreciate coming out of my shell more and more, and becoming more willing to abandon my reservations and simply live.

All in all, this weekend I had in Brighton with the cross country team will make it into my official list of “Favorite Times at St Andrews” that I will look back on fondly as I age. Though I am proud of myself for stepping outside my comfort zone for a little while, which makes this trip more memorable, but I think what I will mostly smile at when I recall this trip is simply the wonderful company I was traveling with. This weekend in Brighton was such a strong bonding moment with the core of the cross country team, and I feel as though we have come out of the weekend not sick of one another, but even closer friends. I feel as though I have finally found “my tribe” here at St Andrews, and I love being part of such a diverse group of people. Yet while each and every one of us brings something new, or quirky, or unique to the group, we are all united on a few basic principles: a fondness for the outdoors, a passion for adventure, and simply the love of a run. These tenets, methinks, are the foundations for the meaningful and strong bonds I have forged with these people, bonds I wouldn’t trade for the world. Now St Andrews, once that “brave new world” of the unknown and the intimidating, has truly become my second home.

I apologize for the lack of posting as of late, as well as the tardiness of this post after my travels to Brighton actually occurred. This semester has kicked off with nearly 400 pages of reading a week; and that, combined with training twice a week and riding once a week, has seemingly eaten what time I have to continue my reflections on being here at St Andrews. However, as spring break and the cross country away trip are in the not-too distant future, I will have many exciting adventures to report, so I will do my best to keep this blog fresh and up to date. There are still many adventures to be had, and the sunset time of my St Andrews life is nearly on the horizon. And so, “I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)”

Originally written 11 February 2015

Meall a’Bhuachaille

In my days as a high school cross country runner I had earned the nickname “Bulldog,” the kind of creature every teenaged girl dreads being compared to. While it gave my teammates ample ammunition to tease me with, I learned to take it in stride, as it meant that my coach appreciated my ability to endure every challenge the sport had to offer with strength and ferocity. This bulldoggish personality means that I am also always looking for new and exciting running challenges to test whether toughness was what truly knit me together.

As it happens, moving to Scotland introduced to me a new caliber of running that I had previously never seen. While the kinds of Scots portrayed by the media may be just glorified stereotypes – fierce warriors who can be stuck by several arrows and still carry on as normal – my time in Scotland was beginning to demonstrate how much closer to reality these representations may be. For the truly intrepid on the Scottish running circuit, Scottish hill racing (known as “fell running”) is the chance to prove your make to your teammates and rivals. The idea is absurdly simple: run as fast as you can up a large, steep hill. For the more challenging fell races, the event is usually a combination of mountaineering and intense endurance racing, as both hands-and-knees scrambles up loose scree and marathon-caliber racing skills are required to finish. For my part, after a leisurely Sunday morning long run up Fife’s largest hill, West Lomond, I believed a fully-fledged fell race to be the most exciting prospect. And with the Meall a’Bhuachaille fell race in the Cairngorm National Park just a week away, it seemed that something in the universe was begging me to try it.


In the week leading up to the race, Scotland had been weathering winds up to seventy miles per hour in the after effects of a storm sweeping bombarding England. As race organizers were anticipating winds up to sixty miles per hour atop the peak of the hill, they rerouted the racecourse, which entailed adding distance, making the race closer to eleven miles rather than seven miles. As I had not really run more than seven miles lately, I was suddenly apprehensive. All of the other participants, seasoned fell runners, merely shrugged at the added distance. The cloud of “What have I gotten myself into” merely loomed over me as I feigned interest in pinning my number on.

It was fascinating to watch my fellow participants prepare for the run; what gear they were bringing on the course, how tightly they laced their worn trail shoes, and the various, and at times eccentric, warm-up rituals. I felt a bit out of place as perhaps one of the youngest participants and someone who had never done a fell race before. As this was a Category A fell race (ascent of at least fifty meters), I felt very naive in my choice of “first fell race.” And as I chirped merrily away with my teammates, I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious that maybe I didn’t belong here.

The first ascent began quite well for me. I tried running a majority of it and strategically chose the places I would walk in order to not fall behind the other participants. In hill racing, walking is acceptable if not crucial. There is an entire technique to it that my more seasoned teammate demonstrated prior to the start: hands on thighs, legs braced, and trudge. I managed to keep pace with one friend of mine for most of the ascent, that is, until we hit the wind. I think the strength of the wind is really what got to me throughout the race as a whole. As I’m not a very big person, each gust of wind nearly blew me from the side of the hill and even knocked me off my feet a few times. Other times I felt as though I was moving, until I realized that I was in fact being held back by these gale-force gusts. As I reached the top of the hill, marked by a cairn, I thought I was doing pretty well. Then came the descent.

When I was a child I used to be fearless: I could climb trees as nimbly as if I had been born amongst them and would run headlong down sand dunes without qualm. As I have gotten a bit older and realized the limits of the human body, however, that fearlessness has been replaced by over-caution. In the summer of 2013 I severely rolled my ankle on a trail run, which put me out of commission for months. I have never taken that amount of time off since I began running. Recovery involved physical therapy twice a week and absolute rest, easily one of the worst things I have experienced. I thought I would go mad. Never again do I want to experience an injury like that. Yet unfortunately, the nature of ankle rolls is just that: once you roll it, you can never go back to how you used to be, and it will always be weak and more susceptible to rolling. This has put a lot of fear into my physical activities than I would like: I’m constantly worried about my ankle, always taking my time to do things and gingerly completing whatever I am doing in order to protect it. Even with ankle supports, I am still haunted by the blue, swollen, deformed wreck my ankle had become. The fearlessness that once was so quintessentially Maggie has been replaced by caution and delicacy.

Descending Meall a’Bhuachaille was a reflection of this. I was picking my way gingerly down the scree, constantly worried my ankle would give at any second. At one point, I heard a sickening snap emanate from my right ankle, my bad ankle. Yet I was determined to keep going, since I was alone on the side of a mountain. All the other participants were either leagues ahead or behind me. Just the mountain and myself: I had to do this. I stumbled, I slipped, I tripped. The wind kept ripping at my eyes, making it harder for me to see where I was putting my feet. Yet for a split second I was able to take in my surroundings: a sunshine that seems almost endangered in the October season, majestic Scottish hills all around, and a loch in the distance. The Scottish highlands in this state are perfection. As I was alone with all these elements, I finally gained the small shred of confidence I needed to simply trust my body and hope for the best. So I began to run, faster and faster, down Meall a’Bhuachaille. For the first time in a long time, I felt free.

After this descent I made it back out onto the road, where I encountered a few other participants, the first people I had seen in about half an hour. I overtook them with ease, gaining confidence as the run progressed. I had no idea how far or how long I had been running, all I knew was that we were drawing closer to the campground where the race started. Little did I know that this was only halfway. Since the course had to be rerouted and distance added on, I was essentially running blind. I had no idea where the course was going next, and little did I know that this addition meant there would be a second ascent.

This is where my real struggle began. Again there was a “wee” hill on the road; to any from my hometown, this hill would seem mountain enough, similar to the “huge hills” we used to run at our Sault St Marie invitational in high school. To the other fell runners this was a flat road and the perfect time to rest for the upcoming ascent. They all ran up the road with ease. And while I pride myself in faring quite well on hilly runs, I needed to walk at a few points as I was slowly losing the ability to breathe. It was here that I encountered the teammate who suggested this race in the first place. Already ascended and descended the second peak, he was casually sprinting down this last hill towards the finish. This was when I realized I had quite a ways to go.

The second ascent began on root-bidden trails slick with muck. I also had to keep diving into the verge to make way for leaders hurling themselves down the trail. I recall watching them in awe as their feet rolled over the roots and stones with ease, as if they themselves were a part the old Scottish forests. As I made my way out of the trees at last I caught sight of the second peak: the entire ascent was a gaping maw of deep, black mud, hungry to suck me down. With each step I sunk nearly up to my knees, not only fighting to free my legs but struggling against even stronger wind. These factors, along with already being exhausted from the first climb, made the second ascent one of the hardest things I had ever done. Then one of the racers I had so eagerly galloped past on the flat road shouldered ahead of me, and I realized how much of a greenhorn I truly was.

Suddenly I saw the cairn right before me. At last! Yet where did that runner who had passed me only moments before disappear to? As I reached the cairn, I recognized it as a false marker. There was an additional peak we needed to ascend before we could turn around. The stronger, older, and more experienced runners I had put so much distance on suddenly moved around me, as if the howling winds had no effect on them. The final push to the turn around point also took me by surprise: it was an all out, hands-and-knees scramble up loose slate stones. With the hood of my vest trying to break free from my neck and the wind fighting me, this was the moment I was almost certain I would be blown straight from the mountain face. Yet I stood up and I pushed on.

I was alone once more. Really alone. I was convinced I was the last participant out on the course, which nearly brought tears to my eyes. As a two time high school cross country MVP with race wins to my name, last is a position I thought I would never encounter in my lifetime. Yet here I was, alone in the gathering dark and speckling rain. This was probably one of the most humbling experiences of my life, yet it forced me to confront precisely why it is I run. I signed up for this race for myself, to test the limits of my body and to experience something new. I am always seeking new experiences and crave adventure, and this, mountain running, is the very heart of that. For the second time that day I mustered my courage and flung myself headlong down the hillside into the gathering dark.

After falling onto my backside twice, a shoe being claimed by the muck, fingers bloodied on the twisting bracken I reached the road. I could not feel my legs at this point, yet the sun had returned to welcome me back to the finish line. Faster and faster I ran, determined to put in a good effort for the completion of my fell race. I do not know what my finishing time actually was, I ended up not being the last one in but third to last, and I finished. I ran an eleven mile race that ascended two giant hills. I survived.

Meall a’Bhuachaille now constitutes the hardest physical challenge I have experienced to date. I still cannot believe I actually willingly participated in a fell race, and a rather difficult one at that. This race also reminded me of something very important: that I run for myself, because it is my passion, and how it is a gateway into the beautiful places of the world, such as the Scottish highlands. As a very competitive person, winning titles and being ahead of all my teammates used to be the only thing that mattered to me as a runner. While I achieved none of those things at Meall a’Bhuachaille, I realized how little those things constitute the sheer joy of running.

While I tend to be a very predictable person who is quite set in my ways, since moving to Scotland it has become my mission to infuse my life with as much spontaneity as possible. Though I love the comfort of routine, every so often I feel the insatiable urge to do something that is completely out of character, to test my body, mind, and will, and to see just how far I can go. Meall a’Bhuachaille constitutes one of these great spontaneous milestones that punctuate my life. I managed to complete something most people would never even dream of doing, and I surprised myself by being up to the physical challenge. Lately I have been telling myself that I will never be in as good of shape as I was in high school, that I’ve lost the mental edge I used to have as an athlete. Yet my participation in this race reminded me that I am indeed a strong person, both physically and mentally.

Following the race my legs were bruised and scraped from my fight with the highland bracken. I was not able to walk properly until the week after, and every time I stood up my bones protested. I was also forced to throw away the shoes that endured the wrath of the rain and mud, as “survived” was a rather loose way of describing their post-race state. The question remains: would I ever do something like this again? A better question might be “when is the next one?”

Originally written 26 October 2014

Another Beginning

“If you want to overcome the whole world, overcome yourself.”

-Fyodor Dostoevsky, Demons

It was the third time my mother left me tucked away amongst the sea gnawed rocks and Scottish heather. As I awaited the loneliness to slither down my throat like a sour, medicinal draft, it was perhaps out of force of habit that I fled into the night, away from yet another new roof under which I must carve out my existence, away from yet another person whom I did not wish to see me cry.

Under the dripping light of the Corn Moon I sat, preparing to be my own shoulder to cry on yet again. However, the longer I sat, transfixed by the darkling sea, the emptier my mind became. The only thought my mind could grasp was not really a thought at all, but rather the felling that envelops the spirit as the body is physically embraced. I sat cradled in the arms of Fortune, for all I could say to myself in this moment was, “Gosh, am I lucky.”

Though trivial this may outwardly seem this moment signifies a personal victory. I had rushed out into the night seeking the darkness to hide my tears, lamenting yet again the absence of that world I love so. But the tears never came. I realized as I gazed back at the sleepy St Andrews that my heart had been swelled by all that this place is, that I am capable of making a home here as well. As a person who values a home above all else, I feel this may be the great leap into a more fulfilled life that I needed.

St Andrews has finally become my home too, though it lacks many of the qualities I convinced myself a home must possess. I am three thousand miles away from my family, the building in which I dwell is not a permanent situation, and I am without a Bear. Yet I can stare out at the North Sea and wonder what awaits just beyond the horizon line. I can run through forests I once only read about. I can simply be free. These are the components that truly build a home, for they are foundations that fortify the soul; and for the time being, St Andrews is where my soul belongs.

The mention of freedom brings to mind another though. For the first time in what seems a very long time, I feel free to simply be. The girl who began university nearly three years ago was a slave to organization: she believed life could be compartmentalized into her definitions of what home, success, and happiness entail. Yet she had not lived enough to realize that when you stop attempting to mold something as transmutable as Life into what you think it should be, it begins to take on its own form that is more beautiful and pure than what you could have ever conceived.

Three years ago I had a definite plan for my life, down to its minutiae, to last me until retirement. Now my plan doesn’t extend beyond the day’s tasks. I have no plan for myself beyond the immediate future, for I want everything and nothing for my long term. I want to sit on my couch and think all day, I want to compete in the Mongol Derby, I want to write a novel, I want to rub elbows with my favorite actors at Cannes as I discuss a movie I helped produce, I want to chop lumber for a living: all of these things are too absurd, too unrealistic, and too various for me to hone in on one and hunt it down. Thus I have no obligation to any of  them, and that to me, who wasted so many years on planning the unpredictability of youth, is refreshing. I can focus on today, this hour, this one heartbeat: and I am happy.

All of these reflections culminate into a grand conclusion. Yet how can I conclude when I have not even had my first class yet? The conclusion is this: I have overcome myself. Though I pretend I am wiser than my seventeen year old self, I am taking a line from her chapter to begin my penultimate year here at St Andrews, the very line that began this whole journey in the first place. I am overcoming who I thought I was: a person who depended on her home for stability, a person who needed a plan to be satisfied, and a person who only played at strength but never bothered with any heavy lifting. For the first time, I finally feel ready and eager to overcome all of the challenges of university, for I have overcome the narrow definition I reserved for myself.

This semester I am taking classes, such as Literary Theory, which I have no idea what it entails or whether I will be successful at it. I am living with someone who is in many ways my direct opposite. I have and will be gregarious when it comes to meeting new people, whether they are potential academic children (I’ve got one so far!), potential new friends, or that elusive “Person.” I have rediscovered why I came to this university in the first place: to run so far from my comfort zone that I cannot see it from this new horizon.

I have also rediscovered what truly makes me happy in life, and it isn’t the safety of my home nor the comfort of routine. Challenges are what I live for, to test the limit of what my body, mind, and soul can do. So maybe I can overcome the whole world after all.

Originally written 14 September 2014