November 2020

It’s one of the few warm and sunny days in Moscow in the summer of 1987. Pale yellow sunlight glints off the skimpy Speedos worn by the proud Russian sunbathers sprawled on the narrow, pebble-strewn beach. I fiddle with the straps of my more modest swimsuit as I wade into the slightly murky water.

Of our group of roughly 25 students, I am the last one to start plying my way across the Moscow River. Leading the way is our intrepid professor, Richard “Dick” Sylvester, who had rallied the members of our summer study group to undertake this crossing. After an afternoon of lounging on the grassy riverbank, everyone is excited for a change—and a challenge.

Except me: I’m nervous. I’d barely passed the requisite swim test on day one of my freshman year at Colgate University. (The family who donated the funds for the swimming pool made the test a graduation requirement.) Despite my long limbs, my swim stroke lacks any grace and skill; I swim with my face out of the water, turning my head on every labored stroke.

Our destination is a scrubby island a few hundred yards from shore. Given my swimming ability (or lack thereof), it might as well have been miles away. Light chop made water splash into my mouth, so I sputter as I swim, occasionally turning over on my back to rest and regain some semblance of calm.

I’m by far the last one to reach the island beach. Taking my time to gain my footing on the shifting riverbed, I stride slowly out of the water toward my Colgate camarades. Dick turns to me with a look of wonder on his mustachioed face, using my Russian nickname as he exclaims, “Sarushka: You’re an Amazon!”

The other students gasp and titter, thinking Dick has just slung an insult like an arrow at me.

But I hear his words as he intends them: By alluding to the tribe of mythical Greek women-warriors, our erudite professor is complimenting my strength and stature. (Plus, he’s not wrong: At 5’ 11” tall, I tower over 5’ 8” Dick.)

Throughout our remaining weeks in Moscow, I wake early every other morning to run through the gritty Soviet streets. Muscovites glance glumly at my obviously American vigor as they stand in line to shop for necessities from nearly empty store shelves. Dick always chuckles when we encounter each other in the hotel lobby post-run, the same look of amazement in his eyes that shone on that sunny day at the beach.

Dick’s “You’re an Amazon!!” comment rings in my ears countless times in the years after the study group. When I teach myself to swim with my face in the water. Learning how to do flip-turns on a Club Med vacation in Mexico. Doing a sprint-distance triathlon with the goals of, “Don’t get your goggles kicked off.” and “Don’t fall off the bike.” As I complete a cycling century that turns out to be actually 104, not just 100, miles. When I dive into a 2-mile swim race in a California alpine lake. As I lope along a concrete trail hugging Lake Michigan, training for my first marathon.

For me, Dicks’ words of wonder are a rallying cry. A mirror in which to see myself as strong and capable, not the straggler at the back of the watery pack.

The fatherly friendship bond Dick and I formed on that summer study group grew stronger over the years. We enjoyed visits on both the east and west coasts of the U.S. and even in Moscow in November 2000. Dick always looked at me with a look of admiring incredulity, seeing the Amazon in me every time. I sensed his admiration in heartfelt letters and postcards we exchanged regularly.

On a visit to Portland, Dick gave me the Soviet equivalent of a BAMR magnet: On it, a robust, shorts-and-tank-clad woman, with a flag-waving child perched on her shoulder, walks on a riverside promenade. This magnet, done in the Socialist Realism style of art I studied while in Moscow, lives on the metal hood above our gas range. As I cook my family’s nightly dinners, the magnet reminds me I’m a mother runner. That magnet—like Dick’s looks and words—tell me that Dick always saw me for the strong, capable woman I am, even when I was still learning to see myself that way.

That magnet also takes me back to the banks of the Moscow River, dripping wet in the Soviet sunshine. Yet now it’s my face, not my swimsuit, that’s soaked. With tears, as my beloved, believe-in-me professor died last week. Your Amazon misses you dearly, Dick, and I’m eternally grateful you recognized qualities in me before I saw them in myself.

Is there someone in your life who saw you as an athlete before you did?