The World Through My Shoes

Handwritten

2012-02-22T10:37:00.000-08:00

The envelope was beautiful and it was addressed to me. I glance at the return address and it does not register with me. Leaving the mailbox, I walk back towards the house while balancing my bag, purse and the day's mail. To complicate things I grab the two bags of groceries out of my car and then precariously open the back door.

I set everything down on the counters and gladly take the hugs my sons give me. The focus now is turned to the putting away of groceries, the making of dinner and homework. The beautiful envelope lay on the corner of the counter, seemingly forgotten amongst all the whirling activity around it.

Not until after the dinner dishes are cleaned and tomorrow's lunches are packed, do I get a quiet moment to open the envelope. I break the seal and find a card just as beautiful as the envelope it came in. This is stationery. What is this about?

I open the card to find every square inch covered in handwritten words. It is a card written to me; thanking me. Tracy is a wife and a mother of two active boys. As the boys grow, motherly duties happily took over and her personal time was put on hold.

Until the day she became inspired.

Tracy is now taking back her fitness and working hard toward the goals she has set for herself this year, which include participating in a very tough obstacle course race as well as run her first marathon. Her handwritten note thanked me for writing my blog and giving her the inspiration to try. This is where the tears clouded my vision and it becomes difficult to continue reading.

The last few weeks I have read Tracy's note several times as I am still in wonder over such incredibly kind words. When I laced up my $10 sneakers in 2003 and ran around the block for the first time since high school, I never dreamed that I would be an inspiration to anybody. My vision of myself has always been simply a wife and mom who runs just to feel good about herself. And then one day you get a handwritten note telling you that is enough to inspire someone else.

My wish for all of you to take away from this post is this - be who you are and live with passion in your life. Others are watching and maybe one day someone will tell you your actions have inspired them. And through teary eyes, you thank God as you realize it is they, who have in turn, inspired you.

Grey Flannel

2012-02-13T10:31:00.000-08:00

Grey Flannel. The early morning darkness didn't conceal what I could not see. The sky looked like a large, solid sheet of grey flannel. Rain so fine it fell as a mist; tree tops outlined as though one was peering through a whisper thin fog. Taking one last sip from my water bottle, I set it on the concrete bench nestled in the corner of the patio. I hit the start button on my Garmin.

As I am recovering from a sprained ankle, I take it easy and start with a brisk walk. Leaving the cul-de-sac, I make my way onto one of only two roads into our neighborhood. The morning is quiet. I hear a raccoon scamper up a large pine tree, in which it conceals the visitor with it's massive branches. I begin to run for a distance. My ankle feels good.

A neighbor passes me on their way to work. Although in the darkness I can not see him, I know he is smiling and waving as he drives by so I do the same; his headlights lighting up my refelctive jacket making me stick out in stark contrast to my surroundings.

I walk for a short distance before continuing my run allowing my ankle to warm up. The misty rain is thicker now as I run along the roadside. There is a spot on my foot that is making me very aware of its presence. For three weeks I convinced myself it was sore from the sprain, but now I am looking at the reality it could be more.

I struggle with calling the orthopedic doctor.

Nearing the turn around I slow again to a walk. Nature is quiet and I try to get my head to be the same. Too many thoughts, too many questions, too much nagging going on in my foot. I turn it over to God.

The road that takes me home is colored black from the rain. The neighborhood begins to waken; kitchen lights glow lending proof the day is beginning for some. My run ends and I stop my watch. I stand for a moment on the back patio, listening to the quiet, and feeling the rain. The misty rain feels soft against my skin, just like the softness of a grey flannel sheet.

Rest In Peace Mad Woman

2012-02-08T11:44:00.001-08:00

The Mad Woman is dead; may she rest in peace and never come back to haunt me.

I, with unabandoned excitment, went for a run this morning! Actually, it was more of a walk/run/walk/run and it felt great. The alarm rang and in an instant I was out of the bed and putting on my running clothes. Within minutes, I was out the door and testing the strength in my ankle.

Thus, the Mad Woman had to die. With each gentle step I took, I was digging her grave deeper and deeper. With the ability of being able to run returning, I am no longer feeling like a mad woman with pent up energy wanting to pull out my hair.

Running helps me sleep better.

Running helps me feel better.

Running gives me energy.
Running keeps me sane.

This is why I have missed it so. My sanity comes in the form of shoe laces being tied at 5 a.m. This morning my walk/run took place in the rain, but I didn't care. I was out there and I was running.

Now to work on that Ankle Dictator. I am hoping to carve his name next; underneath that of the Mad Woman's.

Diary of Mad Woman : Part 3 ~ Bald With Flippers

2012-02-02T10:37:00.000-08:00

I'm bald; as in baby-butt-smooth bald. I should be anyway. Actually, it's a miracle I'm not. Running has been my stress reliever since I started it in 2004. Entering into day 16 of no running, it's remarkable and noteworthy that I have not yet pulled out all my hair.

Someone buy me a stocking cap just in case.

My husband and I will be spending the weekend in Seattle. His work is throwing a company-wide party celebrating their Centennial year in business. Normally one to love a good hob-knobbing, this one struck a chord of anxiety within me. How in the world does one wear party attire and not wear heels? The Ankle Dictator smirks at me.

The human population calls the appendages at the bottom of their legs "feet". I, on the other hand, call mine flippers. God blessed me with a very wide foot which is an incredible advantage when it comes to scuba diving. I don't scuba dive.

The high heeled shoes I do find are relatively comfortable on my flippers; however, throw in a sprained ankle and no designer creates shoes that wide. My running shoes (which I'm fortunate enough to be able to wear to my job while being injured) will somehow not cut it with party attire.

Such are my life contemplations this week while being injured. Normally I'd run to solve this world-coming-to-an-end problem, but we all know that's as possible as me getting my swollen left flipper into a high heeled shoe. Enter in the pulling out of my hair.

If you are at The Westin in downtown Seattle on Saturday night look for me. I'll be the woman in party attire, wearing a stocking cap and running shoes.

And I'll look hot.

Diary of A Mad Woman : Part 2

2012-01-28T23:12:00.000-08:00

The Ankle Dictator and I are in a stare down; each waiting to call the other's bluff. Unfortunately, I am not bluffing and he isn't joking so we continue to stare at each other. It's a waiting game and I wait impatiently for him to flinch. Maybe I should flirt with him.

Oh the Ankle Dictator thinks he can trick me. He brought me a gift that he thought I'd love; wrapping it up in fancy little paper with a great big bow thinking I'd be impressed.  Cleverly gifted was the promise of sleeping in. One would think the gift of extra sleep would be welcomed and I won't lie, the first day or two the Ankle Dictator snagged me hook, line, and sinker. Not anymore. While in training and after 4 days of hard running, I'd earned a day off of running therefore allowing me to sleep in. Oh how sweet that day was. Now that I have them every day, they aren't so sweet - more like the sweetness of a sour patch kid.

After a week of snow, ice and finally rain, we were blessed with a day of the most incredible sunshine and blue skies. I'd look out my window and every thought was consumed with how it was incredibly perfect running weather. I cursed the Ankle Dictator. As my sprained left foot is needed for the clutch in the car, I couldn't even drive my convertible. Sigh. I bought a latte instead.  It made sense at the time.

Saturday morning I wouldn't have to get up early to meet my friends for a high mileage run, leaving me with the freedom to make plans for Friday night. We invited our friends Suzanne, Jim, Karen & Tim over for a friendly (?) game of Pit. Not one of us could remember the last time we had laughed that hard, each declaring our abs were getting the best workout they'd ever had. We rediscovered cheek muscles and the next morning they were still sore.

The Ankle Dictator and I continue our stare down; but I will take my laughter-induced sore abs and cheeks and begin a new workout.   And I will workout hard in hopes to gain some of the endorphins running gives me. When the sore muscles come, I will sharpen my stare at the Ankle Dictator and when he least expects it, I will wink at him. Hopefully it'll fluster him enough to forget about my ankle.

Diary of A Mad Woman : Part 1

2012-01-22T09:16:00.000-08:00

It is 5 days removed from spraining my ankle, 5 days of no running, and I am still alive. Amazingly I haven't killed anyone either; that could be in part that everyone can out run me right now, but let's attribute it to my incredible self-restraint shall we?

The Ankle Dictator has been pretty quiet, not jabbing my ankle every time I move. The trick, I discovered, is sitting on the couch with my foot up. This alone is an accomplishment worthy of marathon-finish line proportions. Never have I sat still for this long. Who would've thought that rest really does work? Each day I've been able incorporate more and more into my day letting me know that my ankle is doing much better in it's recovery this time around than it did in 2008.

Mr. Meany Pants visited me the other day. Dressed all in brown, he hopped out of the big brown box truck he drives and had the cruel audacity to bring to me the Running Warehouse package I had ordered before I sprained my ankle. Can you believe the nerve of some people? Although I will say I look forward to the day I can break in this bad boy. Saucony's ViziPro will make me light up in the dark without having to wear my jacket. It even comes with a flashing light on the sleeve. This satisfies my gadget geekiness (<---- that is a word now).

I'm planning the exercises I will be able to do that do not involve my ankle. This has proved a little trickier than anticipated; even some of the weight set exercises require me to brace my body with my feet and ankles. As it gets stronger I'll be able to incorporate more and more.

Today I'm planning on an intense upper body workout ~ I am painting my oldest son's room. Oh come on now, did you really think I'd sit still all day?

Curve Balls & Laundry Baskets

2012-01-19T12:56:00.000-08:00

One can plan out an entire year of racing, down to the minute detail and it can all get tossed up in the air by a laundry basket. Strange to think that something that has absolutely nothing to do with running can bring my exercise regime to a screeching halt.

The Villian - doesn't it look evil?

It is hard to say what happened, as I really am not sure what did. I do know I casually leaped over the laundry basket (AKA The Villian), easily clearing all 18 inches of it.
The next moment I am on the ground in pain.

Golf ball or ankle?

And where my ankle is suppose to be I find a golf ball. The ground has become my friend as I am having a difficult time standing up. In an instant I knew, I just knew, this golf ball size lump has sucked every moment from my near-future runs. I lived through this in 2008 when I had a severe sprain, on the same ankle, and was side-lined for 6 weeks.

Here I sit on my sofa, my foot wrapped and propped up on pillows. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't sad. It's disheartening to look at your personal goals and know that they are put on hold. The Ankle Dictator will be in control for awhile; as much as I despise him, I have to play this smart and listen to him. My spring marathons have been taken off the schedule and my June schedule is questionable.

There are blessings in this that I recognize, and for that I am grateful. In order not to have Christmas gifts put on credit all my race fees were put on hold until February. So although running them has been taken out of my schedule, I am not out of race fees.

My boys have been wonderful, making sure I can stay put and have my foot up. It is a wonderful thing as a parent when you receive affirmation of your parenting with the kindness and care they show during times like this. They will make wonderful husbands.

When my sadness took the form of tear drops, my husband shared the heartbreak with me. Not many women have empathy like that in their spouse, I am blessed.

Being taken off running is not the end of the world and is not the worst thing that could happen to me. Right now I need to realign my goals and once I can wrap my head around them, my focus will sharpen. However right now, I am sad. And that is ok.

Falling Snow

2012-01-16T17:21:00.000-08:00

The slider door closes behindme. All is quiet. Snowflakes fall softly from the heavens. The ground is white now in color and makesthe darkness less deep. I press thestart on my Garmin and begin my run.

The world seems asleep and silent;my breathing the only sound I hear. Faroff in the distance I see a car traveling down the road but I do not hearit. The morning is incrediblypeaceful. A neighbor cautiously drivesby and their headlights reveal what I could already feel; snow was lazilyfalling.

My footprints leave the onlyevidence of my trail. The displaced snowon the country road I am running tell me a few of my neighbors have left forwork. The snow laden clouds part for awhisper showing me the bright quarter moon they conceal.

Snow rests atop a mailbox perched ona weathered cedar fence post. The fencehad come down over time with a few sections still remaining. Nails rusted past their usefulness leavecedar beams hanging precariously along the field’s edge. The snow clings to it trying to cover the ageof the fence with the newness of white.

A rabbit hopping through a fieldcatches my eye. He stops and watchesme. He blends in perfectly to hissurroundings. My footfalls startle aduck sleeping in the rain filled ditch and he takes to flight. He in turn has startled me. Within seconds I have lost sight of him inthe pre-dawn morning.

At the turn around point I reversemy steps to head back for home. Notwanting the run to end I decide to add another mile despite knowing the rest ofmy morning will be pressed for time. Thesnow falls heavier now. Looking down Isee my footprints made at the start of my run. I follow them feeling as if I am running in the faintest of echos.

I run to the back yard, finishing myrun while pressing the stop button on my Garmin. Drinking my water, I stand silentlyoutdoors. The world seemingly pauseswith me, and for a brief moment the only thing being done is the watching offalling snow.

Lake Samish Half Marathon

2012-01-08T17:10:00.000-08:00

We got the last parking spacenearest the lodge where runners were to check in and collect their numberedbibs and timing chips. The temperaturestood at 45* creating perfect weather for running, but chilly for standing andwaiting.

Entering into the park lodge itbecame an instant family reunion. Friends not seen for awhile greeted us with hugs and in an instantseveral conversations had started at once. As more runners registered, our circle grew. Time came to shed our coats and Pat, Kathyand I made our way back to the truck to trade our coats and sweats for fuelbelts and running gloves. My husbandDennis and my son Dane were getting their bikes ready for a ride around thelake. I wished them well and made my wayback to the lodge.

Collin, a friend of my oldest son,was near the entrance, nervously waiting for the start of his first halfmarathon. Talking with him and his momwe talked of his training and his plans for the race. At 14 his goal was to finish in 1 hour 30minutes, an aggressive time for a hilly course. I wished him well and told him I’d see him at the finish.

Entering the lodge it wasn’t longbefore Pat had us heading out the door for a warm up. There is something very comforting in doingon race day what you always do before a run. We talk and stretch and discuss the paces for the day. Between injuries, comebacks and previousweek’s marathons, Kathy, Cari and I were hoping to simply have a good run.

The race director corrals everyoneto the starting line, gives direction and then blows the horn. We were off and running. It didn’t take long to get into a rhythm, andat times our pace was too fast. Theroute consisted of two 6.6 mile loops around Lake Samish. Lakeside residents could be found on theirdecks shouting encouragement as we ran by. One clever household created their own aid station with water and beerand a large sign offering “hydrate or ride”. They won for creativity.

The three of us kept a strong andsteady pace and managed the rolling hills with ease. We wondered if it would feel so easy on thesecond loop. The lake was calm and greyreminding us the calendar read January. We admired the beautiful homes and summer cabins that peppered thelake’s edge.

Successfully completing the firstloop, 59 minutes later we were beginning the second loop around the lake. We knew where the hills were and what toexpect and found ourselves so lost in conversation, they again went byeasily. Despite running a marathon 7days previous, and much to my amazement, I was feeling strong. The exhaustion I feared would come,didn’t.

We were on the backside of the lakeand cresting the final hill, making our total elevation gain 1,714 feet. Nearing the final mile marker, we picked upthe pace making it our fastest mile of the day. Running through the finisher’s chute my husband and my friends arecheering and waiting for high fives, hugs and fist bumps.

The finisher clock read 2:01:19,almost 14 minutes faster than I thought I’d do. Although a far cry from my personal best it was enough to place me 8^thin my age bracket. Pat ran a newpersonal best with 1:40:58 giving him a 5^th place finish in his agegroup. In the lodge, I bumped intoCollin, who with a big smile, told me he did a 1:24 beating his goal by 6 minutesand placing him 2^nd in his age group. At only 14 years old, he is one to watch as Ithink he has the capability to make it big on the world stage. You heard it here first.

A few hours removed from the race, Isit here quietly typing out my thoughts on paper. In all honesty, I admit my own body surprisedme with its strength today. Running amarathon with 7300 ft of elevation gain only 7 days prior to this race, I didnot think I would feel so strong in this one. I was wrong. A runner’s biggest criticis the voice inside the runner’s own head. There will be ugly miles ahead, there will be difficult miles ahead andfor those miles I will bottle up this feeling of hope. And when those miles come, as we all knowthey do, I will crack open the bottle and breathe it in. This day, I will remember.

Last Chance Marathon

2012-01-01T16:26:00.000-08:00

Large, white clouds obscure Mount Baker yet help create a spectacular sunrise with the morning sun's rays of red exploding behind them. A beautiful start to the last day of the year. A couple hundred of us milled around the start line trying to keep warm. It wasn't long before the countdown began, someone yelled "Go!" and we were running.

Last Chance Marathon would be my fifth of the year and a perfect way to end the year. Knowing this trail was not an easy one and not conducive to a personal best, I was using this race as a celebration of my 2011 year of running; every step would be enjoyed.

Once we got onto the trail the crowd seemed to space out pretty quickly. It wasn't long before a woman, after seeing my jacket, approached me telling me she too was a Marathon Maniac. For the next mile or two we talked of races we've done while the trail's crushed rock crunched under our feet. Entering Arroyo Park the trail became a single track and she took off in front of me. I concentrated on my foot falls on this technical part of the trail.

Mile 4 a man commented on my jacket and how he was working toward becoming a Maniac. I slowed my pace to talk with him. John is a soldier, stationed 3 hours south in Fort Lewis. This was his second lifetime marathon. We shared a mile before he told me to move on as he had to slow it down.

My husband had positioned himself to be at mile 5 and as this was on out and back course which we would do twice, I'd see him 4 times. I was feeling good and in need of nothing so he simply cheered me on; as well as on my return. Reversing the route I made my way back to the park in which we started. Half marathoners were finished and full marathoners went back out for the second and final loop.

As expected the runners thinned out tremendously, giving me plenty of alone time to celebrate my final marathon of the year. Slivers of light were beginning to break through the winter's forest. Entering into Arroyo Park the sound of the creek greeted me. The descent was rapid and soon the trail snaked it's way alongside the creek. The rains had swollen its waters and rushed over rock and fallen trees. The trail, peppered with roots and rocks, kept my attention. Small wooden bridges latticed their way over the creek and washouts. Winter's leafless maples dressed only with thick green moss lined the muddy trail. The switchbacks took me from the creek to the top of the valley. A steep ascent, I walked out of the park onto the trail.

At the trail head I heard people cheering for me as I emerged. I smile when I realize it is my friends Arlane and Amy, who after running the back trails and stumbled upon the marathon route kept an eye out for me as they knew I was there. I stop and give them big hugs. A complete surprise and one that gave me a boost. After we talk a bit, they cheer me on my way and turn away to finish their run.

I am now heading toward Dennis and feel blessed to have such great friends and a husband up ahead standing in the cold waiting to see if I need anything. My hands are cold and he rushes to get me my gloves. After an orange slice, a hug, and kiss I'm on my way toward the final turn around point. Reaching it I give those at the aid station high fives and head back for the final 6.2 miles of the run.

The trail is muddy and squishes under foot. I maneuver my way around to the driest sections. I see no one ahead of me and no one behind me. I stop for a brief moment. Not a sound was heard. Standing in the woods, I listen to nature. I feel peace and thank God for such beautiful scenery. I run on celebrating the beauty around me.

A man with a speedy shuffle is coming toward me. I ask him if his name is Mel. With a mischievous smile he tells me it is. Shaking his hand I introduce myself and tell him it is wonderful to see him out here running marathons again. In the spring, at the age of 77 he had fallen out of a tree and took 6 months to recover. A man who routinely ran 20 marathons a year spent no time feeling sorry for himself, recovered quickly and came back to running marathons the previous month. His smile warmed the chill out of the day.

At mile 21 my husband filled my water bottle and sent me on my way as he went off to an appointment. Despite being tired from the rigors of this trail race, I felt good. The trail occasionally afforded spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean. It was easy to be lost in thought with such beautiful vistas. Madrona trees hung precariously over large rock face as if a small wind would cause them to tumble down the mountainside.

I enter in Arroyo Park for the last and final time. With a little over two miles to go there is a bounce in my step and I'm celebrating my final 2 miles of 2011. Takao Suzuki, although running the race himself, pauses to snap my picture. Making my way up and out of the ravine I notice someone at the top of the hill. It takes a moment for me to realize it is my coach Pat. Once he saw me, his encouragement started bringing a big smile to my face. At the top of the hill he gives me a big hug. I am overwhelmed. Knowing he had a full day of commitments he made time to find me along the course just to encourage me on the last of the biggest hills I'd face on the course. With a final pat on the back he sent me for my final ascent reminding me once at the top it would be downhill all the way to the finish. A mantra I'd repeat several times over the final miles.

Mile 25 came and I celebrated each step. The feelings of being incredibly blessed welled up inside and were bubbling at the surface. I rounded the corner taking an off-shoot of the trail into the park. Nearing the finishline I do not see the clock ticking off the time, I see only one thing. My coach had driven to the finish to cheer me home and celebrate the finish with me.

This final run of the year was not about running my fastest time, it was simply about the run. Driving home, the emotions of the day flooded over me. How incredibly blessed I am to have a spouse who braves hours of cold to support me and friends who search me out solely to encourage me. Their acts of selflessness touch me deeply. My heart is full. I can't think of a better way to close the year.

Christmas Blessings

2011-12-25T16:25:00.000-08:00

Rain bounced off the windshield.  The sun was still sleeping as were most homes I drove by this Christmas Eve morning. The city streets were considerably quiet; most retailers still closed preparing for a busy day.

I turned down a dark, desolate road and by the glow of my headlights could see the rain bounce off the pavement. Although the calendar read December 24 the temperature read 41 degrees. We were going to get wet, but we wouldn't be cold.

Pat was waiting for me. We wanted to get in a few more miles than the rest of the group and met a little earlier to get them in. We started our watches and headed down the road. It was still dark making the navigation around puddles a little more difficult. Mid-sentence you would often hear us call out, "Puddle" and we'd side-step, jump or swim across the collected rain water.

We finished the miles near the coffee shop we were to meet the group. Right on cue, there they stood waiting for the run to begin. There were many of us today, all there to celebrate the blessings of each other this Christmas Eve.

The rain was still falling, yet we didn't seem to notice. Like a big family gathering, we all talked at once and still heard the conversations had by others. Running by the ocean, the grey of the rain hid the islands and blended with the ocean water. A lone blue heron flew overhead.

People were beginnig to emerge from their homes to get some fresh air before the holiday craziness would settle in. A few groups of runners would pass us on the trail and we'd all exchange a friendly smile and a "Merry Christmas!".

Reaching the bench, we turned around and headed back to town.  We all admire an evergreen tree on the trail in which people have hung up ornaments; an unexpected dose of Christmas found amidst the trees on the trail.

Each of us wet from our run, we quickly change into clean shirts and coats and head into the coffee shop to celebrate the season with a cup of something hot. Our group has taken over a corner of the shop, pulling in chairs to crowd a table. These are my friends, my running family.   We have seen our worst, we have seen our best and we celebrate each of us.  In a season where we celebrate God's greatest Gift, I pause to celebrate the blessing He's given me in these people sitting here around a crowded table in a corner of the coffee shop. I can't think of a greater way to start my Christmas Celebration. Merry Christmas to you, my running family.

Sunday Morning

2011-12-04T10:25:00.000-08:00

The sun shone bright in the cold December sky. Temps sat at a brisk 35 degrees. The coldness in the air hits my lungs hard as I walk out from the warmth of my home. My 10 year old is climbing onto his bike. While I run, my son Dane will ride next to me; giving us alone time together. Today's run will be short in hopes the shins behave.

Normally a 5 a.m. runner, it feels good to be running in the daylight. A slight wind makes the temperature seem chillier than it is. I should have worn gloves. I look over at Dane who quietly wraps his coat around his hands to protect them from the cold. He doesn't complain. I am impressed with him. He has a marathoner's determination.

Our neighborhood is quiet as the laziness of a Sunday morning is evident. Frost makes the grass sparkle. Dane and I are side by side as we make our way down the street lined with homes emitting curls of smoke from chimneys high on rooftops.

Turning onto the main road, I pull ahead and Dane falls single file behind me. It's a comfortable silence, neither of us saying much; both lost in thought. I wonder what a 10 year old thinks about in quiet, reflective moments.   The sun shines on Mount Baker making the snow capped mountain beckon its skiers. A tractor hums in the distance.

My left shin hurts reminding me of my 52.4 mile adventure the weekend before. I wonder how long the recovery will be. We turn toward home, Dane is in no hurry to race home, but rather perfectly content riding next to me. Very little was said bewteen us as we shared the miles; just mom and son together.

We turn onto our street and I break the silence, "Thank you Dane for coming with me on my run, I really enjoyed spending the time with you."

"Me too Mom. Thanks."

Sometimes life's biggest moments are shared in silence on a quiet Sunday morning.

Running Legends

2011-11-05T22:33:00.000-07:00

Strep throat set in motion my love affair of running. While at the doctor’s office, to confirm I was suffering from more than just a store throat, I was asked to step on the scale.   Here I discovered the weight I had put on during my last pregnancy did, in fact, come off. Despite being sick, joy exploded on my face.

To keep the weight off I started to run. Not far at first, but I ran.   As a busy mom of two boys, in order to find the time to run it would have to be done before they woke. The darkness of the early mornings worked perfectly as no one could see me. Afterall, I wasn’t a real runner and this way no one would have to know.

It took over a year before finding the courage to run in a local race with other runners; a race where there were people wearing real running clothes and running with a runner’s stride and running fast. Never had I felt so out of my league. Afterall, I was just a mom who ran to take off the baby weight, I wasn’t a real runner. Except I loved that race, I loved the runners and I loved how incredible that finish line made me feel.

As the years went by, I entered more races and went further distances. Everything about running I loved. Runners are some of the most incredible people and I met plenty of them out on race courses.

Not long ago after finishing the Victoria Marathon, my friends and I sat around the table celebrating our race with food and drinks. Stories were told, memories recalled and I reflected on an incredible year. In the past 16 months, I had met some of the biggest names in running.

June 2010 Meb Keflezighi sat at a table in an obscure corner of the finish line at the Seattle Rock N Roll Marathon. This Olympic athlete brought home a marathon medal in 2004, the first America had seen in 28 years.   In 2009 he won the New York marathon, which an American had not won in 27 years; and there he sat being completely unnoticed by all the thousands walking by. The day before he had been at the expo where the line was extremely long just to meet him. And now, he sat perched on a stool with only a single person talking to him. My friend Sharlene and I made our way over to him and I, with complete star struck shyness, got him to sign the only thing I had, my race bib.

A few short months later, my Pastor and fellow marathoner, told me Ryan Hall would be speaking at our church. Ryan, an Olympic marathoner and the American record holder of the fastest half marathon, spent the weekend in our town speaking at our church. Being at a couple of the services, I was given the great opportunity to spend time with Ryan and his wife Sara. What an incredible night of inspiration. 6 months after meeting Ryan, it was a thrill to watch him in the Boston Marathon and run the fastest marathon ever run by an American.

May 2011 brought me to the streets of Eugene, Oregon; a city rich with running history. Here I’d run my 8 ^th marathon and soak up all the history in the fabled streets. Some of this country’s greatest runners train on the streets of Eugene and on Hayward Field. My friend Jeff introduced me to the legendary Joe Henderson shortly before the start of the marathon. A man recognized as one of the world’s authorities on running, he smiled a genuine happy smile. We spent several minutes talking, and he asking me questions about goals and pace and training. The evidence of his coaching greatness came out as we talked and I wondered how great it would be to be coached by him. Crossing the finish line of that race, the first person to greet me was Joe.   He grabbed me, hugged me and said, “Great job today Cheri!” Joe Henderson not only remembered me, he called me by name!

5 months later in October of 2011 I am afforded an incredible opportunity of meeting 2 great running icons. Bart Yasso, the Chief Running Officer at Runner’s World magazine and a runner who has run more races than he can remember, ran with several of us the day before the Victoria Marathon. A truly kind man, who we easily and quickly found ourselves lost in conversation. The cruelty of Lyme Disease robbed him of his ability to race distance, but it couldn’t steal his joy. The man who devised the Yasso 800 training plan, touched athletes everywhere and has left his mark on generations to come.

Later that day, I talked with Kathrine Switzer; the woman who shattered the glass ceiling in the marathon world allowing women to run the distance I love. In 1967, 2 short years before I was born, she ran the Boston Marathon with an official race number pinned to her shirt. No woman had ever been given entry into the marathon, nor had it been the intent of the race officials that year either; but she had a number and she ran it. Her race on that day paved the way for women – for me – to run in the marathon. Her love of life shows on her face and her desire for all women, in every country, to have the freedom to run if they so wish is contagious. The barriers she broke that day opened up possibilities for me that I have always known to be. Her blood, sweat and tears have brought much joy to thousands and thousands of women.

Crossing the finish line of my 26.2 mile journey in Victoria I was first greeted by Kathrine, who giving me a giant hug, told me how proud she was of me. Right behind her stood Bart. Giving me a hug he congratulated me telling me of the great job I’d done. A few minutes later after I’d wandered to where my friends were standing, I was happily surprised to hear Bart call out to us and walk over to carry on our conversation we’d had the day before.   For 10 minutes we talked and laughed and enjoyed each other’s stories before he had to make his way back to the finish line.

Sitting at the table that night, I marveled at it all. How could it all be possible that I, a small town Mom of two boys, met and spent time with some of the biggest names in running? Although we all have different running speeds, and different training plans and different distances we like to run, each runner understands the other. We understand how hard it is to get out and run when we’d rather not, we understand how hard one works to create a new personal best, and we understand how incredible each finish line feels. And in that, a small town mom is exactly the same as the Olympic athlete. Running is the road that brings us together.

Seeds of Tradition

2011-10-30T15:20:00.000-07:00

Fall presses against my kitchen window as the wind drives the rain. The sky begins to brighten telling me the rain will stop soon. My hands are deep in pumpkin innards searching meticulously for the seeds to which I'll roast.

Sunday football plays in the background as the boys and I talk about the masterpieces they are carving. Creativity abounds while sibling rivalry for the best pumpkin rises. The carving is getting crazy; I remind them they are playing with knives.

Somehow time had sped up and it wasn't until today, the day before Halloween, did I realize it was in fact the day before Halloween and pumpkins still hadn't been bought and carvings needed to be done. Could I find the time today for this yearly tradition? A trip to the store was had.

Watching the boys now, they talk of the past and the creations they made through the years. And of the pumpkin seeds. This makes me smile as it is a very simple recipe, one I stumbled on years and years ago, but my boys love it. Every year the pumpkins are carved, I fish out the seeds and spend some time roasting them. The smell heralds fall and the approaching Thanksgiving season.

This reminds me of the importance of tradition. Life moves forward and one day my boys will have homes and families of their own. As they carve pumpkins with their children, my hope is that although they may not remember this particular carving afternoon, they will remember that every year we carved pumpkins and roasted seeds. Life was never too busy for an afternoon of pumpkins and seeds, creativity was celebrated and traditions created. No matter where life brings them, the tradition will take them back to their childhood and home. And they feel warm because of it, even if the rain falls hard against the kitchen window.

A Run In The Rain

2011-10-23T10:09:00.000-07:00

Darkness was broken by the headlights of my car. The light illuminated the road ahead revealing rain falling with such force, the drops bounced back up off the pavement. Fall in Washington State has arrived.

Pulling into a parking spot in downtown Bellingham, I notice Pat and Melissa had already arrived. Today is Melissa’s Birthday Run. I grab my things and jump out of the car; I place my key in a plastic bag before tucking it in my pocket. The eaves of the old brick building provide dryness while we wait for the others. Steady streams of water cascading off the building edges spill onto the sidewalks and down the street gutters.

With the arrival of Brad and then Kathy, we decide to head out into the warm, but very wet, weather. No one talks of the rain, there is no reason to bring up the obvious. Our route leaves downtown as we head to the marina. Conversation flows, only being broken by someone occasionally yelling, “Puddle!” or “LAKE!” to which we will all dodge, jump or run around.

We head back to where we started and up ahead I see Karen and Amy waiting for us, right on cue. Runners are always on time. As we run through the streets, making our way to the South Bay Trail, the vendors are out beginning to set up their wares for the Farmer’s Market. The rain has stopped, the sun does not shine.

The trail runs above the ocean, eventually winding its way down to the shore. Below us a train rumbles by, concealed by the thick evergreen trees we are running through. Only runners are seen on the trail today.

Gentle rain has started to fall again. We are now on the ocean edge. The grey of the rain filled sky melts seamlessly into the grey of the Pacific Ocean. A blue heron flies bringing a tiny bit of color to the drabness of the landscape.

We climb Taylor Dock and run through the oldest part of town, it’s history speaking loudly in the architecture of the buildings. Had it been a hundred years prior and we ran these streets, I wonder if we would have been arrested due to the shorts and skirts we wore breaking some Victorian indecent exposure law. This makes me chuckle.

The Interurban Trail greeted us with a thick canopy of branches providing a tiny relief to the rain falling. Every square inch of me was wet, and now the mud from the trail kicked up onto my legs and shoes. And it felt great. There is something very peaceful about going for a run and getting the dirt from which we came caked onto your legs. This must be why kids love mud puddles.

Reaching the turn-around point, we run toward downtown once again and the coffee shop that awaits us. Despite dripping clothes, hats and hair we get our warm drinks and settle into a couple of tables and chairs we’ve pushed together. Next year’s marathons are discussed; ideas are tossed in and contemplated. With coffee cups emptied we part ways each looking forward to a hot shower.
And dreams of runs we will run in the new year.

A Man Named Bob

2011-10-15T11:05:00.000-07:00

The road lay long in front of me. His bright yellow singlet stood in stark contrast to the mundane grey of the road. With his shoulders slightly bent, his gait spoke of the years he has lived. I had to catch up to him and hear his story.

My pace quickened from a walk to a jog. Despite perfect running weather, a gorgeous marathon course and friends all around, it was not a good race day for me. My mind was willing and yet my body didn’t respond. Looking at my watch, realization sunk in and I let race day hopes flutter away. Alone on the course I was left to my private hell, trying hard to pull myself out of the funk I was in. I reminded myself it is the distance I love and to enjoy every moment of it.

Once I had caught up to him, I began to walk matching my pace to his. I turned to him and spoke.

“Excuse me sir, are you Bob?”

His smile spread across his face, and stated, “Why yes I am”.

“It is a real pleasure to meet you.” Shaking his hand I told him my name and that I too was a member of the Marathon Maniacs. Exchanging pleasantries, we talked of the race and how beautiful the course is. Bob was walking the entire distance and hoped to finish before the cut off time of 8 hours.

“I’m not sure that will happen.” He said with a grin.

When asked questions about his longevity running marathons, he quickly turned the conversation from himself and with a sparkle in his eye he told me of all that his wife Lenora does. Bob spoke of her with the love and admiration. He made me want to meet her.

Bob continued to speak informing me of the marathons he would be doing next as well as all the work he, and Lenora, contributes to directing the Yakima River Canyon Marathon. My eyes lit up when he told me that I was sharing in his 492nd marathon. At 82 years old, it was clear he lived his life not only by it's breadth but also it's depth. He told me of the plans to celebrate his 500th race at his marathon in Yakima on March 31st next year. The joy was uncontainable in his smile.

“You are such an inspiration Bob”. With an unmistaken humbleness in his voice, he softly said, “Thank you”. We said our farewells and I moved on ahead.

Not many times in life do we stop to notice the extraordinary in the ordinary. Walking down the street Bob is an unassuming man, most would never know of all he has done or continues to do. Yet I, because of a less than great race day, was blessed to meet him and inspiration comes when least expected. My pace quickened, my attitude adjusted. I was again falling in love with the distance, and it was due to a man named Bob.

Juxtaposition

2011-09-17T14:45:00.000-07:00

I lay in bed listening to the rain hit the skylight hoping it would pass in time for our run. Tip-toeing out the door I got into my car and drove into town. The streets were quiet this Saturday morning, the world must still be sleeping. Pulling in to the parking lot at the waterfront, I see my running friends milling about preparing themselves for the 22 miles we were gearing up to do. The misty rain had all but stopped.

After a few encouraging words from Coach Pat, we began our journey amidst the beeping of everyone hitting the start button on their watches. We are a large group today, everyone anxious about the run that lay ahead of us.

The grey skies brought perfect running conditions, keeping it cool and far from the 85 degree heat we experienced the weekend before. A handful of miles into our run we found ourselves on the trail connecting downtown to the ocean; a trail usually bustling with people was quiet this morning. It was a dreary Saturday and people we nestled in their homes, sipping their early morning coffee.

Running Taylor dock, with the Pacific Ocean beneath our feet, I glance over looking for the seals we sometimes see somersaulting in the tide. I see no seal, just a few sea gulls rocking gently on the waves. I breathe in deeply the salt air.

Karen waits for us offering us water or electrolytes if we need them, we tell her we’re good and make our way onto the next trail. Sherry and I weave our way down the path talking about this crazy thing called life. My week had been more than hectic and I was enjoying the mileage we were doing together. There are times in life when a hot shower or bubble bath can not come close to the cleansing that a good, hard-earned sweat can bring. In the quiet of the woods, on the trail with friends, I felt what I had been needing. And it felt great.

Up ahead we could see our friends waiting with water, electrolytes and carbs. Their laughter sprinkled joy on the trail. I handed them my water bottle and told them I’d be back after we reached the turn around point. Without fail, there was Kathy with my water bottle in hand filled to the brim with fresh water. Snapping it into my belt I headed down the trail back toward town for the final 10 miles.

Running through my favorite part of the trail, I was lost in the scenery around me. The trail cuts along the mountain side high above the ocean affording incredible vistas. Alone on the trail, I fell into a rhythm listening to my foot fall on the path. Trees formed a perfect canopy as I run under them. They had dropped their orange, yellow and red leaves bowing to the season of fall and whispering ‘goodbye’ to summer. The leaves crunched under foot.

Leaving the trail I made my way back to the water and ran the dock. Sun had peaked out from the grey clouds and glistened off the ocean. Sipping their coffees and hot chocolates, Pat, Karen, Kathy and Amy were once again waiting for us to give us what we needed. A brief stop, handing them my packet of Gu, I was off again and telling them the coffee made me jealous.

Here I began to tire. This portion of the trail takes the traveler away from the edge of the ocean and up into downtown. The uphill intensified the struggle but I persisted, determined to run all 22 miles. With the appearance of the sun, although brief, people had donned their fall clothing and came out of their warm homes to walk the trail. Runners would pass in the opposite direction, always giving big smiles and a friendly hello.

As I came back into town, I found Kathy waiting for me near the alleyway behind the farmer’s market. With two and a half miles to go, she joined me for the final push. It was what I needed. Knowing she had a race to do later in the day, I asked if she was sure she wanted to run more miles. Without hesitation she said yes and I was grateful. Kathy pulled me out of my own head and helped me keep my attention on our conversation. I would have walked had it not been for her.

Nearing the 22 mile mark, I could see some of my running friends gathered around the water cooler all relishing in the accomplishment of the morning. My watch chirped for the 22^nd time that day and I gratefully hit the stop button. The run was done. My watch and I logged 22 successful miles. High fives and pats on the back were handed out while we all talked of how the run went for each of us.

Heading back to my car, from the corner of my eye I could see a woman running to me with her arms open as to hug me. Within a split second, I recognized her as a classmate from high school whom I had not seen in 15 years. Deb reached me and we squealed in delight amidst our hug. She didn’t care I was drenched in sweat and salt, only that after so many years had passed we had finally run into each other.

The drive home I reflected on the juxtapositions my morning had. There was summer mixed with fall, rain amidst the sun, strength and weakness intertwined in the run, but the consistency came among the friendship; new as well as ones from my past. And in that, I find, I am incredibly blessed.

Strangers, Friends and Angels

2011-09-12T15:47:00.000-07:00

The weatherman predicted the weekend to be the hottest of the year. Murphy's Law laughed and said "But of course it is" as this is the weekend in which my friends were to run a marathon.

Karen, Kathy and I, with a truck loaded with ice, water and Gatorade, headed out of town. Armed with a GPS and course maps we made our way to our first stop on the marathon route; approximately mile 8. Spirits were high, jokes were plenty and smiles were seen on all. As soon as our friends had run by, we were back in the truck heading off to our next point.

Mile 12 was also mile 14 as the course was an out-and-back route. Parking the truck on the side of the country road, Kathy found a good radio station and cranked up the stereo. Here is where we first noticed runners were getting hot. We shouted encouragement and clapped loudly. One by one our three friends ran by and each time we had ice cold water ready as well as sponges for them to wring out over their heads.

Karen made signs for us to hold to give greater encouragement. One of our favorites, "Way to go complete stranger!" had been a great motivation to us while running the Eugene marathon in the spring and proved to be just as motivational on this day. Runners smiled and laughed and said, "Thank you" when running by the sign. As we had now seen many of these runners three times they were no longer strangers, we recognized them coming down the road and also knew where our friends should be in relation to them.   We got several of their names and did our best to seer them into our memory. Inevitably, as our running family got bigger and bigger, we couldn't remember them all and eventually they earned names like "Cool Shoe Guy" and "50 Stater Guy".

Once our friends had gone by, at paces strong enough to qualify for Boston, we jumped in the truck and navigated our way to the 18 mile mark. The sun was hot; the farmer's fields dusty. Parked in a raspberry field, we swung the truck doors open letting the music fill the country roads.

The runners were hot, the suffering etched on faces. We offered bottles of ice cold water to any who ran by.  Many runners, upon recognizing us, had dubbed us "The Stranger Ladies" because of our sign, proving that even in pain a sense of humor can prevail.

The eyes told their stories. The heat pounding on them as they ran on shadeless country roads had taken its toll. The I-Can't-Do-This Dragon had leeched itself on many of their backs.   Staring straight into their eyes, we shouted "You got this, it's yours". Heat is nothing to make light of and we paid close attention as each ran by. All three of us could feel their suffering.

As each of our three friends ran by, their pain became our pain and we did our best to hide our concern. We gave them ice for their necks and sponges for their heads. They no longer got the option of "if" they wanted something cold to drink but "which" cold drink they preferred. Our hearts felt their anguish and exchanging glances between us uttered what our words would not. The heat was concerning.

Winding our way through the back roads, we came to mile 21 and this is the first time where we felt completely unprepared. Volunteers directed runners to our truck who were searching for ice.  Would we have enough? Kathy ran alongside some handing them chunks of ice.  Tears could be seen in others as we offered them water from our ice chest. And without hesitation runners were offering - and taking - the water bottles from other runners; showing us that the pain of a marathon brings people together in a way that can not be described, only felt.  With unselfish consideration, each runner shared the gift of water with all those around them; all complete strangers just a few hours earlier.

At this mile marker Karen's phone rang. One of our friends had to make the heartbreaking and extremely difficult decision to drop out of the race. The heat had stolen every bit of energy he had. Our hearts broke.   Knowing he was off the course, we got back into the truck to make our way to mile marker 25 to bring our other two friends support.

Here we could see the relief written on many faces. Armed with the knowledge that the race was only 1.2 miles longer, the faintest smiles could be seen. Strangers driving by stopped and brought us more water to hand out.  It wasn't long before we could see our friend coming down the road. With a sponge and water in hand, I ran to meet her. She asked how our other friend was doing.  The knot in my stomach made me sick, but I had to lie to her and tell her he was doing just fine. Knowing the truth would have been painful making the last mile that much more difficult. I'd apologize to her in 1.2 miles.

The finishline was filled with people, runners completely spent as well as family and friends sharing in the joy of it all. There were tears of joy in some and tears of sadness in others. We found our one friend sitting on the curb in quiet reflection thinking on the hard decision he'd made to pull himself off the course. Words not needed, we all felt his pain.

Stopping us were runners who searched us out to thank us for what we did out there.   These strangers thanked us repeatedly, calling us life-savers and angels. Everywhere we turned, another runner thanked us. It was here where I became aware of just how many people we touched that day. We had not set out to do this, it simply happened. One small gesture had left an impact they would not forget. What none of them realized, was it was them who gave back to us. Their smiles paid us back in ways they could never imagine and gratitude could be seen in their eyes.

Long after the day was over, my mind wandered to all that happened out there on that race course, each emotion flooding back. Sometime after the race, Karen emailed me a piece of a conversation relayed to her that had taken place out there during that 26.2 mile journey; a conversation that brought tears to my eyes. Shortly after the 18 mile mark, a fellow runner turned to our friend and stated how wonderful it was for him to have friends who would come out and support him like that on the course. He turned to her and said, "Not friends. FAMILY."

The marathon.  It gives you the most incredible window inside of yourself and it takes complete strangers and turns them into angels and family. What a gift.

In A Blink

2011-08-25T10:55:00.000-07:00

Buzzing. The alarm is buzzing. In a blink I open my eyes to the realization I actually at some point did fall asleep. Then I remember. The phone call from the previous night was not a dream. The sadness in my heart is heavy. My run will help me feel better.

As soon as my feet start running, I begin my conversation with God looking for comfort and peace.

I had been making dinner and talking with Mom on the phone. A simple conversation centered around catching up on day to day activities. She received another call and we said goodbye. Somewhere between cooking the taco meat and shredding the cheese she called me back. Crying. Dad's cousin Don and his wife Phyllis had been killed in a motorcycle accident while touring through North Dakota. The tears fell while trying to collect what little details we had.

With each step I was running, I was re-living the night before while trying to ease the hurt. The details playing over and over in mind. Mom and Dad's good friends Ed and Carol had been with Don and Phyllis on the vacation and my heart weighed heaviest for them. What horrors did they witness? It is at this point where I realize there is sometimes hope in the not knowing. There is a hardness and coldness found in the reality of the details, one that can make it difficult to overcome the harshness of the accident. I kept placing one foot in front of the other.

Dad, Don and Ed had been friends for decades. As life had moved along, wives became part of the friendship circle and then eventually us kids. Wasn't it just a few short months ago that Ed, Carol, Don and Phyllis sat in my living room laughing and talking over a family dinner? And now, in a blink, Don and Phyllis are gone.

My footfalls break the silence of the morning. The sun is beginning to rise.

Standing in the kitchen crying, my son asks me what is wrong. I tell him the tragic news. Studying my tears, he asks me if they were believers. I nod, and tell him, "Yes, they are." With a spark of joy in his eyes, he looks at me and states, "Then it's all ok Mom. It's all ok."

Nearing the final leg of my run, I thank God for my son's wise words spoken the night before and the hope God has given us. We will see Don and Phyllis again. Looking at the mountains before me, I watch as the sun rises. Then I notice it. Wafting gently in the air two feet in front of me a single feather falls. I look around and find no bird. I stop and watch the feather, wondering where it had come from. I smile and look up towards the sky. Not until I had heard the rustling of an angel's wing, did I continue on my way home. Home, just like Don and Phyllis are.

An Ordinary Day

2011-08-10T13:51:00.000-07:00

The morning is strangely quiet. It's 5 a.m. and the sun has not yet introduced the day, reminding me summer is leaving soon and fall is close by. I'm not ready to say goodbye to summer.

My feet fall quickly on the streets bringing a break into the silence.    The clouds hold no rain, for which I am very grateful. The quietness of dawn gives me a blank canvas in which to paint my conversation with God onto. He listens, I talk; peace and comfort abound.

The farmer has a new herd of calves in the grassy field close to the barn.  A few of them bellow to the others as to warn them the strange lady running on the road is dangerous. I smile as it is always the same.  Just as it is with each new calf herd the farmer receives, one calf gets brave and runs toward me, whether to chase me or to see if I bring food I'm never sure. Curiosity always grabs hold and soon most are running the fence line behind me.  I laugh as to the passerby I must look like a cow's Pied Piper. Reaching the edge of the fence line, they stop and allow me to go on alone.

Mount Baker stands grand on the horizon, its foothills lush and green before her.   The sun is peaking above the hills bringing its light to the day. I hear what sounds like softly falling rain, but feel nothing. I look around me. Above me the wings of several dozen sparrows flutter; the source of the noise. The noise grows louder and I met by hundreds, if not thousands, of sparrows. Flying in large groups and in percise unison toward a large, old oak tree standing solitary in a field. Upon landing in the tree, they all begin to talk to each other, and loudly; sounding like a room full of old Italian women talking with their hands. This makes me laugh.

I turn towards home, my 6 miles complete. I tiptoe into the house which holds sleeping boys. The coffee is on and its smell fills the room. The day has started just like so many before it, with an early morning run surrounded by nautre. It's just an ordinary day.

Push

2011-08-02T12:59:00.000-07:00

At my desk eating my lunch, I find myself staring out the window. I sigh. I'm tired. Not a missing-several-hours-of-sleep tired, but a physical tired that comes from pushing yourself athletically beyond your current limits.

My running group and I met at the track last night and did a tough 1600 meter repeat workout. The weather was hot, the workout was tough and it felt great! Drenched in sweat and drinking some water down, we all headed out for an easy paced 2 mile cool down run. Despite my muscles aching from the workout, it felt good to go at a conversational pace and feel the intensity slowly working it's way out and be replaced by a calm knowing you left it all out on the track.

As a busy mom and wife, my alone time to run is at 5 a.m. before the rest of the house awakens; this means my coach prescribed "Easy 5 mile run" on the plan today would have to be run less than 10 hours after finishing my track workout the night before. I had no problem keeping the easy miles easy.

Which brings me back to the present; sitting here at my desk, eating my lunch and staring out the window. My muscles are tired and my body is relaxed; both gifts from pushing myself physically. It's a welcomed kind of a tired, one that brings motivation.

Still, I think I'll treat myself to a latte. After all, it can only help, right?

Contagious

2011-07-27T14:16:00.000-07:00

As of late, everywhere I look I see inspiration. And I need it. Just as my motivation wanes, God places these little sparks of inspiration to get me moving.

Yesterday morning my run had not gone particularly well, it wasn't bad mind you, it was just a struggle. A few hours later, as I was driving to work, I saw a woman large in stature running down the road I was travelling. This was not a long and flat road, rather it was extremely hilly. Determination was etched on her face as she successfully tackled each hill. I wondered what her story was. What motivated her to change her lifestyle? What brought her to the point to lace up a pair of running shoes? How much weight had she lost already?

Clearly, the run was not easy. But it didn't stop her. At some point in her life she realized the pain of regret hurts more than the physical pain of a tough run. Her strength inspired me and she has no idea. She was simply running.

Standing in line at Starbucks today, indulging in my standard double tall non-fat latte, a woman with 3 active girls placed her order after me. Obviously a regular to the baristas at the counter as they greeted her by name. I was stepping to the side when she exclaimed, "It's been 18 days since my last cigarette!", her smile exploding on her face. Turning to face her I said, "Congratulations!".

"Thanks! I feel really good about it! Really, really good."

"That's a big accomplishment, you should feel good about it."

She then explained to me, a complete stranger, about her struggle and how she has managed to quit the addiction on her own. I look at the children, acting as children do, around her. She easily could have used their high energy as an excuse to give herself a break and light up a cigarette. But she didn't. She had reached a point that said 'I want better'.

Walking back to my car, I thought of her smile. There was so much joy in that smile, a joy that can not be called up on demand. It is a joy that only comes from pride found through personal strength. Not until she wanted better and started the tough journey of quitting her addiction could she find a strength she didn't know she had. No one could quit for her; she had to do it. And with each passing day she got stronger and learned that what she is capable of is greater than what she had known. She rediscovered herself.

And that, my friends, is contagious.

A Stolen Heart

2011-07-23T23:53:00.000-07:00

The streets felt good under my feet. There was an early morning coolness in the air that only a summer’s day could bring as it felt thick with the promise of the sun’s heat. It had been two months since I last ran through the city of Eugene, and I was enjoying this run immensely.

With some planning and a few emails back in forth, on my way through town I was fortunate enough to be able to run once again with my friend Jeff, a native of Eugene.   Back in May when I ran the Eugene marathon, Jeff ran by my side, stride for stride the entire race. Today was no different, he’d mapped out an 18 mile run that would have me weaving in and out of the pathways that connected the city.

Taking me through a few city streets, we soon found ourselves crossing a footbridge over the Willamette River. The water sparkled in the early morning sun as it meandered over rocks and boulders. From the footbridge we turn onto a pathway. Homes with perfectly manicured lawns line a waterway. Spilling onto the water’s edge are ornamental grasses and flowering phlox creeping along hand laid stone walls reminding me of a land imagined in my youth inhabited by princesses and knights.

Jeff and I talk easily and the conversation centers around races, training and our running groups. Thinking of my friends and their long run, I wonder if they are enjoying blue skies and I wished they could be here running with us. When you find something good, you want nothing more than to share it with your friends.

Following the route I had run during the Eugene Marathon a few months prior, Jeff and I ran the path snaking it’s way alongside the river. Much looked the same, much looked different as this time the hundreds of spectators were not lining the course.   The town was sleepy sans the bikers and runners we encountered along the route, giving proof this town loves physical activity.

We crossed another footbridge while listening to the peaceful sounds of the moving river. From here Jeff and I weaved in and out of several parks, each one bright green with life sprouting from grasses, trees and bushes. This was turning into a gorgeous summer run.

Turning onto Pre’s Trail, named after the town’s world known track star Steve Prefontaine who died tragically in the prime of his career, Jeff and I had begun the final 4 mile loop of our run. Here my Achilles tendon began to loudly tell me it was not happy. Deciding to play it smart and not push it, we cut the run short and not run the final 3 miles. With sadness in my heart, we turned back to the hotel where I’d call it quits after 15 miles.

After some ice cold water and a short rest, my family and I followed Jeff and his wife Tonya to one of their favorite splurges, a donut shop a couple miles from our hotel. Rarely one to eat a donut, I could not resist the opportunity to extend our time, even by just a little, in this great little town.

Laughter rose over the num-num-num of eating our sugary treats as Jeff and Tonya tell us of growing up here.  We sit outside listening to their stories while admiring the downtown scene. I smile, my heart is warm. I have fallen in love with a little town named Eugene.

To Run or Not to Run

2011-07-05T08:55:00.000-07:00

One of the many things I often hear is how much running will ruin my body. What is extremely ironic this is always explained to me by people who do NOT run. My friend Dane Rauschenberg came up with this great article listing the most often heard excuses - and his response - to why we shouldn't run. A great read that I thought you would all enjoy.

Dane's Top 10 Reasons Not To Run

Sky, Stars and Motivation

2011-06-28T16:03:00.000-07:00

At times we all need a little motivation, and I for one, have been lacking in it lately. It is times like this that I am reminded that I am the one who holds me back. I set my own limits, hit my own ceilings.

Yet I reflect on this great big world and I realize something. In daylight I look up and see the sky above me, nothing more. If I wait until darkness falls, I look up and I see endless stars that go on forever. It's the same space above me but my persepctive changed.

I need to stop seeing the sky and start living in the endless possibilities of reaching for the stars above.

The following reminders will help me:

"Impossible is just a big word thrown around by SMALL men who find it easier to live in the world they've been given than to explore the power they have to change it.
Impossible is not a fact. It's an opinion.
Impossible is not a declaration. It's a dare.
Impossible is potential.
Impossible is temporary.
Impossible is nothing."

Seattle Rock N Roll Marathon

2011-06-26T19:58:00.000-07:00

Seattle Rock N Roll Marathon isn’t just a race. I look around at the masses of people around me and it becomes clear it is a celebration. For me, it is personal. The race has become an annual weekend about friendships.

The corral I am in is alive with activity. This year is the first time I will run this race with friends at my side. Kathy, Karen, Joy and I are talking amongst ourselves and watching the others around us. I see many fellow Marathon Maniacs milling about in their corrals. Through social online networking I have gotten to know, and now meet, several of them. A variety of people, from all over the world, who have come together over their love of running 26.2 miles. Many make their way to this race in Seattle, the home of the Marathon Maniacs. Great friendships have been born in this group.

One by one, the corrals are given their start and shortly our corral finds its way to the front. We wish each other great races, and remind ourselves of our tried and true mantra, “Slay the dragon”. The horn blows and we are off and running. Kathy immediately pulls back as she is running the full marathon and does not want to keep the same pace as Karen, Joy and myself who are running the half.

Within minutes, my friends and I fall into a familiar rhythm. We don’t say much, we are simply running. My mind wanders to my friend Beth; I wonder where she is on the course as she had an earlier corral start than we did. I wonder if my friend Sharlene, who was in a later corral, has begun. Both Beth and Sharlene have gone into this race with training not where they had hoped. Life gets busy and training can suffer but they refused to miss this race. The weekend wasn’t about racing, it was about friendships.

Each mile had a hill climb, tiring us as we stayed on pace. Karen had been battling injury and like the mothers we are, Joy and I would ask Karen regularly how she was doing. Her answer was always, “Good!”. I suspected she was hurting, but her toughness is one of the qualities I admire about her. I’ve seen this woman run a 20 mile training run in summer’s hottest heat, while the rest of us melted into the course. She said she was good, Joy and I respected that.

Mile 5 brought us to the edge of Lake Washington and brought much relief with some flat ground. Our pace picked up some. Karen began to pull back. She yelled the word “Go”. To those around us they heard a simple two letter word, but Joy and I heard much more than that. Karen said ‘go’ and wrapped up in those two letters were the words “You guys are doing great, keep going. I am fine, I promise. I’ve got this one on my own, I don’t want to hold you back, now go”. This wasn’t a race about running, it was about friendships.

Joy and I kept strong and steady. Cruising into mile 8 we ran by signs telling us to “Run to Remember” followed by the signs giving us the names and faces of fallen soldiers. Joy and I spoke no words. After the signs were many people, standing with a military precision distance apart, holding flags. Telling Joy we needed to thank them, we moved to their side of the street. I made eye contact with as many as I could and told them ‘Thank you’. Tears filled my eyes, yet I managed to hold it together, that is until I saw the soldier who looked to be mid 30s, smiling big and offering encouragement to the runners running by. He stood tall, holding the flag with his right hand, while leaning on his cane with his left. My tears fell. I asked Joy how I was to cry and run at the same time. She wanted to know the same thing.

Leaving the water brought us to a short and steep hill into a freeway tunnel. Here is when the heat started to get to me. The tunnel was part of a long uphill section bringing us up and around into downtown Seattle. Joy was feeling strong, I was hot. I told her “Go”, she hesitated a bit and I waved her on. Her pace was strong and I did not want to hold her back. With the pace we’d managed through the first 9 miles, she was well on her way to a personal best and I wanted to see her get it more than I wanted a running partner. This wasn’t a race about running, it was about friendships.

My legs were tiring. The portion of training our coach has us in is designed teach us how to run on tired legs. Our exercises and drills tire our leg muscles, and it works wonderfully. We are able to reap the benefits of longer distances by running lower mileage while on tired legs. What the program isn’t designed for is racing right in the middle of this particular portion. And here I was racing a race on tired legs. My pace slowed and I fought myself to stay on pace. I was tremendously tired and could feel the dragon leeching itself onto my back.

Mile 11 had some downhill and it brought little relief. I was stuck in my own head pushing myself forward. Out of nowhere I heard my name; snapping me back into the moment and out of the dragon territory I had allowed myself to go. My friend Dane had spotted me out of 30,000 runners that day and shouted words of encouragement. Dane is a fellow Marathon Maniac and because we live thousands of miles apart, I thought I’d never see the day we’d be at the same race. He was there to help pace his girlfriend Shannon who was running the full. I look up to see Dane standing on the side of the road, clapping and cheering me on. It is what I needed. Dane’s words helped pull me out of the dark place I’d let my mind go. He didn’t know what I was battling, he simply saw a friend and shared encouragement. This wasn’t a race about running, it was about friendships.

The uphill into downtown lay ahead and I pushed myself forward; fighting the urge to slow my pace. I see a runner being helped to the ground by police. As much as it is a visual reminder that I am not as bad as that poor gentleman, it also brings a little fear into how warm I’d been feeling. I glance at my watch. One more mile. One more mile. One more mile.

The dragon falls off my back. I pick up my pace. Weaving my way through the city streets, I turn into the finisher’s shoot. I see the finish line up ahead. My pace quickens even more as it also does for those around me. My foot crosses the finish line giving me my second fastest half marathon. A medal is handed to me as is a bottle of water. I stop at the finish line knowing that Karen can’t be too far behind me. Very shortly I see her crossing the finish line, her race finally over. She spots me and the look on her face tells me everything, her struggles are shown on her face. I look at her and say, “You did it!”. The battle she fought from mile 7 on spoke of her strength and ability to push through pain. She finished in a great time even though her body fought her. As she recounted the battles she’d fought, I listen. Her strength amazed me and she taught me much about determination. This wasn’t a race about running, it was about friendships.

It didn’t take long for us to find Joy and then Beth. Joy had ran a 5 minute PR to which we all shared in her triumph. Beth felt good that her race had been strong despite the lack of training she’d been able to get in. We made our way to the city street and waited for Sharlene to cross the finish line. We saw her coming down the finisher’s chute, exhaustion clearly etched onto her face. Despite training being nowhere near what it needed to be, she ran hard and finished one of the most difficult races she’d run. Together we waited for Kathy to finish her full marathon. We watched the clock and counted down the minutes. Straining to see as far down the chute as we could, we finally spot her. She was running strong. Realizing how close she was to a personal best, we screamed and hollered our encouragement and watched her cross her finish line.

Meeting up for a celebratory dinner in downtown Seattle, we all met to walk to the restaurant together. Kathy and Karen, with silly grins on their faces, were the last to arrive. Kathy walked right up to me and said, “Today, I qualified for Boston.” I grab her and hug her and squeal in delight. Tears brim my eyes. I glance at Karen and notice her tears too. Sharlene, Beth, Karen and I surround Kathy all talking at once with everything and nothing to say. We are happy, we are elated and we are proud. After all, this wasn’t a race about running, it was about friendships.

Mud, Fun & Life

2011-06-19T11:10:00.000-07:00

Saturday, June 18th held the promise of fun and dirt. My friend Joy had signed up with her husband Adam to do the Survivor Mud Run in Carnation, WA. Due to an injury Adam had to back out leaving her with a spare entry and an invitation to me. Jumping at the chance to play, I accepted the ~~invitation~~ challenge.

Leaving town at 5:30 a.m. and making the 2 hour drive to the race, I found myself in the car with some of the best people I know. Joy, Kathy, Karen and I spent the time sharing life and lots of laughs. It wasn't until the drive back after the race did I realize how much the day's Mud Run correlated to real life.

Life as well as the Mud Run share some great life lessons. Here are just a few of the things I learned today.

1. Surround yourself with those who encourage you.
Kathy and Karen were not participating in the race, but wanted to come along anyway; each sacrificing their Saturdays to watch us in the obstacle course. These weren't sun shining times, it was a wet and drizzly Northwest morning, yet they were there. It wasn't a course where they could sit and watch us run by, they plotted and planned which routes to take to ensure they could capture some of our moments on film and shout encouragement along the way. Being there for us came at a cost, and they chose to be there. Life is meant to have friends like that.

2. Count your blessings when you find those who want to go through challenges by your side.

Not many people think running is fun, throw in running while walking on planks, wading through rivers, climbing walls and crawling through mud and the amount gets even smaller. When you do find those who enjoy the things you do, keep them close and share the journey with them.

3. Be aware changes are coming.

Life doesn't always give you warnings. When it does, prepare yourself. Sometimes you have no idea what is coming, you just know things are going to change. Accept this and you'll be more prepared.

4. Teamwork is essential; make yourself part of the team and work together.

One of the obstacles we faced was a long section of bungee cords strung from tree to tree. There was no running, there was only careful navigation. Surrounded by others, we quickly learned we could get through the obstacle faster if we worked together. We talked, telling each other what we were doing; we encouraged others with steps to take; we guided one another the best we could. And we did it together.

5. Life is always better with someone at your side.

Words do not have to be spoken; just knowing someone is there helps you move in a forward direction. Despite being tired, having Joy at my side kept the running pace strong and we fed off of each other's energy. Did it change the fact we were tired? No, but we pushed each other in a way that only someone who knows how you feel can do.

6. Accept the challenge, despite the fear.

One of the obstacles we faced twice that day was the rope wall. Climbing up the wall isn't what scares me - it's being at the top and having to get to the other side that does. I knew Joy was at my side and I knew if I couldn't move, she'd be there to help me. Swinging my leg over the wall, I was committed. I would do this.

7. Celebrate the successes.

Complete joy is how I felt when I realized that I did it. I had faced my fear and did it; my own strength holding my weight and getting me to the other side. In that I celebrated. I threw my hands in the air in jubilation all while hearing Joy, Kathy and Karen give me their screams of encouragement. They knew my fears, they saw my hard work and they were there to celebrate with me.

8. There are dark and scary places we must all go, but there is always a light at the end of the tunnel.

It was dark in there, it was full of muck, it was full of mire and the only way to the other side was to go through it. With trepidation not knowing what was in there, we went in anyway. We had to, so we did. We came out dirtier on the other side, but we did come out.

9. Don't be afraid to get in the mud.

We found ourselves in a log jam crawling under and over fallen logs. Deep into the muddy waters we knew the only way to get out of it was to do what needed to be done. Our feet would get stuck and the water was murky and the encouragement never stopped. The strangers around us even offered helpful words. In life sometimes the help we get is from those who don't know what life has been for you, but just happen to be near enough to help.

10. Be flexible.

Being willing to bend where needed will help the challenge become manageable. When you let go of your idea of easy and accept what needs to be done there is forward progress. I am still in the mud, there is still a log in my way, but I have now moved forward because I was willing to bend.

11. Fill your life with laughter.

When the exhaustion sets in and you are tired from the journey sometimes the best thing to do is laugh.

12. Face your fears.
Climbing the cargo wall terrified me. Unlike the wooden wall, I could see beneath me. Each wobbly step onto the rope ladder allowed me to see how high I was going....and just how far I could fall. Standing at the top of the wall the only option I had was to get down. Fear would not paralyze me despite my head telling me to stop. Fear is real and it is my job to harness that fear. Fear moved me over the cargo net and conquering that fear brought on the biggest sense of joy I'd had. Without the fear, I never would have felt that joy.

13. Life, even with it's trials, is great.
When the trials are over, look around, the people you invest your time, energy and love into are standing right next to you. They know what it took for you to get there and they celebrate and laugh with you, despite your imperfections and all the mud you wear.

Pat's Story

2011-06-03T14:24:00.000-07:00

The air was cool; the weather was warm. A juxtaposition lending to a perfect race day morning. The coolness of the October morning would hold due to the overcast skies above. Pat glances up at the sky and smiles; he'd been training 6 months for this day and the weather seems to promise perfection for a runner.

Standing in a crowd of 8,000 people, Pat took in his surroundings. Each runner nervously waiting for the gun to go off and trying to calm the jitters inside. Pat was no different, but he knew the pre-race anxiety would help deliver a strong race.

The gun went off, the crowd surged forward and in that instant the testing of all his hard training had begun. It was do-or-die time. Crowds lined the streets of Portland, Oregon cheering them on as they began their 26.2 mile journey. Japanese Taiko Drummers played in perfect unison letting their powerful beats echo off the downtown buildings. Pat could feel the drums as he ran by.

Pat's goal was to take the first mile easy and not go out too fast; a mistake often made in the marathon leaving the runner too tired in the final miles. The last miles were tough enough and there was no reason to add to it. Mile marker 1 approaches and looking at his watch Pat wonders if he took the first mile too slow. As planned, he picks up the pace.

The miles came and went and Pat felt strong. Each water stop he was careful to walk a few seconds and drink what was needed. Leaving the only out and back section of the race - a industrial park made interesting only by seeing the faces of other runners going in the opposite direction - he made his way toward the Saint John Bridge. The climb to the top of the bridge would be the biggest hill he would encounter. He was ready and knew with his quickened pace, he'd gathered a two minute cushion.

Countless hours were spent in hill training, hundreds of miles were run through the hill-side trails of the town in which he lived. Hills are tough, a hill at mile 18 is cruel; it provides a visual interpretation of the battle beginning inside. The key is to not let it infiltrate your determination. With tired legs and breathless lungs, Pat crested that hill. The view from the bridge over the Willamette River was beautiful and allowed him to take his mind off the hurt that follows cresting a hill.

Pat found himself running through residential streets peppered with homeowners cheering for each runner. He drew on their enthusiasm. Running over some rolling hills tired him. He was well into Dragon Territory; the land that exists between miles 20 to 26. A marathoner enters these miles with a dose of intrepidation and incredible amounts of respect. Race-day demons and dragons lurk in these miles, stalking the runner while looking for signs of weakness. The legs of the runner are moving, but it is only the sheer determination propelling them. The mind must stay strong to keep the demons and dragons away.

Mile 24 they attacked. Pat fought hard at keeping the exhaustion from winning. The mantras he had scrawled on his hand went unread as the energy needed to turn his palm upward to see them seemed too great. He relied solely on the utterings of his heart echoing in his mind, "Finish, finish, finish."

The dragon leeches onto his back and whispers, "You can walk now, it's ok. You'll just be happy you finished." The chatter in his head becomes louder, every ounce of him wanting to stop. He fights the demons. His legs feel like concrete. He fights the dragon. His body begs him to quit. His determination the only thread holding onto his race day dream. The thread is worn and dangerously close to breaking. Pat chooses to listen only to the rhythmic voice repeating, "Finish, finish, finish."

Closing in on the final stretch, the crowds thicken and their cheers are louder. His friends are near the finish line screaming his name. He hears no voices but one, the solitary voice carrying him home with "Finish, finish, finish". He crosses the finish line, leaving the race behind him. He stops. He is now standing in the reality of what he'd done. The race clock tells no lie. Pat looks at his watch. He had fought and won his Boston qualifying time. Every emotion washed over him and the accumulation of those emotions only seen by others as they tumble softly down his cheek. There is no fight left and he lets the tears fall.

A person drapes a medal around Pat's neck, bringing him back to reality. He smiles through his tears and says, "Thank you". He walks away from the finish line and in a private moment he whispers to himself, "Nice job" and looks to find the friends who are the only ones who will understand.

Greatness

2011-05-26T11:12:00.000-07:00

With grandeur there it stood. And it took my breath away. His eyes fixed on me long before I even noticed him. In the farmer's lush green field, an eagle regally stood less than 50 feet away from me; his size that of a toddler child. I slow my run to a shuffle just so I can look at him longer.

He watches me and I, him. His greatness delivering me into a mesmerized awe. And I had almost missed him. Consumed in my own thoughts that morning while talking to God, my attention was not on my surroundings. I focused on the long country road that lay ahead of me and not on the scenery I was running by. Not until he'd turned his white-crowned head had I noticed him. To think had I disregarded what caught my eye, I would have missed out on such greatness.

This makes me wonder. How many times in my life have I been too focused on what is directly in front of me that I miss out on the greatness around me? The elderly woman I pass in the grocery store who faithfully, and without complaint, tends to her ailing husband. The middle school girl standing in the hallway who's unrealized gift will blossom into greatness if only through an encouraging word. The tired parent who sacrifices much to ensure the child learns responsibility, kindness and empathy.

Greatness like this surrounds me each day, I just don't often see it and fail to recognize it. This does not lessen the fact the greatness is there; more often than not, it is my perspective that must change. If a smile, a "hello" or telling someone to have a great day will encourage them enough to do so, then in some small way it is contributing to that person being great. And encouragement is desperately needed in this world.

I mull these things over in my mind as I finish my run. No longer am I looking at just the road in front of me, but I intentionaly look at the scenery around me. A new pair of eyes looking less inward, and more outward. If I am intentional to encourage those around me to show their greatness, at times I will be blessed by seeing incredible greatness close at hand that it will leave me in inspired awe. Like the day an eagle stood close by, in a field and looked upon me.

Beth's Story

2011-05-19T17:26:00.000-07:00

The streets of the town were lined with people. An excitement that only an Olympic Trials can bring, filled the air. 10 year old Beth held the hand of her father, staying safely by his side. The women’s marathon was running through the streets of Olympia, Washington and would soon be nearing where Beth stood. In an instant, Joan Benoit Samuelson runs by, leaving behind her sprinkles of marathon dreams in the mind of a little girl.

“Daddy,” Beth said, “someday I am going to run a marathon.”

*******
It was winter and Mary Kay was working hard on the training for her second marathon. This petite Southern Belle had been watching Beth run on the treadmill at the local health club for quite some time before introducing herself. The two personalities clicked into place like the last two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle; neither one realizing the pieces were missing until they had fallen perfectly into place. They made plans to meet that weekend and run.

Beth had never forgotten the dream born of a 10 year old girl to run a marathon, and watched with great admiration as Mary Kay trained for her race. Beth, who enjoyed the competition of racing the shorter distances, soon found herself running the longer training runs with Mary Kay.

Mary Kay and Beth ran well together. Harmony was found in their footsteps and they ran strong and effortlessly. The best of friendships are solidified in running side by side. Life and distance running bring many of the same emotions and opportunities. During the difficulties, the other takes the lead and encourages until strength is found to continue on. While the times are easy, laughter is heard and conversation is light. The time will come, in running and in life, when you must lean on your running partner and trust them without question. The miles were more than just a run for them, the miles were their lifelines.

Beth knew how to compete in the short and mid-distance races, but a marathon was something different. Not believing she was anywhere near the fitness level required for 26.2 miles, she always waved off the nudges Mary Kay would give her to run a marathon. That is until the day Beth finished a 22 mile training run with Mary Kay by her side.

“You are ready. There is no reason why you can’t run the Capital City Marathon with me.” Mary Kay encouraged. The next day, Beth mailed off her entry form. The hopes and dreams born of a 10 year old girl came alive that day. And with Mary Kay by her side, she would toe the line of her very first marathon.

********

The tears came. She knew they would. Beth blinked back the tears of joy she had welling up inside of her. It’s not every day one stands in the moment of an aspiration coming true. And yet here she was at the starting line of her first 26.2 mile adventure and sharing it with Mary Kay. She looks at Mary Kay and smiles. Tears speak what words cannot utter.

A horn blows and the race begins. Beth and Mary Kay fell into a familiar rhythm and easy conversation making the first half of the marathon speed by. Shortly after, Mary Kay began to slow and encouraged Beth to keep going. Beth hesitated, Mary Kay encouraged, and the competitor in Beth sparked. With her strong pace and Mary Kay’s blessing, she pushed forward.

On her own, she continued to race well. Mile 20 came and with it she hit The Wall, making it extremely difficult to stay on pace. By mile 21 her left quad began to cramp, forcing her to stop and stretch. In stretching her quad, her hamstring tightens. In pain and miserable, she hears an all too familiar laugh. May Kay has caught up to Beth, and with the authority of drill sergeant she barks, “Keep moving, stop stretching”

Beth listens. And it hurts. But with sheer determination, she keeps her eyes focused on Mary Kay ahead of her. Mary Kay is pulling away and Beth discovers the power of the marathon. Alone, hurting and fighting a mental battle she looks inward, digging deep. These are the tough miles, the miles in which one discovers a strength never known before.

Beth continues forward, knowing her friend has gone before her. With the final mile ahead of her a new found energy emerges. The finish line is in sight and with it, Mary Kay cheering her on. As she got closer, Beth could hear Mary Kay screaming, “We qualified! We qualified!” Knowing their times were fast enough to qualify them to run the Boston marathon, plans were being made to run it together even before leaving the finisher’s chute.

Beth and Mary Kay ran 5 marathons together, including Boston on April 15, 2002. Running friends see the worst, bring out the best and always believe in the strength they see in you. When Mary Kay received the news she had breast cancer, Beth knew she would see her friend through the ugly miles they knew lay ahead. Mary Kay’s fight ended on December 29, 2006. Beth now runs alone.

Her foot falls quietly on the streets of her town. Beth’s love of running died with Mary Kay that day. She runs to forget, she runs to remember, and the miles are lonely. In the solitary miles Beth feels the closest to her friend.

It would take 2½ years before finding the courage to run another marathon. Strength emerged, and in the miles ran that race day Mary Kay was there. When the struggles came, Beth could hear the echoing words of Mary Kay, “Keep moving”.

A Spring Rain

2011-05-11T10:54:00.000-07:00

The sound of Chuck Swindoll speaking lured me from my slumber. Reaching over to turn off the alarm, I became aware of another sound; the sound of rain hitting the skylight. Every ounce of me wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, staying far, far away from the rain. The excessively long and rainy winter has taken it's toll on me and leaving my warm bed to run in the rain ranks right up there with a root canal.

I get up.

Opening the slider door and stepping out onto the patio, I enjoy the last bit of staying dry as I stand under the eave of the house. It is surprisingly warm. The towering, massive evergreens show no movement in their branches letting me know there is no wind. Rain in my town rarely comes without wind; this is a welcome change.

My run begins with a slow and easy pace. Monday night's workout is still felt in my legs and shoulders. With each step I feel the stiffness dissipating and the fluidity returning to my muscles. Even with the falling rain, the run feels good. The rain is almost warm and I realize I don't mind it as it gives affirmation that spring may have finally arrived.

The raspberry fields have recently been tilled and the rows of budding green leaves sprouting off each raspberry bush look stark in contrast to the rich, dark brown of the soil. Further down the road I pass the farmer's expansive field which is sprouting vibrant green grass soon to be cut and placed into hay bales. On the other side of the field, about a mile away, my eyes follow a milk truck traveling down a road on its way to a dairy farm to pick up the farm's daily production of milk.

A small light cascades from a kitchen window of an old two story farm house; wrapped by a front porch that invites one to sit and sip lemonade while watching the world go by. Soon the home owner, an electrician, will leave there, climb into his work van and head off to work and wave to me as he passes.

The smell of clean clothes emanates from a dryer vent on the side of a modest home. The house is quiet sans the evidence of the early-rising mother doing laundry. The smell reminds me I will need to start laundry when I get home.

I turn down the road that will take me home, my 6 miles finished. The neighbor's garden is bursting with the bright colors of tulips and daffodils. The rain has not let up and I am soaked from head to toe. I do not mind. Birds are singing their morning songs, the temperature is warm enough for me to be running in a skort and the scenery showed me winter has finally bowed out and allowed spring to emerge. Today's run was amidst the gentle warmth of a spring rain.

And to think I would have missed all this had I stayed in bed.

My Favorite Marathon Through The Eyes of Another

2011-05-05T16:40:00.000-07:00

I'm 4 days removed from the 2011 Eugene Marathon and still feeling the euphoria from it. Words are hard to pen as to how running 26.2 miles makes a person feel mentally and spiritually; sure I try, but I come up terribly short. Not every marathoner feels the same emotion, but every marathoner will completely and wholly understand it.

During the Eugene Marathon, as most of you know from my Race Recap published earlier this week, that I had the privilege of having my good friend Jeff McKay run by my side the entire 26.2 miles. Also a gifted writer, he publised a story for OregonLive.com concerning our race. What I love is how these writings showcase how you have one race and two different perspectives although they came from two people who ran side-by-side the entire distance.

Grab yourself a cup of coffee, snuggle down, and enjoy a great read about one of the best weekends of my life from a perspective not my own.

Jeff McKay's 2011 Eugene Marathon Recap

The Eugene Marathon

2011-05-02T20:43:00.000-07:00

We meet in the lobby of the motel, chatting nervously and anxious to make our way to the start a mere 2 blocks away. It's early and the desk clerk clearly does not understand our excitement. Within minutes we are making our way out the door at a very slow jog to warm up for the race.

People are milling around everywhere. Some doing strides, others walking and the corrals even have a few people lined up waiting. We jog up a backstreet away from the crowds to get some dynamic stretching in. My friend Jeff sees his coach, and introduces us to The Joe Henderson, who quizzes me on my pace, time goals and such and then gives me some encouragement. Jeff and I find the rest of the group on one of the many practice tracks at the University of Oregon. The campus is gorgeous and we quickly fall in love with it. We even had our own "private" porta potty to take care of pre-race necessities.

With 12 minutes to go before the race start, we slowly jog our way back down to the starting area. We break off into our pace groups and wait for the start. Jeff, a Eugene native, has graciously offered to run with Kathy, Karen and I to pace us on the course and guide our every step. Waiting for the announcer to start us, we talk nervously among ourselves soaking in our surroundings. It wasn't long before Jeff and I hear someone call out, "Hey Maniac!". As Jeff and I are Marathon Maniacs we both look and meet a fellow Maniac named Dave. This is Dave's 29th state he's running in. Races are the best places to meet people. You find an instant comraderie knowing you are embarking on 26.2 miles together.

The crispness in the air was welcome and the cloudless blue skies we knew would deliver a sunny race. One can not ask for a more perfect recipe in racing. The announcer introduces us to a brave 9 year old girl who would sing the national anthem. In something I had never heard before, her precious voice brought an utter reverent quiet on the crowd of 8,000. No one spoke a word. A quiet moment that made you proud to be an American.

The announcer counted down and we were off and running. We stayed in a tight group weaving our way around the crowd. Jeff gave us excellent instruction informing us of left hand or right hand turns. We had our own personal pacer and tour guide, filling us in on local stories others would not ever know and reminding us to speed up or slow down depending on our pace. The miles began to click by and we were having fun.

Around mile 4, she asked if she could run with us. Rachel grew up in Seattle and was making Eugene her first marathon. Her happy disposition fit in quickly with the group, and she easily fell in pace with us.

Approaching mile 6 our friend Joy and her Dad Steve were waiting for us. At the first sight of them, we peeled off gloves and coats and threw them in their direction. We had our own pacer and our own concierge service, we couldn't have asked for a better race.

Mile 8 gave us the biggest hill we'd have to face and we were all grateful it was so early into the race. The backside produced a great downhill where we enjoyed some faster paced minutes making up for the time lost working our way up the hill.

Streets were lined with supporters and we received encouragement from all. A man held up a sign stating "I am so proud of you complete stranger", a woman and her children held a banner simply telling us to "SHINE" and took the time to color in the wide-written letters with sparkly paint. Everywhere we turned, we felt the genuine and honest support of the town's people.

Mile 9 took us right by our motel and I knew my husband and children would be on the corner waiting for me. The sidewalks are swollen with well-wishers and I strain to find them. I spot my oldest and then my youngest. Shedding my arm warmers I toss them to boys and Jeff points me in the direction of my husband. He has climbed onto a ledge in the middle of the street taking pictures of us as we run by. We smile and wave big for the camera.

Between mile 10 and 11 the half marathoners turned back toward town and the full marathoners headed to Springfield. We waved goodbye to Karen and she went on to run a negative split race. Kathy, Jeff, Rachel and I made our way down paths and city streets. Mentally I broke the race down into 3 separate sections and we were now running the second section. Our pace was good and strong.

As we were now running more city streets, police officers worked intersections holding and directing traffic. There dedication was great, as two days previously they laid one of their own to rest; an officer killed in the line of duty, the first in decades. I thanked as many as I could. Mile 15 Kathy gave me a high five and told me she had made her goal for the day and was going to slow it down. Coming back from an injury just a few weeks previous, she was racing an incredibly strong marathon.

Mile 16 brings us to a footbridge where my husband and boys quickly spot us. They let out cheers and high fives and my husband snaps more pictures. Their smiling faces help me push forward. I'm starting to tire and I refuse to give in to it.

We are now on the bike path winding its way around the lazily running Willamete River. Our vision beholds God's beautiful nature and captivates my attention. My struggle is intensifying and I pepper myself with positive reinforcement - I can, I can, I can.

One would think a path near the river's edge would be sparse of people cheering on runners, but it wasn't. The town loves running and it showed on the faces of all ages. My heart still smiles when I think of the dozen or so chairs lining the path, filled with the smiles of the elderly. Armed with their noise makers they gave us encouragement in such a way that made one think they were saying, "Run for me and these tired old legs of mine".

Just short of mile 19 Jeff's wife Tonya was manning an aid station and had a personal stash of goodies for us. I swapped out my empty water bottle for a full one and was on my way again within seconds. Shortly after we crossed the last footbridge over the river taking us to the final stretch; my watch chirped 21 miles. And I was still running. This was the farthest I'd ever run in a race without stopping. Me elation was masked by the exhaustion in my legs.

Mile 22 came and no matter how much I tried to hold on for 4.2 miles I just couldn't do it and had to succumb to the using the bathroom. Never in a race have I had to use the bathroom. There was no waiting and I found a handful of empty port-a-poties shortly after. In stopping the running, my legs began to cramp up.

For the final miles it was a battle of wills between my cramping legs and my dictating mind. Jeff gave me encouragement and would walk when I needed to and then got me back on pace as the running resumed. Even though my only goal was not to walk at all in this marathon, I discovered I was not upset with myself at all. I had run the furthest I'd ever run in a race and found tremendous satisfaction in that. The cycle of mentally beating myself up for not meeting my goals had stopped and in that I found great victory.

My mind wandered to Steve Prefontaine's memorial we had visited the day before. He had accomplished so much before his life tragically ended. I envisioned him running on the trails and city streets I was now running. There was no giving up. I had to push myself mentally.

The running stretches grew longer and we grew closer and closer to the finish line. We passed the 25 mile marker and I am surprised we've come that far already. I look at my watch and I know a Personal Record is within my reach. This is almost over and I am thrilled my race day demons are dead.

Leaving the bike path, we work our way onto the city street and Jeff points out our motel. We are a few blocks from the finishline. The closer we get to Hayward Field the thicker the people lining the streets. People are yelling and encouraging and pushing us forward. The famous entrance gates to the historic field are now in my sights. We enter into the stadium and I am now running where some of this country's greatest runners train and race.

I soak in the living history that surrounds me.

My family and friends are some of the many voices in the stands screaming my name. It's all a blur and I can't hear anything. The stadium rocks with excitement and the noise is deafening. My strongest race to date and I am finishing it on the track at Hayward Field.

Captured on the Jumbo-tron is
Joe Henderson giving me a hug

I cross the finish line in 4:12:39 with Jeff at my side and give him the biggest hug. As we pull apart, I hear a voice say, "Good job Cheri" and then receive a hug from legendary Joe Henderson himself. Words can not describe how immeasurably immersed I was in history at that moment in time. The echoing footsteps of legends collided with my own, and I became overwhelmed.

At dinner that night the laughter gave evidence of the great races had by all. The hallowed streets of Eugene had given Melissa a PR qualifying her to run New York; Brad and Audra both bested their times and Pat came within 20 seconds of a new PR. We laugh, and eat and drink while re-living each moment of the day.

There is something special about this town, and looking around the table I couldn't think of a better group of people to spend it with. We raise our glasses in cheer and I clink my glass with my friends; my running friends who've seen my worst and helped me deliver my best. That is why we run...together.

It's Almost Here

2011-04-28T11:19:00.000-07:00

Race Day. It's almost here. My nerves are playing their own version of WWE Smackdown contained underneath this layer of skin. One never gets use to the pre-race jitters.

While winter did it's best to thwart my training, the focus of this coming weekend pushed me through. Knowing that all the hard work would pay off has a way of sharpening one's determination. For months I ran through bitter northeastern winds, torrential downpours and the snow and ice that winter delivered. I logged hundreds of miles on trails and roads to bring me strongly prepared to the starting line. And now it's so close I can almost see it.

My body is feeling good and strong and more than ready to take the beating of 26.2 miles. In a moment of complete personal honesty, where I fight my biggest battle lies in my mental game. With the help of my running friends, I will not fight this fight alone this time. On the course, I will slay the dragon that leeches onto my back and weighs me down.

Race day demons die this weekend.

If others believe in the potentional they see in me, why can't I? The hardest part of my training has not been the miles, but the driving out of self-doubt. For the first time I will toe the start line believing in the potential I hold. And in many ways that makes me feel like I've already won.

On Sunday as I finish my 8th marathon on the track of the history-rich Hayward Field, following the echoing footsteps of some of this country's greatest runners, look up. On the jumbo-tron you will see this mom throw her hands up in victory. And weep for joy.

The Final Long Run

2011-04-09T20:27:00.000-07:00

The final long run, and I am more than anxious to get started. It’s 6:20 in the morning and the lake is deserted of people. I start my run on the trail surrounding the lake knowing that my friend Melissa would be heading in the opposite direction until she and I would meet on the trail.

Birds are chirping their “good mornings” as the sun has just risen stirring them awake. Ducks are scurrying around the lake’s edge before plunging into its cold waters. This part of the trail is flat and a great way to start my run. Nice and easy.

There is the slightest hint of fog rising above the lake. A wind is starting to pick up; quietly beginning to erase the glass-like stillness of the water. The sky is overcast but gives no rain. For this I am very grateful as it has been a long winter of training in the rain and cold.

Shortly after the first mile, I begin to run up the first hill. The back side of the lake is the hilliest section with the trail going down to the lake and then back up into the hillside. Here is where I meet Melissa. She is a couple miles into her run as she ran from her house to meet me. We quickly fall into step and manage to keep a good and steady pace.

Leaving the rolling hills, the trail brings us back around to where I started. This 2.6 mile loop will be the make up of my 20 to 22 mile run today. The trails are excellent for my shins and prevents them from barking at me. I chose this route for that reason. My shins have been bothering me on and off for awhile now and being so close to the marathon I didn’t want to take any chances. The trail feels good.

Melissa and I pick up the pace on the flattest parts of the trail and then buckle down on the hills. She is hoping to qualify for New York by running a 1:40 half marathon in Eugene. She is generous with the pace as she knows my distance will be greater than hers today and I need to conserve some energy for the end.

After the 3rd lap we run into our running group who are running a warm up mile before starting some dynamic stretching. By the end of the 4th lap the rest of Bellingham Fit had found their way to the park and will start their run soon. On the farside of the lake, Melissa and I part ways and she runs home.

I begin the rolling hills on my own, knowing that Karen will be looking to meet up with me to finish out my run. The hills are starting to tire me. For the last couple of days my body was fighting some kind of bug, so I am unsure if I am really tired from the hill running or if the bug was starting to win. I refuse to give into the bug. Before I realized it Karen and Amy were heading my way. They turn around and run in the direction I am running.

They keep me occupied by talking about running, triathlons and different races we’ve each run. I know I am growing quiet and they recognize it. They tell me I am doing good and look strong. We continue. They allow me to set the pace and yet push me. It is what I need.

The 6th time of hitting that first hill I have to walk part of it. Not what I wanted to do, but I wouldn’t beat myself up for it. At the crest of it we are running again. We run the hills and once we hit the flat part, I tell them I want to stop at the Bellingham Fit water station. We stop for a few seconds before beginning again. The Gatorade helps.

Leaving the flat part of the trail and heading up that hill again, I make the decision today’s run will be 20 miles instead of 22. I am just too tired and the thought of doing an 8th lap and doing those hills again is not appealing to me, it’s taking all my strength to get through the 7th lap. Stopping to get more water at the water station, our coach Pat comes over to offer encouragement. We bid goodbye to Amy and Pat asks to join our final miles. We head out the flattest part of the trail and then turn around for the final stretch. Mercifully, it is over. 19.54 miles are finished with a total elevation change of 9,995 feet. I have officially entered into the taper before the marathon.

Training for a spring marathon has been challenging. There have been miles of trials and trials of miles. Wind, rain, snow and ice have been a constant companion making it difficult to train as hard as I wanted. Not one to ever use a treadmill, I did what I could when I could. It wasn’t easy, but I did it.

And never alone.

My family always encouraged me and my husband offered advice when needed and had countless meals ready for me at the end of my longest runs. Every weekend my friends were asking me how many miles I’d have to run and where they could join me. Without fail, my longest runs were always with my friends who often did a tag-team effort to ensure not a single mile would find me alone. For that I am incredibly grateful. Those weren’t always the prettiest miles and yet without fail, they were there.

To you, my running friends, thank you. This marathon is dedicated to you.

Out On The Trail Inspiration Was Found

2011-04-02T14:12:00.000-07:00

We were working on our second lap around the lake and enjoying the flatness of the trail. Up the gravel path we could see him running along in solitude. Catching up on the week's happenings, Karen and I were about to intrude on his quiet with our conversation.

Life has a way of getting crazy, and there in the earthen sanctuary of the woods, we felt ourselves recharging in the midst of our 7 mile run. Karen and I were running our coach-prescribed marathon pace for two of the miles and began to quickly gain on the man ahead. Approaching him, we found ourselves keeping the same pace. I asked him if he was part of Bellingham Fit, the group Karen & I were in. He said he was and conversation flowed easily between us.

Time had taken out it's crayon and colored his hair grey; his attitude had colored his smile big. He asked us which pace group we were in and after telling him about our group, he insisted we were too fast for him. Pointing out he was running with us and running well, we assured him our group has no set pace but rather just a desire to get faster.

He unfolded his story, giving us a glimpse into the man he was while we were running next to the man he had become. Last year he joined Bellingham Fit for the first time and loved the 6 month training program he participated in. The man told us at the start of last year's season he could barely walk around the lake once. At the end of walking one 2.6 mile loop he would have to go home and nap. And there he was now, running with us and running it well.

At the top of the hill we found ourselves parting ways; Karen and I off to finish our marathon pace miles, and he slowed to catch his breath. We were both touched by his story and found incredible inspiration in it.

One of the greatest joys of running is meeting other runners and hearing their stories. Nothing inspires me more than to hear people, like this man, go from out of breath and out of shape to strong and healthy. His determination to change his life did just that, and managed to inspire me along the way.

Birch Bay International Road Race 30k

2011-03-27T17:26:00.000-07:00

The morning air is crisp, the smell of salt water lingers in the air. People are milling about; some sprinting, some stretching and others talking. Laughter wafts above the conversation. My friends and I are cold, but we know once the run begins the shivering will stop. The weather was a runner’s perfection.

The race official yells orders into the handheld bull horn and seems to be unsuccessful at reeling in the nervous energy each runner has pent up inside. He blasts the air horn. He has our attention. He lines us up according to pace regardless of the distance being run. The Birch Bay International Road Race offers three distances – the 5k, 15k and the 30k. I’m running the 30k. I question the sanity of running 18+ miles after last week’s 22 mile run. I fear I will be too tired adding already to my pre-race jitters.

Melissa, Arlane and Jennifer head to their spots in the front of the pack. Karen and I take the middle. Someone must’ve yelled “Go” as we suddenly found ourselves in the midst of a throng moving forward. As I cross the starting line, I press the start button on my watch. Instant data, I love it.

The beginning of the race starts on a downhill giving us instant energy and adding to the impossibility of not going out too fast. At the bottom of the hill we turn left and find ourselves running flat miles as we follow the ocean side. The sun is shining and the ocean looks spectacular.

We are keeping a pretty good pace as we find ourselves on the first uphill portion of the race. We are leaving the beach and climbing our way up to the top of the bluff. The road climbs, then levels out some before it starts the climb again; bringing some relief to labored breathing.

The trees are thicker here offering shade from the sun as well as privacy for the gated properties we pass. I point to the home once owned by Tom Selleck. Karen and I see Melissa on the other side of the road as she’s already reached the 15k turn around and heading back toward the finish line. She looked good and strong and we could tell she was keeping a great pace. Not far behind her was Jen, who also looked to be having a good race.

At the turn around point Karen and I part ways as she goes on to finish her 15k and I head out further along the 30k course. Not many runners have chosen to do this distance and the course becomes sparse and lonely. I see a few runners ahead of me and I keep my sights on them. They, unknowingly, will be my pacers.

The road rolls with hills testing my strength. I feel good. I feel strong. At the top of the bluff I come to a clearing high above the Pacific Ocean. The vista given me is one of endless ocean partially lined by the snow capped mountains of Canada. Its beauty captivates me. I see the ocean side town of White Rock in British Columbia and imagine the people running along the same ocean, albeit a different country.

Old money mingles with new money producing its evidence in the massiveness of the homes I run by. One home’s front door I am certain costs more than my entire house. Their perfectly manicured lawns remind me summer will be here soon. I love summer.

The course turns us away from the ocean and we are now heading into the exclusive gated community lining the golf course. The quietness of the neighborhood is refreshing. I find it easy to get lost in thought. We turn onto a bike path that meanders lazily near the edge of a wood. Bright pink catches my eye. I notice one solitary, tiny, bright pink flower on a completely dead bush; a symbol to me of hope and courage. It looks to be a physical manifestation of the saying, “Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t. Believe it and you can achieve it”. Hope and courage.

We are on a gradual downhill. I enjoy it as I know once I hit the turn around it will be uphill. Enjoy the moment, don’t think about the next. I press on. My mind is occupied looking for Arlane as she too was running the 30k and ahead of me. A short time later I see her and we shout encouragement to each other as we pass directions.

Soon I hit the turn around point and head back to the finish line. My watch chirps 11 miles. I begin the ascent back up to the bluff. To help get myself through the hill climb, I keep myself busy by people watching the runners who had not yet hit the turn around. I realize there are a lot of people behind me and I wonder if this means I am having a good race. My pace is better than I thought it would be. Hmmm, maybe I do have it in me today.

Focusing on the runners ahead of me I work on closing the gap. Sure and steady. The closest runner ahead of me is about a quarter mile away. Keeping him as the center of my attention helps get me through the hills. Before I realize it I am back at the spot where Karen and I had parted ways. Knowing they had finished some time ago and had headed home, I wonder how she, Melissa and Jen did.

I am closing in on Mr. Runner Man. I am tired. My legs hate me, I keep going. We are approaching the second to last hill of the course. I determine I will pass him on the down hill. Focus. A volunteer hands me a swig of water at the top of the hill. Walking to drink it down without spilling it all over me, I finish and toss the cup on a pile of other cups. God bless these volunteers. Mr. Runner Man is close. Shortly after the downhill I pass him. He has now been “chicked” and something inside myself tells me I just lit a waning fire for him. My watch chirps telling me I’ve reached the 18th mile.

The final turn is close and I am trying to figure out where it’s at. I am more than ready for this race to be over. The head wind isn’t helping either. At last I see it and with it comes the bittersweet knowledge of knowing the race is almost over but only after one cruel and final steep uphill.

Halfway up the hill, inside my head I hear the voice of my coach telling me to walk the uphill. “Running up a steep hill brings no benefit. Walk it fast and you will have more energy at the top than those who ran it”. I walk the steepest part. Mr. Runner Man thinks this is his lucky break. He is wrong. At the top of the hill, still in the lead, I have the energy to bolt. I do, he doesn't. He is gasping finding it difficult to continue.

The finish line approaches and I see it closing in. Do I sprint or keep my pace? I determine there is no need to sprint, my legs are more than exhausted after last week’s 22 mile run. Mr. Runner Man, sounding like a freight train, barrels past me in the last few yards. I smile. I knew I had lit a fire in him.

Arlane is waiting for me at the finish and we congratulate each other on a great run. My finishing time came in at 2:53:52; good enough for a 4th place finish in my age group. My effort was good and strong and I walk away from this race with a new lesson about myself. Just like the tiny pink flower budding amidst dead branches, I can. When that nagging voice of doubt starts talking, the only voice I have to listen to is the one that says “I can”.

The Good, The Bad and The Beautiful

2011-03-19T22:13:00.000-07:00

The weatherman said sun and I wanted to believe him. The raindrops falling on my skylight told me different. Never wanting to give up hope and knowing that it was still a good hour away before meeting Melissa, I put on my running skort. Being so anxious for spring and some sunshine, I decided even if it was going to rain I would wear the skort. Me? Stubborn?

7:00 a.m. Melissa and I meet at the ocean and start our run. The clouds had parted and we were running in the sunshine. The crisp, beautiful spring sunshine.

The route we took led us into an older part of town where century homes lined the bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Cherry blossoms were popping their bright white and pinks against the weathered grey of the branches. Tulips were seen and daffodils burst from the passing winter's ground. This was good.

Staying healthy and injury free has been my focus over the last couple of weeks. My shin had brought me a couple opportunities to meet some of the great doctors we have in the area.   They had done their jobs well and through their advice and my diligence my shin had been behaving itself. Until today. I was being made very well aware of it and it was giving me concern. Would it be like this for the entire run today? This was bad.

We weaved our way through well established neighborhoods which led us to a trail that would take us back to our starting point. My shin behaved itself and the run was passing quickly. Right on cue, we were back to the start picking up Karen who would run the second half with me. Following the road into downtown, Melissa stayed with us for a couple miles before turning around and heading back to her car.

This part of the course would be the most challenging for me as it would bring plenty of uphill on tired legs. The goal was to run the entire 22 miles; no walking. Taking the trail from downtown we headed back down toward the water to run the park. The trail was alive with walkers and runners soaking up the beauty of the morning.

The islands stood tall on the horizon.  Sailboats wafted on the gentle rocking of the ocean. Running the boardwalk we were taken in by how incredibly blessed we are to live in such a beatiful part of the country. We head up the dock away from the water and make our way through town.

At the edge of the trail I confided in Karen that this would be the most difficult part for me as it was all uphill until we hit the bench. She took the lead and kept me occupied. We talked about everything, laughed about nothing and quickly discovered I can not do math when I am tired.

Finally we reach the bench and turn around to the best part of this trail - a gradual downhill until the ocean's edge. Leaving the water and heading up the trail, we are now on the final uphill. I remind myself this is it, the final one, the final one, the final one. Our pace slows a bit until we reach the top of the hill. I tell her I am tired. She tells me I should be and we keep running.

We are on the last two miles of the run. Mercifully, the remaining miles are all down hill or flat.  This is a great mental boost and our pace quickens. In the final mile I check my Garmin constantly thinking that time will magically speed up with each look so I can be finished. Then it came. The final chirp. We stopped our watches and giving each other a high five I holler, "22 miles DONE!". And that is a beautiful thing.

The Wind, Rain and a Little Run

2011-03-12T15:00:00.000-08:00

I park the car near the ocean and look at how hard the rain is hitting the windshield. I'm going to get wet. Looking forward to this run all week, I pushed aside the disappointment of having to run in the wind and rain. Again.

The fuel belt is ready to go and I strap it on, hit the start button on my Garmin and I'm off and running. The plan is to do the first 8 at marathon pace; the last 8 at the pace my friend Joy's nagging injury will allow.

Running solo through the city is new to me and I am slightly apprehensive.  Making a point to be aware of my surroundings I relax a little and enjoy the sights and sounds. A breeze rattles the wind chimes of the boats sleeping in the marina. The water is a murky grey-green almost blending seamlessly into the horizon of the rain filled grey sky. The rain is doing it's best to conceal the mountainous islands.

As I leave the harbor, I run the road taking me up and into downtown. The intersection I am approaching I see a man walking towards me. His hand holds a large black garbage bag, surely containing all his earthly possessions. The men's shelter is a block and half away and I am certain he has just come from there. He walks to the corner and presses the pedestrian button.  He waits patiently for the "Walk" sign to light up. I smile at his civilian thoughtfulness.  Most would have gone through the intersection as the deserted roads brought little concern for crosswalk safety. I look him straight in the eyes and give him a cheery, "Good morning!" I wonder when the last time a stranger looked him in the eye.

Southeast winds continue to pick up speed, seemingly to hit me at all directions. Running into the wind at marathon pace tires me and I hope the trees lining the upcoming trail will provide some relief.

The corner coffee shop is quiet. The roads are empty sans the occasional driver. Rounding the corner onto the South Bay Trail I see my first runner. They must be in training I muse, no one would be out here in the winds and rain if the training didn't dictate it.

Once on the trail I hear the faraway rumblings of an approaching freight train. The horn sounds shattering through early morning quiet. Engine 9130 barrels down the track on it's way to deliver the coal-filled cars to wherever they need to go. The trail is above the train and looking down on the train, I notice the blackness of the coal looks striking against the ocean's edge.

The waterfront park is empty except for the rain-slicker wearing city worker emptying the trash bins. An occasional coffee drinker is seen going into the coffee shop to get their first morning's cup of coffee. The rain has drenched every square inch of my clothing and I fight the urge to veer off the path into the warm building to get a hot cup of anything.

As I run a mere 3 feet from the ocean's edge, I pause my thought and look up. I imagine what 33 feet above my head looks like. My heart again breaks for the people of Japan. Yesterday the ocean I am running along had a tsunami advisary, we saw a mere 1/2 foot swell in tide. The power the tsunami held scares me as I realize we saw the affects here thousands of miles away. Nature has a fury.

My watch beeps my mileage and I must turn around and make my way back. The wind and rain are a relentless duo. I leap over ~~lakes~~ puddles,  and do my best to stay out of the way of the urban rivers flowing madly toward storm drains. Closing in on where I am to meet Joy I check my watch and realize I've made good time and I'm early. I run loops through the park,cursing the strength of the wind as it tries to push me back.

Joy pulls in, jumps out of the coveted dryness of her car and we are off running together. The miles fly by quickly as we make our way back down the trail. The conversation flows easily. Despite her injury, we are keeping a good pace. Mile 14 and I am starting to tire. Joy reminds me the next 2 miles are relatively downhill or flat and then we will be finished. She is right. We press on.

The rain has let up some as we near the 16 mile mark. We walk the remaining distance back to our cars. The miles completed, the run over and the weather had done it's best to drag us down, but we prevailed. We dug deep and got it done.

Hot coffee never tasted so good.

A Heart Overflowing

2011-02-20T12:46:00.000-08:00

The alarm sounds. What day is it? Oh, yes, Saturday. The alarm is sounding by my choosing. I roll out of bed careful as to not disturb the flu-ridden little boy laying next to me; who after two sleepless nights managed to sleep through the night. After slipping on my running gear, I tiptoe to the kitchen in an effort to keep sleeping boys sleeping, just down the hall was a room full of teenage boys who I suspect may have just fallen asleep.

A quick breakfast of hot oatmeal helped prepare me for the winter cold that lay just outside the door. My shoes, double laced, and I was ready to begin my 18 mile training run. Stepping into the darkness I was greeted by the brightness of a near full moon. Stars were hidden behind the moon's brilliance.

The north eastern winds blowing hard ushered in colder feeling temps than the thermometer's 25°. The bitterness of it stung. Weaving my way through the neighborhood, I reached the point where I would make my first of 4 loops. A rather mundane route would make up the mileage today; a necessity warranted as being a mom is my first priority and a household of hungry boys would awaken as my run would end.

Beginning the first loop, the wind was mercifully at my back. Cold temps have a way of quickening the pace and I was running a good strong pace. In this direction, the moon stole my attention, with the light of it's fullness cascading down on to the surrounding farmlands. The land slept peacefully, with only the milking farmer at work in the parlors.

The turnaround part of the loop brought me back into the hardness of the winter wind, slowing my pace and reminding me that a marathon-paced run would only be possible on the first half of each loop. Mount Baker and the Cascade foothills stood with regal grandeur on the horizon. The blackness of the night was slightly losing it's hold to the pre-dawn greens and blues that herald the arrival of reds and oranges of a rising sun. The mountains were perfectly outlined with this hint of morning's dawn.

At the completion of the first 4 mile loop, I relished in the thought that the completion of the second loop would be a half way point for me. With the route being extremely tedious, this would be a great mental exercise as well as physical endurance building. At the start of the third loop, I told myself the next loop would be my last. This mind game worked and the miles passed quickly.

By the last loop, the moon was lost in the horizon and the sun's rays peeked over the mountain range. The bitterness of the 30 mph northeastern wind stole the golden-rayed warmth of the winter sun and wearied me. At last, the final loop was complete.

I turned toward the neighborhood to make the final mile and half of my run. A few homes began to come alive, while others remained dark in slumber. My thoughts drifted to the meal I would make the boys when I got home. I realize I am hungry.

Rounding a corner, I was startled from thought when I heard, "Hey Mom!" Glancing over my shoulder I was surprised to see my son and his friends out in the neighborhood. I asked them what they were doing up so early and why they were out in this freezing cold. A numb smile crept across my frozen face when they boys explained they were looking for me so they could run the final mile with me and keep me company. Touched beyond measure, I finished my run in the presence of the future's greatest men and with a heart overflowing.

Step Backs and Sunrises

2011-02-05T11:23:00.000-08:00

There is a gift given each runner during marathon training; it's called a "step-back week". This is the point in the training where mileage is reduced in an effort to give the body a little extra rest. Every fourth week most plans call for this reduced mileage and this week was my step-back week.

Training can take on a life of it's own and often consume one's mind with tempo runs, track workouts and distance runs. The reduced mileage allows not only the body to rest but also the mind, and I was looking forward to "just running".

After months of double digit long runs, today's long run was to be a whopping 5 miles, and I couldn't wait. My friends were scheduled to meet me at a trail head at 7:15. I left the house a little before 7 just as the sun was thinking about peeking over the Cascade mountains. Grey clouds scattered the sky teasing the threat of rain.

Parking the car, I saw people milling about making their way in and out of the coffee house. My friends and I rolled in within minutes of each other and left the city behind as we hopped on the Railroad Trail. The trail seems to transport us into the woods even though the city lay right outside its boundary.

Scattered behind me were strewn the stresses of my week. Each step delivering me further down the trail and farther away from the anxieties that had been nipping at my heels. This run was exactly what I needed.

My friends and I talk endlessly trying to get a week's worth of happenings condensed into a 5 mile conversation. The talk flowed easily and light, mimicking the pace we kept. We followed the trail leading us across from one of the town's biggest lakes. Nestled at the bottom of a hillside, the dark waters spoke of the lake's depth and the winter's cold. Reaching the top of the trail, we were stopped in our tracks at the beauty of the exploding sunrise over the mountainous hills spilling its rays onto the stillness of the waters. We stood in awe of the beauty we beheld.

Reluctantly we left the lakeside and turned ourselves back to the direction we had come from. High aloft a winter's tree, a dilapidated hawk's nest stood exposed; spring's green leaves would soon arrive making the nest once again a home. The trail began to hum with activity as the sunrise brought people out from the warmth of their houses and out into the nature around them.

Our easy run ended almost as quickly as it began affording us the luxury of enjoying a hot coffee at the corner coffee house. I glance around the table and think back to one year ago when I knew none of them. Now after miles together, I can't imagine my life before them. How blessed am I to have easy miles, breath-taking sunrises and friends at my side to enjoy it all...

The Sun Shines

2011-01-22T22:57:00.000-08:00

The moon’s brilliance humbly bowed to the awakening dawn. The rising sun ushered in blue skies and chilly January temps. As I drove in to town, I lost myself in the beauty of the emerging sunrise over the Cascade Mountains. I parked the car near the trailhead and within minutes Kathy arrived.

We began our run. After a week of grey skies and winter rains, the sunshine beckoned and the trail came alive with runners, walkers and bikers; joy clearly seen on every face we passed by. Our steady pace seemed effortless. The trail delivered us to a park nestled at the ocean’s edge. The boardwalk freshly opened after months of repair, was bustling with people. From the corner of my eye I see a seal somersault in the ocean’s dark grey waters swimming well below the surface and out of sight.

Our talk is of current life happenings; we are lost in conversation and the miles quickly pass by. We begin to run a trail taking us into the forest. Approaching the abandoned trestle, I notice the homeless man who often sleeps there is nowhere to be seen. I pray that he has found a warm bed.

The creek waters dance as we run by. Moss thickly covers the trees lining the trail. I marvel how each season brings its own beauty to the woods and how easily I can overlook it. We turn around, head back into town retracing our route. Our mileage will vary today as Kathy prepares for her marathon next weekend. At the end of 8½ miles we part ways and I turn down the trail for my final 4 miles alone.

Sun filtered through leafless trees exposing the underbelly of the wetlands below the trail. Moss crept along a decrepit cement retaining wall trying its best to cover the spray paint left by some thoughtless ruffian. In the distance I hear the rumblings of a train. Within moments the train is speeding by on its way to deliver the coal filled freight cars. Screeching brakes cut through the silence as the engineer attempts to slow the massive power while traveling through downtown. The train leaves and with it all clues it had been there. Silence once again falls on the trail.

Making my way back to the car, I pause to gently stretch sore muscles. The sun feels good on my skin. Despite the briskness of winter, the sun is shining strong giving the promise that spring will soon be at hand. A man shuffles by me. I smile and say hello; he nods. I climb into my car and realize I have no idea where my sunglasses are. That’s ok, though the sun shines bright, you won’t hear me complain.

Nookachamps Half Marathon

2011-01-15T22:03:00.000-08:00

The Northwest sky, colored grey, held back the rain that often comes with our winters. The January wind blew from the south bringing with it an extremely rare 53 degree day. There I stood at the start, in a running skirt, and an incredible itch for spring. My friends and I chatter nervously while waiting for the start of the race. As with most small town races, someone yells "GO" and the race begins. As there were no timing chips handed out, the only beeps heard at the start were the hundreds of Garmin start buttons being pressed.

We were off and running. Kathy, Karen, Joy and I had decided to run a nice and steady sub-2 hour half marathon, placing us right around 9 minute miles. My hope was to do good, strong 9 minute miles and then dropping it to 8:45 minute miles around the halfway mark.  As this was a training run for a marathon this spring, I wanted to increase my speed on tired legs. Well, that was the plan anyway.

A quarter mile into the run, I look down at my Garmin to see what pace we were doing and to make sure we weren't going out too fast. Much to my disappointment, my Garmin read big fat zeros; it gave no pace, no distance, no time. The only data I could retrieve was what time of the day it was.

"Well Kathy, my watch isn't working, what do you say we go by how this race feels to dictate our pace?" She looks at me in disbelief. I offer her the only thing I can, a grin.  I turn to Karen and Joy to ask what pace their Garmins read, only to find them no where behind us. Uh oh. We've gone out too fast.

Without the instant data feed we are accustomed to, we run along at a conversational pace hoping for the best.  Shortly after the first mile we hit a downhill and our pace feels effortless. I remark to Kathy that the voice behind us sounds alot like our very speedy running friend Arlane. When we hear the voice greet us, we both know we've gone out too fast as we just found ourselves in front of Arlane. A few seconds later she is out in front and on her way.

Kathy and I quickly fall into a rhythm. The route becomes relatively flat as we weave our way through back country roads.  A hard working farmer is seen feeding his horses. We watch as the horses prance about the field as if bragging of their beauty to us as we run by. Their sheer size boasting of their incredible strength.

A row of poplar trees line the unseen Skagit River. An eagle soars overhead following the river's path.  Isaiah 40:31 comes to mind, "They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint." The eagle glides effortlessly, giving us a bit of inspiration with its flight.

Trying to run without any form of information proves to be a bigger mental struggle than we'd anticipated. A woman we'd been following and gaining on, I noticed was wearing a gps watch. As we came along side of her I asked her what our average pace was. She looked at her watch, then informed us we were at mile 5.5 with an average pace of 8:23. "WHAT?!?!?" Kathy and I gasp in unison. This pace threw our plan right out the window and we quickly realized we are now racing this race.

The road delivered us to a sleepy small town which seemed to step back into time. Die hard farm pickups lined the parking spots around the local diner. The towns people stopped to watch us run by, a friendly nod offering us encouragement. Living history seeped from the wooden dilapidated buildings.

We left the main road turning into a hillside neighborhood on the back side of town. Quaint little homes, most in disrepair, emitted the slightest aroma of smoke from their fireplaces. The hill climb makes me tired and I begin to feel the effort it has taken to maintain our pace.

Mile marker 8 is painted on the road bringing us to an out-and-back section of the course. Knowing out-and-back portions are often difficult for me I try and focus on the other runners I am encountering. I am tired, but do not dare say the words outloud. I am feeding off of Kathy's energy and I suspect she is feeding off mine. There is no room for this kind of honesty. Not during a race. I internalize my struggle.

Nearing a corner, I recognize a car parked on the side of the road. The realization slowly comes across me. Our running friend Pat, put on doctor's orders of rest, drove to the race and came down to cheer us on. He sees us as we see him. We trade high fives and Pat runs with us for a few steps telling us we look good. Kathy and I leave him continuing our journey.  Tears well up in my eyes as I am touched by Pat's encouragement. As any runner knows, being put on forced rest is never easy. Yet, there he was to cheer us on despite the fact he wanted to be running the race with us.

In the faces of the runners returning in the out-and-back portion we see Brad, Melissa and Arlane. All keeping good paces and looking strong. We call out to them and give them high fives. Reaching the turn around point, we quickly see Karen and Joy not too far behind us. More high fives. I am struggling. Kathy's son Kellan catches up to us and tells us we are running an 8:40 pace. We've slowed some, bringing me no surprise.

We now come back to Pat who encourages us again.  Shortly after passing him, I hear loudly breaking through the negative I-can't-do-this chatter in my head Pat's voice yell, "Hey Princess, get that dragon off your back!!" I smile a Texas size grin. On a training run a few weeks back, I confided in Pat and Melissa my races are always lost by the negative self talk in my head. Confiding their own race day demons, we discussed with much laughter this princess is not going to any mamby pamby land and to slay the dragon breathing down my neck.  Pat's words, at that moment, snapped me into reality.

I can do this.

Mile 10 through 12 were uphill. Kathy began to pull away. I fought the desire to walk. I thought of my son who urged me to race today even though it would mean I would miss his basketball game. This race had to be run. For my son, I could not give up. The hills just kept coming and I knew my times were slowing. All alone, the struggle intensified.  The adorable look on my son's face kept me focused. Hill after hill, I pressed forward.

Slay the dragon, princess.

Shortly after the 12th mile, a small downhill section gifted me some effortless running. Soon the final turn was in view. My gaze hardened as my focus sharpened. I took the final turn bringing me the cruel surprise of an uphill finish. Making my way through the college campus, the hill crested shortly before the track's finish line. The final 3 miles of hills left me spent and I crossed the finish line amidst cheers from Brad, Melissa, Arlane, Kathy & Kellan. The clock read 1:56:26. I was exhausted. And elated.

We wait and cheer on loudly as Karen, Joy and Audra cross the finish line. Audra's joy is clearly seen on her face as she has just ran a new personal best, bettering her time by a huge 5 minutes. Brad tells us he too has hit a new best today and Kellan wins 2nd in his age group. Congratulations are given as we all celebrate their hard earned victories.

The race is over, the muscles now resting. Today was one of the most difficult half marathons I'd run, and like most difficulties in life, it brought me much learning. I learned when I am tired and my body screams at me to slow it down, I don't have to listen. I learned it is possible to run without the benefits a Garmin delivers. I learned what "my pace" feels like when I have no idea what time is attached to the pace. I learned family, whether by blood or friendship, is a powerful inspiration. And inspiration gets you out the door to run another day.

An Ocean View

2011-01-02T21:26:00.000-08:00

Our first run together in the new year and our excited chatter rose from the bed of the forest floor only to be caught in the canopy of spiney branches of leafless trees. Winter's cold seeped through our gloves and nibbled at our fingertips. The creek, swollen just a few weeks before, now meandered at a leisurely pace leaving an icy reminder of its presence on the creek bed rocks.

We pass under an abandoned tressel and I see him there again. He is wrapped in a summer's sleeping bag to stay warm, which I'm sure is no match for a January 25* morning. My heart goes out to him. I say a prayer.

The trail takes us away from the creek and up to the forest hillside. Conversation turns to fall marathons and who wants to do what race. We plan and strategize and convince each other what we should do. Watch beeps are heard reminding us we have clipped off another mile.

Despite the cold, the sun was shining brilliantly and people peppered the trail in various forms of leisure, some walking their dogs, others running and still others biking. I wonder who is on the trail due to some new year's resolution. We convince ourselves to run "The Dip" to reach our turn around point. This decision gives us 2 uphills and 2 downhills within 1/2 mile. We are sweating and working hard and loving every minute of it.

The halfway mark turns us around and we head back to town. We pass fallen rocks which have tumbled from high above the hill's sheer rockface. The rocks, some large and some small, remind me that nature has a fury.

Red and orange leaves of fall have turn to a decaying, dirty brown and are now well trampled onto the forest floor giving a softness to the trail. There is a break in the trees giving us a view of the ocean, promptly pulling our very breath from us. The beauty of it enraptures us and our pace slows. A Bayliner moves across the glass like sea leaving evidence of its movement wafting behind it like a lazy string blowing in a summer's breeze. We continue on, feeling very blessed to live in such a beautiful country.

A quiet waterfall has cut its way in the hillside and we are only aware of its presence as we run by it. Icicles mark an outline of the waterfall and add a melody to the sound of its rushing water. A bird chirps; reminding me spring will come soon enough. The beauty of this winter's day is not lost on a spring's longing. I am loving every moment of this run.

What seems to be in a blink of an eye, the run is finished and each head off into the direction of home. Except me. I think I'll take the long route and drive by the ocean...

The Final Run and A New Beginning

2010-12-31T12:02:00.000-08:00

It was a brisk winter's 23* when I began my last run of 2010. The rays of the sun felt good despite the coldness in the air. I pressed the start button on my watch and began the year's final miles.

There is excitement to be felt standing on this side of the stroke of 2010's last midnight; excitement in savoring the successes of the year. When I began the year I had made the decision to get serious about my running. I did many things that put me out of my comfort zone and became some of the best decisions I could have made.

One of the first decisions I made was to join a local running group dedicating themselves to improving. This group didn't care how fast you ran, just that you wanted to get faster. And I wanted to get faster. We worked hard in our workouts and runs, logging countless miles together. Well, in reality that is not true, each one of us can tell you exactly how many miles we ran as we all live and breathe by our Garmin watches; we even named ourselves Team Garmin. If you found yourselves near us on the start of our runs, it was not uncommon to hear "Wait a minute! I'm still locating!" These fellow runners make me smile and have become some of my most favorite people.

I reach my turn around point and head for home. The winter sun shines in my eyes, but I do not mind. Sun and clear blue skies are not common in our winters and I am enjoying every moment of it. I glance at my watch noticing my pace is faster than I expected. I decide to keep pushing, the pace feels good.

The year brought me several firsts. March 27 I ran a 15k placing 3rd in my age group, at 41 years old I found myself looking at my first ever race ribbon. As the year went on, I would place in two more races and have 4 personal bests. This brings incredible sense of accomplishment and delivers a greater determination to work towards my Boston goal.

My road lies ahead and I turn toward my home. The final run is over finishing out my 2010 season. One year ago I wondered what 2010 would hold for me and it gave me one of the best running years I've had. Standing in the driveway I hit the stop button on my watch.

My next run will be with my friends in 2011, I can't wait to see what that year will bring.

A Winter's Morning

2010-12-18T20:53:00.000-08:00

The city had come alive despite the winter's pre-dawn darkness. Christmas shoppers were hustling about in search of the season's perfect gifts. I rub my gloves together warming my hands as I wait for the others. The brisk breeze brought the faintest smell of snow.

Laughter announces the arrival of my friends; right on time and ready to go. We discuss the route we will take and the button beeps heard from our watches herald the start of our run. We talk of the cold and all agree it is better than the monsoon rains we ran in the previous week.

The trail wove us through the still quiet residential neighborhoods. Homes were starting to awake and cartoons could be seen through big picture windows.  In spite of living in the city, we run streets we've never traveled before. One of the joys of running is seeing parts of the city you might not ever experience if you had not been on foot. We admire the architecture of one home and enjoy the Christmas lights of another.

We veer into a city park noticing the evidence of a previous day's wind storm. Evergreen branches liter the ground as if God had been baking and shaken His sprinkle shaker while decorating Christmas sugar cookies. Just as quickly as we entered the park, we left and began running down the creek lined parkway toward the ocean.

The creek was swollen from the December rains earlier in the week.  Indication of how high the water had risen was found on the banks of the creek. Trees lay toppled in its midst with water rushing around the exposed roots. We marvel at the strength of what we know as a tiny creek.

Coming along the ocean's side the wind begins to blow harder leaving us to feel it's bite on our cheeks and noses. Away from the city center, the ocean side sleeps with inactivity. Boats moored in the marina gently rock in the Pacific's waves. A few fisherman are seen stirring about; the rest of the marina, quiet.

We follow the ocean as it leads into downtown. Here the Farmer's Market is busy as vendors begin setting up their wares and people are milling around with the leisure found only in a weekend morning.  The smell of fresh food wafts from the grills. Despite the earliness of the day, the food smells delicious. Greeted by the trail head we succumb to its invitation and follow its rocky path leading us back along the ocean.

Reaching the furthest point of our run, we turn and head back into the city.  Making our way down the well traveled streets, we fall in rhythmic silence broken only by the sounds of our shoes hitting pavement. The city center is busy and we find ourselves waiting at several red lights.

It isn't long before we make our way back to the trail where our run had begun. The familiarity of it quickens our pace and we relax knowing the run is almost over.  We follow each winding turn and as promised, the trail delivers us to our finish.

Someone notices the time and we discover we have a few unplanned moments to enjoy a cup of coffee at the coffee shop around the corner. We sit around the table, warming our fingers which are wrapped around the cups holding hot coffee. We talk of fall marathons and quickly approaching Christmas plans.  A hard run and a winter's morning had gifted us a few extra minutes to sit around the table and enjoy the moment, a moment dripping with friendship and laughter. We wish each other a merry Christmas and travel our separate ways. That is, until a winter's morning calls us again.

Testing The Limits

2010-12-05T07:59:00.000-08:00

The temperature read 23 degrees.

This is gonna be cold.

With the sun starting to crest the mountains, the golden winter rays gave sparkle to the frost which covered the ground. Nature's diamonds glistened from the trees, the frozen grasses and roads.

And slippery.

The park was beginning to awake and wipe the sleep from its eyes. Race directors and volunteers were filtering in bringing life to the quietness of the early morning. Evidence of people were seen in the footprints left in the frosty ground.

Leaving the warmth of our cars, my running friends and I began an easy paced 4 mile run. Weaving our way through the oldest part of town and down to the ocean front, I notice the only others awake and out in this cold were those from the oldest of generations.

They are tough, I can learn alot from them.

We talk amongst ourselves discussing our strategies, or lack of, for the race we will soon run. Who wants to run what pace and the times we each hope to run the 6.2 miles in. At the two mile mark we turn around and head back to the park.

Upon entering the park we are greeted by several people milling about waiting for the start of the race. We make our way into the warm, heated building and sign our names on the roster. A simple pen stroke and my name is forever attached to the 2010 Fairhaven Frosty 10k.

We take our place at the starting line. With two divisions in this race, a 5k and a 10k, there are all different types of registrants. Parents with children, dogs with owners, cross country students, walkers and racers.  I look around and spot two women dressed as toy soilders toeing the line.

I will not be beat by a toy soilder.

The announcer tells the 5k entrants to take their place at the first starting line and the 10k runners to line up behind the 10k line about 200 meters back from the 5k start. Someone yells "GO!" and we are off and running. That is until we hit the back of the 5k pack. Here we must dodge walkers, strollers and dogs who can't get along and owners trying their best to control them. My running buddies and I look at each other with a look understood by all.

Great.

We make our way out of the park and shortly begin the ascent up the first hill. Not the most favorable way to start a race but knowing after the first mile there would be a long section of a gradual downhill kept me focused.

Just get through this hill. Pump my arms, shorten my stride.

The crest of the hill gave way to a small downhill taking us to the bottom of switchbacks etched into the side of a hill. Upon climbing them we reached the Interurban Trail and a well deserved downhill section. I look at my watch.

Darn it.

The trail is now a gradual downhill and I can make up time lost on the uphill climbs. I find a runner ahead and focus on catching them.  This works for awhile. I find a runner, catch up to them and work hard to pass them. Then I spot her.

She was maybe 10 and she was ahead of me. I am now right behind her and I hear a few volunteers yell, "Go Emmy!" This girl impresses me. As I pass her I tell her she's doing great and to keep it up. I look at my watch and figure she is running close to a 7:30 mile pace.

Impressive.

Leaving the trail, we make our way onto the city street which will take us back to the park. As we approach, the 5k runners turn toward their finish line and we continue straight to repeat the loop. And the hills. Again.

With only 10k runners now on the course the field thins out tremendously. The cold winter sun shines brightly into our eyes as we climb up the hill.

Pump my arms. Shorten my stride.

The short downhill serves only as a reminder the switchbacks are looming. Too quickly they come into view and I find myself working my way up them.

Final uphill, I can do it. I can do it.

The trail is a welcome sight. My watch chirps and I glance at it. 4 miles done, only 2.2 to go. Here I question the sanity of running 4 miles before the race. I remind myself of the goal to run Boston one day.

This is a stepping stone. A building block to Boston.

The trail feels good under foot. The frozen, frosty leaves crunch with each step I take.  A pleasant sound of winter running. My gaze goes upward to the trees on either side of the trail. Trees reach across the sky in a perfect canopy carving out a ceiling for the trail that winds its way through the forest.

Although sad to leave the trail as we turn onto the city street again, I am happy with the chalk written message scrawled on the sidewalk, it reads "1 mile to go". I am tired. This is starting to hurt.

I want this over.

Up ahead I focus on a few runners and wonder if I have enough energy left to catch them. They stay in my sights. Cars drive by. Some honk, some wave, most pay no attention. I wonder the last time they pushed themselves this hard.

I round the final corner and make my way to the park. Something catches my eye up ahead.

Oh no. Could it be?

Yes, it was.  Toy soilder ladies. As participants in the 5k race, they were on their way to the finish line. Even though I had done twice the distance they had, I did not want them crossing the finish line before me.

Run harder. Run faster. I don't feel good.

The distance between us shortened. I just had to lap these toy soilders.

Run harder. Run faster.

With the park entrance in sight, I passed the toy soilders and told them they were doing great. Turning into the park I sped up to the finisher shoot and crossed the finish line. I was done. And extremely happy about it. My watch told me I'd finished in 49:57.

Filling up on oranges, bananas and race food goodies, my running friends and I talk about the race we'd each just run. We ran the exact same course, the exact same distance yet each experienced much different races. Goals were met, some were not, but all was left out on the course. We emerged stronger than when we started and glowing with that which comes from hard work, pushing ourselves and a testing of limits.

And a readiness to do it all again.

Generations

2010-11-27T20:29:00.000-08:00

The town was beginning to awake. Old men were beginning to spill out from the doorway of the local greasy spoon producing evidence the Saturday morning ritual of gathering for early morning coffee was still alive. The men have been doing this for generations. Sipping their coffee in between offerings of encouragement peppered with sarcasm and laughter. I watch one of the town's gentlemen cross the street in front of me. He waves and smiles, not because he knows who I am, but because this is what you do to offer a wordless "thanks" for stopping my car allowing him cross. I wave back and continue my journey to my Aunt's home where we will continue our Saturday-after-Thanksgiving tradition.

Several years ago my aunt decided to part with her recipe for the Dutch treat of Almond Sticks. The daughter of the town's baker, she had perfected the recipe handed down to her and now, she passes it down to us. With all baking supplies in hand, I walk into the room that will transform into a baking mayhem.

We are all there; mothers, daughters, nieces, aunts and cousins. The women of the family learning and participating in our family's tradition, a place where the past collides with the present in a delicious moment in time.

The Recipe comes out and is set out on the table. We never detour from The Recipe and read it ingredient by ingredient even though we know it by memory. With precise measurement we prepare the dough for the crust. We laugh when we miscount the cups of flour and have to start over, never passing up the opportunity to chide the person who can't count.

Once the almond filling is made, it is carefully wrapped and placed in the fridge for chilling. There is magic in the chilling.

I look up to see my mom teaching my niece, her granddaughter, how to handle the filling. I watch as one generation touches a new generation. In these moments I long for my Grandmother yet savor the moments I have with my mom.

With wonder I contemplate what this tradition will look like when granddaughter will become grandmother and pass on The Recipe.

All generations are present and begin learning The Recipe. Each one doing important work in keeping the tradition alive.

As the dough and almond filling chill, we clean and eat. We kick our feet up and share our lives; the laughs I'm sure are similar to the ones heard at the old men's Saturday morning coffee time. The encouragement is endless and so is the good-natured banter.

The women in the room all contribute to the woman I am today. And I am thankful. My heart is full.

With the food gone, we begin the final steps of The Recipe. The rolling of the dough and the making of the Almond Sticks. The flour is abundant and finds its way onto the table, floor and clothing. Throughout the generations we have yet to perfect in preventing this mess. And we love it.

Like the women before us, we roll and knead and pinch the dough. We brag about who's didn't "leak" the year before and wager who's is good enough to be leak-proof this year. This is the wining crown of tradition and one few of us have mastered.

One thing we never have to guess on is how long the baked Dutch treat will last. We all know. Upon arriving home they will be eaten quickly. Spouses and children will greet us at the door and with sweet anticipation take the treats from us.

With the smell of Almond Sticks in the air, I am reminded of how blessed I am. In a world where we often find ourselves too busy, this tradition keeps me grounded. A time set aside each year for the young to learn from the old. A time where we come together and meet history at the door with open arms. We welcome the tradition and savor the moments it creates.

And then we wait. Until next year. When we do it all over again.

A Night of Inspiration

2010-11-23T12:22:00.000-08:00

Some time ago, my pastor (Bob, an accomplished marathoner) approached me before the beginning of a service and stated, "You know who Ryan Hall is right?".

Of course I knew who THE Ryan Hall was, but if he was talking about a Ryan Hall who attends our church, nope, didn't have a clue who he was referring to.

Fortunately for all of us, he meant THE Ryan Hall and when Bob confided to me of his work on getting Ryan to talk at our church, I promptly broke out into what my husband calls my pee-pee dance. Publicly, it's quite the embarrassing dance but one that does exude the glee I can not possibly contain on such exciting news. (No, I will not be inserting a video of the dance here as the name itself produces enough of a vivid visual for you to get the idea and will save my children from any further embarrassment by me, their mother.)

5 months after that initial conversation between Bob and myself, on Saturday, November 20, 2010 I was privileged to meet Olympic Marathoner Ryan and his wife Sara Hall.

It was nothing short of inspirational to hear Ryan speak on his childhood, training and his faith in God. Ryan and Sara also spoke concerning The Hall Steps Foundation, a fantastic organization helping the poor, which I encourage everyone to be a part of by clicking here.

The evening is one I will always remember and gave me renewed determination to work at my training to qualify for the Boston Marathon. There were several pictures taken that evening, but this one is one of my inspirational favorites. What better way to be inspired than to spend time with Pastor Bob, who's run Boston and Ryan Hall who's WON it?

The Day Begins

2010-11-18T13:10:00.000-08:00

What? Oh.
The alarm.
Off. OFF!
It's so dark.
And cold.
Brush my teeth.
Get dressed.
Running shoes.
Slide open door.
Darkness.
No moon.
No rain!
Bazillion stars.
Wow.
Start watch.
Running slowly.
Sleepy.
Shiver.
So cold.
Running easy.
Heavy legs.
Last night's workout.
Ouch.
Feel slow.
Running slow.
Praying.
Incredibly thankful.
Shooting star!
WOW!!
Owl screeches.
Looking.
Can't see him.
Running.
More shooting stars!
Mesmerized.
Rooster crows.
No sun.
Lying rooster.
Chilly air.
Wide awake.
Senses alive.
Running.
Feels good.
Mr. Neighbor driving.
Wave.
And smile.
Still running.
Cold Northeast wind.
Winter's here.
Where's fall?
Shooting star!
Run is over.
Stop watch.
Water.
Walk. Breathe.
Grateful.
Gorgeous morning.
Thank you Jesus!
Back door.
Quietly open.
The day begins.

The Trail

2010-11-13T11:19:00.000-08:00

The morning was wet. The sky was colored an endless shade of gray due to the misty rain it was releasing. My spirits were not dampened as I looked forward to running a trail in the foothills with my friends. Besides, my feeling was it would stop soon.

We carpooled to the trail head. Looking at the map, we plotted the trails we would run and then we began. The rain had stopped and the chill in the air was perfectly fall. Our talk and laughter rose into the branches of the massive evergreen trees which were so tall the view of the sky was completely hidden. Rocks and fallen branches were navigated with jumps and bounces.

As the elevation rose, the silence of the woods was broken only by our breathing. Switchbacks were tackled with determination. My understanding of "challenging trail" was being broadened. The top afforded no breath-taking vista, rather, a view of the woods that God created; spectacular in its own right. The downhill produced a needed break before battling the uphill again. It was mesmerizing and I found myself immersed in my surroundings.

Running on wet leaves, over rocks and roots through the narrow trail, I was being given a gift. The trial was giving more to me than I imagined. Amidst the trees, I was gifted the motivation I haven't had since my last marathon a month ago. Perfectly wrapped in a pine scented box, I was handed the reminder of my love of running. The run was a tough one and it broke right through the mediocre and pierced through to the joy.

We piled back into the car and headed back to the lives waiting for us off the trail. I smile. Welcome back Motivation, oh how I've missed you.

The Curb

2010-11-03T12:23:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting on the curb near the fork in the road mustering the courage to pick a path. Do I stay on the path I know? Where the journey, as of late, has been met with frustration and exhaustion? Or do I chose the path I've never traveled before?

This parenting thing is hard.

Every parent can attest to the feeling of perfection you feel when you first gaze at your beautiful new baby. So much hope and so much promise bundled in your new breath of life. You vow to make the possibilities endless and the encouragement grand so they can chase their dreams with passion unbridled. Almost 14 years ago I looked into the eyes of my son and promised him the best of what I could give.

I look at him now and still see all the potential he holds, but I wonder, why can’t he?

Our house has always been one filled with encouragement balanced with discipline when needed. We’ve always demanded the best of our children’s abilities and it was always good enough, no matter what the outcome, as long as the best is given. If our children came in dead last in a race, we celebrated with high fives, hugs and whoops and hollers when we could see them trying with all their might. Their best is always good enough. Always.

Recently we’ve noticed our teenager not giving his best, and it is frustrating. At first we questioned and coaxed. As improvements didn’t come, we set guidelines. When guidelines were ignored, we set up restrictions all the while encouraging him to show the world how great he is. But he won’t.

This raises many questions in our minds, but we reduce them down to two. Do we continue doing what we are doing or do we step back? In 4 short years the world, by its standards, will view him as a man, a view as his mother I find cold with the sting of reality. Continuing down the same path we are on, will lead to more frustration and more defiance. Choosing to step back will allow him to make the decisions, with negative life-long impact, on his own. I’ll be brutally honest here, the hardest part about stepping back is shaking the feeling that I’m giving up. This, I suppose, is right where God wants me - giving my son and his future for God to direct, not me. I was not prepared for letting go in such small steps to be so heart wrenching.

It’s exhausting to encourage someone who does not believe in the potential you can clearly see in them. As a parent, exhaustion isn’t a reason we can use to stop. It’s an excuse. There is no room for excuses, especially when it comes to giving confidence-instilling encouragement to your child. Exhaustion has a way of bringing me to the Edge of Hopelessness, a place I try at all costs to avoid. I do no one any good there.

Which brings me back to the curb. In my exhaustion, I sit down on this curb and look intrepidly down both paths. Knowing each path will bring its own trials and its own joys, it does not make the decision easier. I know I must choose. With parental determination, I find the strength to get up and stand.

In complete uncertainty and in hesitation, I take a step...

Moon Shadows

2010-10-26T10:06:00.000-07:00

The door creaks open and the moonlight spills onto the floor. I sneak out of the house quietly, shutting the door behind me. This is my time. There are no phones, no interruptions, no voices. Only me. Shaking the sleep from my mind, I begin my run.

Fall’s crisp air is warmed slightly by the breeze from the south. Summer did it’s best to hang on, but there is no mistaking the changing seasons. The chill gives me a brief shudder. The moon in its glowing splendor is shining bright enough to cast shadows around me. The clouds do their best to conceal it, but they are no match this morning for the moon’s brilliance. It looks to be a perfect morning to run.

My feet and breathing fall into rhythmic cadence. This is where I am alone with my thoughts and the best time to talk with God. My troubles become smaller and the worries loosen their grip with each step I take. I lose myself in the beauty around me. There is such grandeur around me and I am momentarily a part of its landscape. I am out in the pre-dawn silence of God’s creation relishing every step of it. People always ask how it is possible I can crawl out of a warm bed, before the sun comes up and go run. I look around and smile. This is exactly why. If they only knew how incredible this felt, there would be no need to ask. The feeling transcends words and I fall short in trying to explain it. So I simply tell them to try it and they’ll see why.

The run is over and I pause outside the door. Drinking my water I look up at the big sky above and soak in my last few quiet moments. When I open the door there will be alarms, showers and packing school bags. But not yet. I am still looking at the moon and enjoying its splendor. Most people today will have missed this and I feel incredibly blessed to have been a small part of it.

The Celebration Dinner

2010-10-18T22:06:00.000-07:00

The chatter wafted only to be drowned out by the laughter. I look around the table and smile. These are my friends. Like a large family eating Thanksgiving dinner, we are all talking at the same time. Each one of us is reliving our last 26.2 mile race. Some of us raced together, and some of us did not, but we each came to the table with our own experiences. With understanding found only by another runner, we listen and identify with each race-day emotion felt. And we celebrate. Oh do we celebrate.

We worked hard the last 6 months, pushing each other, encouraging one another as we trained for our marathons. We worked through injuries, anxieties and doubt. We built each other up and propelled each other forward. "I can't" was never spoken because we knew it wasn't allowed. Can't is the easy way out. There is nothing easy with this group. Each week we left our jobs and families and came together to run and sweat. And encourage.

Plans for next races are discussed. One thing about marathoners, we are never satisfied and always have to be planning. Always. We determine which races we want do next and when we are going to do a weekend long run together again. With giddy excitement we plan. We are runners and we love to run together. Like a family.

I look around the table and smile. I feel...at home.

Stepping Stones and Pathways

2010-10-18T09:37:00.000-07:00

Today the 2011 Boston Marathon registration opens and I figure what better day than today to publish the goals I've thought about over the last week. The path I'm following leads to Boston, and along the way I'll have to use some stepping stones. The journey begins.

Ultimate Goal: To run the Boston marathon.

I am 41 years old which in Boston Marathon language means 3:50:59. Wish me luck as next March I renew my driver’s license and I’m not sure how I’ll convince those department of licensing people that 3:50:59 is an actual age.

Stepping Stone Goals

To run the entire 26.2 miles.
The longest I’ve run without stopping is 22 miles. I realize this will take not only physical stamina, but incredible amounts of mental fortitude. Looking back at my marathons, I realize I break down mentally long before I break down physically. This has to change.
To run a 4:10 marathonThis knocks 7 minutes off my PR. My last PR was by 7 minutes, I can do this.
To run a 3:59 marathonWith improvement, I believe this stepping stone and stepping stone #1 could go hand in hand.
To run a 3:50 marathonThis will cause wild celebration and tears for weeks as Ultimate Goal will then be achieved.
To let my children see me succeed in my goals and if I fail at them, to have them see how to accept it, pick up the pieces and continue to move forward. When our children witness this, they learn success can come in the shape of failure but we are never bound by them.

In a couple weeks a few Marathon Maniacs are putting on an uncertified marathon around Lake Sammamish. It is an extremely laid back atmosphere with options to run 13.1 miles, 26.2 miles or a 50k. The best part? It’s FREE. Free is always good in my book. I emailed the race director to sign up and ask some questions, and as of today, I am 90% certain I will run this race. My goal is to work on Stepping Stone #1. Now should any of the other goals fall into place, well, that’ll be pure icing on the cake!

The Post Marathon Blues

2010-10-17T08:27:00.000-07:00

One week ago today I couldn’t sleep. It was the eve of my 7th marathon and the anticipation and excitement were a little more than this 129 lb frame could handle. Standing at the start with 9,000 other runners in the torrential rain, the little voice inside me sighed. No matter how hard you work, nature has its own way of adding a special little twist to your race day. And there is nothing you can do to change it. Sheer determination propelled me forward despite the fact I could wring out my clothes before the race had even started.

I set a personal record that race. By 7 minutes! I feat you’d expect to find me jumping for joy and high-fiving every single person around me. Instead I find myself strangely quiet about this accomplishment. It’s a strange discerning feeling I can not quiet verbalize. I’m upset I didn’t make the sub-4 hour goal I had been training all year for. I’m upset that I feel ungrateful for my PR. I should be very grateful for my 7 minute accomplishment, but I can’t shake this blasé feeling and that makes me angry with myself. I know so many people who would be thrilled to have a marathon time of 4:17:17, so why aren’t I? I beat myself up and then get mad at myself for beating myself up. All my running friends reading this are nodding their heads in agreement as they can relate to what I’m saying and all my non-running friends, I suspect, are staring blankly at the screen now knowing that I am certifiably crazy.

Thinking long and hard about this the last week I came to a realization. My potential stays locked inside me. My intense training the last 6 months worked hard at bringing my potential out and although I was ready and willing to unleash it race day morning, it didn’t budge. It lay hidden in the recesses of myself, drowning in the rain the heaven’s poured out. The first 12 miles of that race I searched for it, prodding myself, encouraging myself, trying to coax that potential to the surface. It didn’t come. And it’s crushing.

But I know it’s there. I will find it. And when I do, I will show it to you. At that moment we will cry together. Follow me on this journey as I work hard on my goal to run the Boston Marathon. I promise you raw honesty, which is a scary step for me as I usually keep my goals and hopes locked inside of myself. If I don’t tell anyone, no one will know I didn’t achieve them therefore no one can be disappointed in me right? Isn’t that how it works? Today I stop that thinking.

I’m a wife and mom on a goal to run one of America’s greatest races. I will get there. Some day. And I’d love for you to be there with me.

Me? Speed?

2010-04-11T16:29:00.000-07:00

Speed. I don’t have it. I want it. Somewhere in the midst of my distance running I lost my desire for going faster. Training for a marathon changes the perspective of a runner. Well, it did for me anyway. No longer did I think about how fast I was running my normal 4 mile loop, but where I was in relation to my long run that week. Everything became justifiable to the long run.

“Oh, I have to take it easy today because this is my first run after my long run this weekend.”

“I can’t push it too hard today because I have my 18 miler in a couple days and I need to go the distance”.

“I think I need to figure out what my “easy pace” is…nope, don’t have a clue what that is, so I’ll just take it nice and slow so I can run good this weekend”.

Somewhere along the line I realized I stopped believing in my ability to have both. I excused myself right smack into the middle of slug-dom. And each marathon I ran left a big slimey trail of self disrespect. If you would have happened to be behind me that day, September 13, 2009, you would have found a marathon course peppered with my words of “I can’t do this”, “This weather has sucked the life right out of me”, “oh well, another lack-luster marathon” spewing from my mind.

The negative self-talk and blatant disrespect for myself and the training I had put in had to stop but what was it going to take?

Two weeks after that horrible marathon where I ended up walking more than I had ever wanted to, I found myself standing on the start line of another race. My sister had signed up for her very first half marathon and to support her through this tremendous decision, I too had signed up for the race. I expected a sense of dread after my horrible marathon just two weeks previous. What I didn’t expect was my excitement to be toeing a starting line again. At the prospect of having to run 13.1 miles instead of 26.2 miles gave me an incredible let’s-just-have-fun-with-this attitude. For the first time in a year and a half I was excited to run a race.

The excitement showed up in my pace. I had run the fastest I’d run in a long, long time. When I crossed the finish line in under 2 hours I was ecstatic. Though my final time of 1:59:58 was nowhere near my personal best of 1:52:43, it was the strongest race I’d run in almost 2 years. And the difference was my attitude.

The winter had proven to be a mild one allowing me to run through the darkest and coldest months. My weekend runs were 10 to 12 miles long consistently. In the spring I signed up to run a local 15k. As this distance was shorter than the long runs I was currently turning out, I felt a great sense of ease going into this race. Imagine my complete surprise when I crossed the finish line as 3rd in my age group! What??? ME??!?!?

An amazing thing happened after that, the negative self talk began to quiet. The results of some hard strong running I’d done was beginning to show. For the first time in my adult life I realized I wasn’t just a runner. No, I was becoming more than that. With my simple, yellow, cheesy “third in age group” ribbon, (which hangs proudly on my wall by the way), I felt like – could it be?- an athlete.

So here I sit a few weeks later and one of the newest members of a local running group. We are an eclectic bunch of people from all backgrounds of life. No matter what happens during the day, when we get together we are all runners in running shoes striving for one thing – to get faster. Some of us have the speed required to qualify for the Boston Marathon and other have the speed to break a sub-4 hour marathon. The current speed we each come to training runs with really doesn’t matter. We all recognize and respect the blood, sweat and tears we each are pouring into our training and that transcends pace.

Week one of training is behind us. Tomorrow we will leave our jobs to come together at the track of the college in town. We will laugh, we will run, we will train. And together we will become faster.

Three Weeks

2010-01-09T21:32:00.000-08:00

Three weeks. Where will you be in three weeks? What are your plans? The future you are planning? Three weeks. It’s all they gave her. Raylene will spend the next three weeks planning her own funeral.

If given the same news, what would I do? Hug a little tighter? Kiss a little longer? Laugh harder? Does one spend the last few weeks cherishing the memories made or regret the dreams never lived? Do the tears flow in sadness or in celebration of the life given? When time is short does patience get longer? Does wonder and amazement grow or does the world become small and confining? Is there hope in the hopeless?

Three weeks. What does one do when given the news you fought for years not to receive? The fight was hard and you fought with all your might and then some more. Strength came from an unexplainable place. Determination coupled with sheer will paved the road of perseverance and yet it wasn’t enough. After climbing the Mountain of Impossibility you reach the top only to discover it is in fact, impossible. The finish line is close and clearly seen. There is victory in the fight, but not in the battle. The battle is over and you stand defeated.

But not hopeless. Raylene is a believer and will soon be able to ask Jesus the question she must’ve asked herself a 1,000 times – why. Sometimes I sure it was out of anger, at times –despair, and still other times in awe, but the question was always the same. Why. And He will tell her. For reasons we can not fathom, He will tell her how her fight was used to show other’s Hope.

Three weeks. No more springs, no more summers, no more falls. There will be no more camping trips, summer vacations or family reunions. There is only today. It is all any of us are ever given. Today. That is all she has. That is all I have. Today.

The room around me buzzes with young family chatter. My boys play and laugh and fight. Three weeks. Today. How much I take things for granted. How many times today have I forgotten to acknowledge the moment I am in? Or worse, wished for it to be over. What did I do, or how did I enjoy the day I was given today?

Three weeks. Today. Celebrate the life given. Today.

The Battle

2009-12-27T18:57:00.000-08:00

Cancer has been a part of my entire adult life. Not as one battling the giant, but as one who must stand on the sidelines and witness the struggle. I hate it. Always known as someone who gets things done, my usual method of operation is to jump in with both feet and take charge. Not this time. I can’t. It’s not my fight.

My dad was first diagnosed when I was in my early 20s. It was my first taste of witnessing mortality in my parents. Seeing my big strong Daddy lying in a hospital bed shattered the illusion of immortality and rudely delivered me to the reality of my father being human. Dad’s fight was tough but he emerged on the other side of the battle strong and cancer free.

Then it went after my mom. Always the fighter, always the rock, always the strongest, she entered into a literal battle for her life. Ovarian cancer is ugly and it is an extremely evil villain to fight. Often unseen in its earliest most treatable stages, it shows its cowardly self only when the fight will become the toughest to win. I was 29 when Mom began her fight.

The phone rang last week delivering me the news I never wanted to hear. It was my Mom, the warrior, telling me the new chemotherapy stopped working. I wanted to scream, I wanted to throw things, I wanted to take the anger inside and turn it into a fuel that would help my mom with her fight. I don’t remember most of the remaining of the conversation we had, I just remember how it felt. Helpless. The beginning of the end seems to have knocked on our door.

My Type A personality renders completely useless in this situation. I am a doer, not a bystander. The sidelines are not a place I am use to standing, but yet, here I stand. I stand in support of the fight I witness. I stand in awe of the courage I see. I stand in quiet for the strength she shows.

Onward my mom fights, and I continue to stand.

Bellingham Bay Half Marathon

2009-09-27T21:30:00.000-07:00

Bellingham Bay Half Marathon

September 27, 2009

Crisp with the smell of fall, the air was alive with excitement. People were milling around the start area trying to ward off the chill of the early September morning. The cloudless sky brought on the promise of warmer temperatures. Although chilly, I knew my best bet was a tank top and running skirt. I hadn’t run a race yet this year without battling the sun’s heat and was grateful for this welcome change. I’d take the chill any day.

My sister Marcy was toeing the line of her first half marathon. She decided early in the year she would take the challenge and train to walk the 13.1 miles that now lay ahead of her. If she was nervous, she didn’t show it. At all. But that was ok, I was nervous for her. Since I was the one who planted the seed in her brain, there was a chance she would walk the course, hate it, blame me and then never speak to me again. Or she would walk the 13.1 miles and realize the huge accomplishment she succeeded in, giving her a whole new insight to her strength and determination lending her heart to swell with pride. I knew the latter would happen but could in no way explain it to her. She had to experience it. Amidst well wishes, we hugged each other and took our places in the starting corral according to our pace. The horn blared and the journey began.

The first mile being a gentle downhill gave me an excellent “warm up” mile and I clocked an 8:38. My excitement was uncontainable as I realized this was going to be a good race for me. My second mile came in at an 8:33 cementing the realization that I felt I wasn’t working that hard and all the speed work I had done was paying off. Leaving the city and winding our way past the ocean we began a two mile ascent slowing my times to 8:43 and 9:08. At the top of the hill we turned back toward town and through the old neighborhood I lived in. I consistently ran in the 8:30s until mile 9. Here we made our way back downtown up a long hill taking us away from the ocean’s edge. Downtown was alive with people cheering words of encouragement while making noise with whatever lended them to be louder than the person next to them. One college student stood on the side of the road banging pots and pans together. I gave him an A+ for creativity. Bellingham had shown up in force to support the 1600 or so of us running the course. It helped tremendously in spurring me up and over that hill.

We weaved our way down a trail taking us back to the ocean where we ran over the water on the boardwalk. Boats peppered the water watching us making our way down the board walk. It was a perfect day. Maintaining an average 8:40 pace for 9 miles was taking its toll and mile 10 I had slowed down to a 9:28 pace. Of course, the hill could’ve played some part in that too. Mile 11 took us to Taylor Dock which is a short, but very steep dock leading off the boardwalk and onto dry land. My Garmin chirped the 11 mile lap and then went crazy. There were beeps flying all over the place. My watch was swearing at me. I had to slow to a shuffle and then a walk to figure out what was going on. Apparently my lap counter was full and I had to delete old laps. Great. Trying to do this amidst all the beeping, my watch was getting irritated with me and refused to accept any of the button presses I was making. Now it was my turn to use my very own human beeps. I hit the stop button and had to kiss my instantaneous knowledge goodbye. I was now running by how I felt and not by the comfort of the numbers I could look at on my wrist. I questioned my survival.

The next 2 miles was one hill after another. I was tired. I really, really wanted to walk. Each time the urge got too great I could hear the words of my friend Beth echo in my mind “A shuffle is better than a walk, a shuffle is better than a walk”. So I shuffled the uphills and ran strong on the downhills. Looking down I saw the 4k marker for the 5k that was run earlier on the course. That was all I needed and I began my final 1k sprint. Well, it felt like a sprint but I really don’t know since my Garmin threw a temper tantrum and walked off the course at mile 11. Rounding the corner we were taken back onto the trail. Here I knew there was a chance I could meet my sister. Every walker heading toward me I studied for the familiar face I wanted to see. I didn’t see her.

Leaving the trail I made the way back onto the city streets leading me to the final uphill and the finish line. I knew I had lost time around mile 11 but was hoping to hit a sub-2 hour anyway. Running strong I crossed the finish line with a clock time of 2:00:24.

With my finisher’s medal around my neck, I left the finisher’s shoot on a quest for some cold water. Drinking it down, I searched for my husband and boys. People were everywhere and I had a hard time finding a familiar face at all. About 10 minutes later I found them running toward the finish line. Traffic was crazy and they had missed my finish.

Knowing if we hurried, we could catch Marcy coming up the road to make her way to the trail. We hustled to the end of the block with one minute to spare. Marcy was making her way up the road. I yelled as loud as I could to get her attention and made my way through the throngs of people to get to her. Here I walked with her until the trail head. She was doing great and looked strong. Once we got to the 9 mile marker and I told her I would see her in 4 short miles and sent her on her way.

Knowing, from the marathon I’d run 2 weeks prior, just how dark and lonesome and evil those final couple miles can be I couldn’t leave her to finish them alone. After waiting for what I guessed to be the time when she’d hit the final mile, I left my family at the finish line and made my way backwards on the course to meet her and walk her through the Victory Mile. About a half mile down the trail I met her and started screaming for joy. She was almost there. Exhaustion was etched onto her face. Knowing the feeling all too well, I took the lead, set the pace and talked about the excitement the finish line held.

Rounding the corner I exclaimed in glee “There it is!” and pointed to her very first finish line. My pride bubbled over to tears and I left her to cross into the finisher’s shoot on her own. I raced down the sidelines to give her a big congratulations hug. She had done it. She embarked on the journey and successfully finished it.

The day is over, the wine is chilled and the pride is still welling below the surface. The results have been posted and my sister did a fantastic 3:21:13. My hopes of a sub-2 hour half happened as my time is posted as 1:59:38 placing me in the top24% of my age division and the top 36% overall.

The real joy comes from seeing goals accomplished. There is nothing like a race that tests you, challenges you and delivers you a different person on the other side of the finish line. Today was such a day. And in that, I celebrate. I think I’ll have another glass of wine.

Seattle Rock N Roll Marathon

2009-06-28T09:46:00.000-07:00

Seattle Rock N Roll Marathon became a marathon of learning. Most runners on the course would probably state this inaugural marathon is race of running, but for this single runner it was more than a marathon it was a run of learning.

Beth, Sharlene and I were three Nervous Nellys sitting in the backseat of the truck trying to talk ourselves out of pre-race jitters. We each came to this race with our own story and our own hopes. Beth was running her first marathon after taking a few years off from marathoning and Sharlene was running her third half marathon in three months celebrating her 33rd birthday. This was to be my 3rd marathon in 42 days qualifying me to become a Marathon Maniac. I learned a goal needs to be set to know how high to reach.

The Start Village was alive with people. The freeway leading up to the start was backed up for miles with cars making their way to the start. In a sight you do not see every day, runners were getting out of cars on the freeway and making the 2+ mile trek on foot to the start. As our hotel was close to the start we avoided most of the road congestion and we made it to the start with moments to spare. Beth, starting in corral 3, made it to the start as her corral was crossing the starting line. I made my way into Corral #9 and was crossing the starting line about 15 minutes later. Sharlene, who was definitely assigned the wrong corral, made her way to Corral 36 and began her journey approximately an hour after the official start. I learned what it is like to start a race with 25,000 runners.

Almost immediately we hit the first hill, and I made it up and over easily. Despite the nerves, I felt good and I felt strong. The Pacific Northwest is known for being a mountainous region and this course did not disappoint in proving why that is such a descriptive fact. The hills on the course were often long and with some being steep tested every mental stronghold I had. The course had 5,498 feet of elevation gain and 5,509 descending feet. This course was built to test endurance. I learned sometimes the only way to relieve leg cramps is to walk them off.

The sun shone brightly in the sky twinkling it’s summertime rays off of the waters of Lake Washington and the ocean waters of the Puget Sound. It was a cloudless sky giving little mercy from the sun. As I made my way down the course I lost count of how many runners I saw that had succumbed to the heat and were receiving medical aid. My heart broke for them. Runners were taken off the course by ambulance proving the heat was nothing to mess around with. I learned the balance of hydration can be a fine line.

Along the course the water was plentiful and CytoMax was the electrolyte replacement drink offered. At mile 2 I took my first swigs of CytoMax and quickly realized the mixture was wrong as the drink was incredibly strong and should have been diluted even further. This was my demise. Although I was quick to drink from my water bottle in hopes to dilute what I had drank, the damage was done. Nausea hit and hit me hard. I learned nausea is haunting as it followed me for the remainder of the race.

Around mile 11 I first spotted Mitch. With his white beanie hat and his brightly colored Marathon Maniac shirt he was easy for me to spot regardless of the sea of people. It was the first time we’d seen each other in person as most of our correspondence has been on-line. As the course had several loops of out and back in it, Mitch and I spotted each other several times along the course as had Beth and I. She had the eagle eye and was able to spot me every time our paths would cross. I learned a perfectly timed hello and word of encouragement from a familiar face delivers incredible amounts of motivation.

Mile 25 ½ was the crest of the last hill. From the course we could see down the final leg of the race which was all downhill. My quads grimaced at the thought of the downhill and I wondered if I would be able to run the entire distance through the finisher’s shoot. Leaving the Alaska Way Viaduct, the off ramp delivered us right outside of Qwest Field. The shoot was lined with people screaming and cheering for us as we finished. I turned the corner and heard my husband Dennis, Sharlene, Palmer, Beth and John screaming their shouts of encouragement. The tears I held back from mile 10 on found their way to the surface and spilled over. The strongest test of my will was near it’s end and I was still standing. I crossed the finish line completely spent. Although every square inch of my body was screaming at me, I finished. Mitch was waiting in the finisher’s shoot to give me my first Maniac hug. Despite it being my worst marathon time of 5:14:42, I learned I am stronger than I ever thought possible.

Earlier this year I turned 40, a milestone to be celebrated. While quite typical for women to celebrate this with vacations or jewelry or new cars, I knew I had to do something that spoke only of me and my character. After much contemplating and research, I began my quest to join the Marathon Maniacs. With the toughest course and the worst race time I’ve run, I gained the final criteria needed to become a member. As of Sunday, June 28, 2009 my birthday goal came true and I was welcomed as Marathon Maniac #1657. As I write this, the membership stands at 1,658 worldwide with only 623 members being women, and I am one of them. I learned with hard work and dedication, dreams do come true.

North Olympic Discovery Marathon

2009-06-07T09:49:00.000-07:00

A runner’s dream. The sky was overcast with no threat of rain. The temperature was hovering in low 50s. After taking the shuttle to the start, I find myself sitting in the community room waiting for 9:00. I looked around at the people I was about to embark on a 26.2 mile journey with. Energies were high and laughter wafted above the nervous chatter. I was definitely nervous. After running Capital City 3 Sundays ago I was not sure how my legs were going to do. But here I was ready to make the trek all over again.

Walking out to the start, I dropped my extra clothes off at the clothes drop and headed to the start. Hearing someone yell my name, I thought surely it was for someone else as I knew no one at this race. Looking in the direction it came from I found my friends Sharlene and Palmer waving. What a great surprise! Hugs were given and after the shock came off my face, I made my way to the starting shoot. “Eye of The Tiger” was blaring from the loudspeakers, causing me to smile - the 80s were just awesome. No national anthem here, just Survivor singing loudly. The horn blared and we were off.

The first half a mile was relatively flat and I was making excellent time. Most of the elevation gain is in the first 1/3rd of the race. Each hill I hit I felt strong and good. Soon after the start, I found myself in-step with a guy named Joe. It didn’t take me long to figure out Joe really liked himself. By mile 5 I had mentally dubbed him Jabber Joe. A few miles later I took the opportunity to fall back a short ways as I was needing to be alone inside my head. Jabber Joe had begun a conversation with an Army XO and they were discussing all the data their watches were giving. Seems at mile 10 I was well on my way to a 4:15 marathon.

We finished weaving our way through Sequim and began the portion of the marathon on the Olympic Discovery Trail. The vistas were breathtaking. The trail wound it’s way through the Olympic National Forest, where we would spend the remainder of the marathon. The birds chirped as the water made it’s way down the Olympic mountains through gorgeous creeks crossed by old train trestles. The steepest part of the course came at each of the 3 water crossings, it was steep going down to the water and steep coming up out of the ravine. This is where I first decided to walk. My pace was good and strong up until the point my legs yelled “Excuse me!?!?!? I remember this from the other week and I’m not happy about it”. So I let them be unhappy and walked it off. The rolling hills were a little bit of a surprise to me and I realized I needed to do whatever it was going to take to complete the run.

There comes a point when no matter how beautiful the scenery or how crowded the course, you are alone with yourself. Alone with each thought, with each pain, with each moment. Here in lies the discovery. You either quit or excel. Your pace does not necessarily increase or magically get stronger, but your mind rises above. This is exactly where I needed to be. This is the moment in time where the race is made or broken, regardless of the finishing time. Today my race would be made. My hopes of a PR dissipated when I had to walk, but I knew it would be a stronger race than my last one. Looking deep within, my body felt stronger and my mind propelled me forward.

Several times along the course Sharlene and Palmer met me with shouts of encouragement and picture taking, included being perched at the top of a not-so-nice hill around mile 16. I’m sure that picture snapped has an evil look in it. I’m sure. Along the route I managed to adopted a brother. His girlfriend was a ways behind me and he moved along the course waiting for her. It didn’t take long before he was yelling “Go Sister!” to which I replied “Thanks brother!” and we would trade high fives. I wonder what his name is.

The last couple of miles are along the ocean’s front with the trail winding our way toward the finish. A party was in full swing at the finish line and I was heading home. Approaching the shoot my boys were waiting waving bright orange pom poms and jumping up and down. I heard Sharlene yell my name and I, as predicted, began to get emotional. So much so, I couldn’t speak to the race officials at the end of the shoot waiting for me to walk me to the marathoner’s finish area. The tears flowed and I smiled. “Thank you” were the only words I could repeat as they placed the medal around my neck, removed my timing chip for me and walked me to the food tents. The tears spoke louder than my words.

With climbing 3,239 feet and descending 3,382 feet, I finished my race in 4:44:23. But there is no way you can reduce the marathon to a statistic. It is more than a number to be celebrated, it is a journey. Lessons are learned that can only be taught by pain, agony and the rising above. It is a journey that each marathoner goes on, regardless if it’s a first time marathoner or one celebrating their 101st, and the journey is the same, it is one of self discovery. It humbles you. It transforms you. It makes you rise above delivering you stronger and better on the other side of each finish line.

Capital City Marathon

2009-05-17T09:51:00.000-07:00

The marathon is a gift. One that we relish and one that we sometimes wonder why we even accept in the first place. Either way you want to look at the gift, it is one that teaches you the most about yourself. Today was such a day.

Standing at the start the temperature was toying with us. Predicted to be in the high 70s, it felt cool enough at the start, but I knew better. The cloudless blue sky promised hot temperatures. There I stood in a sea of marathoners at 7:00 in the morning, lost in my own thoughts and in complete anticipation. My first marathon in a year and a half and my nerves were getting the best of me. Sharlene and Beth stood on the sideline waving and shouting their words of encouragement. I smiled and waved trying my best to conceal my pre-race jitters. I didn’t fool them and they yelled even more encouragement.

The horn blasted and the sea of people moved forward. We ran through the city’s center before passing the farmer’s market on our way up the first hill taking us away from the ocean’s front and into the back roads of the city. The rural landscape was truly beautiful and brought a fair amount of shade. A break from the rolling hills came around mile 4. I was in my own groove and loving the energy each hill gave me. Something about cresting a hill that gives you such a feeling of accomplishment.

Mile 4 was the last break I would see from the hills until the end of the race. With each hill came more determination. I was feeling good and I was feeling strong. If I could maintain this pace I knew I would reach a new PR. But that was mile 10. How quickly a race can turn.

Mile 12 the heat was starting to get to me. The shade was breaking apart bringing longer and longer stretches of shade-less road. The sun was beginning to take it’s toll. I took my tech tee off and tied it at my waist. This brought instant relief. I hit the halfway point and decided I just couldn’t make it up another hill. I had to walk. Disappointed, I quickly reminded myself of my goals. I could not – would not – loose the race this early in the game. Being down that self-beating up road before, I had no desire to revisit it. With another marathon just three weeks away, I needed to keep my head in the game. My goal is to finish. As hard as it was, I had to let go of the PR I felt I could achieve just a few miles earlier.

His name was Ted and he brought me a much needed distraction. I introduced myself and we headed up yet another hill. Asking Ted questions about him and his life kept me focused on something other than myself. Ted is a soldier running his 6th marathon. He too was surprised at the difficulty of the course. Ted stopped at the water stop and I didn’t see him again.

After letting go of my time, I began to enjoy the race a little bit more. Despite the rural roads of the full marathon, the course was incredibly well supported. The aid stations were heard before they were seen. Loved ones of other marathoners were seen several times along the course. I adopted more than one family along the route as they were cheering for someone running behind me.

Esther was a woman who I caught up with several times during my run/walk routine. She doesn’t run marathons much anymore and usually runs ultras. She had an equipment malfunction and after sending me on my way, I told her we’ll see each other at the finish line.

Mile 19 a woman turned to me and said “What were we thinking anyway?” I laughed and introduced myself. From that moment on Susan and I were inseparable. A mom of 4, Susan was running her first full marathon. I congratulated her for not only making her momentous decision, but doing so on such an incredibly hilly course.

The temps were quickly soaring and the shade was all but gone. We passed time talking about everything and nothing. It wasn’t long before I heard Esther’s voice call my name. The three of us, complete strangers just a few hours before, became instant best friends. Pain and agony does that to a person. It’s part of the gift. You connect with people who you would never have connected to before. Our backgrounds couldn’t have been more different, but here we are pulling each other through the same moment in time.

Mile 24 began a descent toward the finish line. Even the little hills felt big and we walked up them focusing our energy on the downhill. Esther was feeling good and kept going. I wanted to be done, I wanted to be finished. The heat was zapping the life right out of me. Mile 25½ Sharlene spotted me and cheered me on. Seeing her I began to cry. I handed her my water bottle and told her I was done. She informed I was not done and I only had a little ways to go. Despite running the half marathon earlier, she ran right along side Susan and I lying to us about how good and strong we looked. Upon seeing the finisher’s shoot I took off faster than I’d run all day. Crossing the finish line the tears were flowing steadily down my face as the announcer said my name. I collapsed into my husband’s arms and wept.

I was done. The clock confirmed my worst marathon time ever of 4:52:37, but it clearly didn’t matter. It was the most challenging course I’d ever run and the biggest gift I could have given myself. Susan crossed the finish line smiling and crying uncontrollably. Hugging me her tears flowed freely as told me she couldn’t have done it without my encouragement and pushing. I told her I felt the exact same way.

The gift is not found in the finisher shirt or the medal hanging around your neck. The gift is found in learning about yourself. In 26.2 miles you dig deep within yourself to rise above the conditions and the negative self talk that comes with exhaustion. The gift is learning what you are made of. Crossing the finish line you find out you are pretty darn tough and ready to take whatever life can throw at you.

In three weeks I will do it all over again and I wonder what the gift will bring that day.