“I’ve decided to run the Maine race,” I tell my boyfriend Steve over dinner Friday night.

“Oh-kaaay,” he says, in a tone that means something else.

There Dawn goes again–setting her sights on some unlikely endeavor, trying to shortcut preparation and planning with one foolhardy, glorious push for the summit. The Pineland Farms Trail Race (the version I’ll be doing) is 50K, or approximately 31 miles. It’s a) more than twice as long as any race I’ve run so far; b) my first trail race; and c) uphill both ways.*

“It’s like leading Doubleissima,” I tell him. “Sure, I’ll do it badly, but I know I can do it. Besides, what’s the worst that can happen?” Steve knows the “right” way to train for a race, but the enthusiasm of insanity is contagious. On Sunday he starts training me. On Monday we reserve a hotel room in Maine.

Saturday I step up to lead Jane, 5.7+, with a casualness born of boredom. While it’s always interesting to do a new route, there’s nothing about a 5.7 50 feet from the Uberfall that can keep my attention. The start is fun, but it’s not until I’m stuck and scared that my spirit is engaged.

“You can always go the tree,” Steve suggests.

I’m not going to any tree on any 5.7. He’s shivering, but I’m stubborn. Same stupid move as on Bonnie’s Direct and I’m stuck at it for the second time today. (“You don’t have to do it.” “Yes, I do.”) Same outcome, eventually.

“You did it safely,” Todd says when I whine about the mess I made leading this weekend on top of the mess I made leading last weekend. “That’s what matters.”

“I know,” I sigh. Still. When I take on these challenges, I always believe I’ll succeed. Before I begin I’ve already written the happy ending:

“Climber floats 5.10 with grace and style; partner can’t follow.”

“Unknown crushes opponents in startling come-from-behind victory.”

“Student proves part-time massage practice can be unexpectedly lucrative; clients exclaim, ‘I can walk again!'”

Sunday I stop by the theater to start work on my lighting design. Normally at this point I’d be scared. The tricky thing about designing lights, for me, is that I don’t know how to design lights. I’m totally faking it. The terror leading up to the dramatic reveal when all the rest of the world discovers that I’m faking it can be almost paralyzing. But not as paralyzing as knowing I can do it.

“This show’s too easy,” I complain to anyone who’ll listen. “It’s not hard; it’s just work.”

At the theater I find a ceiling that’s unexpectedly naked. Despite my instructions otherwise, someone has stripped all the lights from the previous show. I don’t have enough time to hang them all up again. Now I’m scared.

I’m lazy, but I’m stubborn.
If I know I can do it, I don’t need to.
If I say I’m going to do it, I will.

I think this is how I quit smoking. I know it’s how I snagged Steve. I double-dog dared myself to walk up and kiss him, damn the onlookers. If I want it, I can do it, but only if I don’t know I can but say I will. Uncertainty plus determination equals motivation.

with Steve:
Directissima a la Todd, 5.9 (P1/2: Dawn, P3: Steve)
High E, 5.6 (P3: Dawn)
Bonnie’s Roof, Direct, 5.10 (P1: Steve, P2: Dawn)
Travels with Charlie, 5.7 (P1: Steve)
Jane, 5.7 (P1: Dawn)

* more accurately, it’s a loop with “unrelenting hills”