Pace yourself.

It has been just over two weeks since the Chicago Marathon. I popped my last, most disgusting blister a few nights ago (so epic). I started physical therapy for my bum knee. And yesterday, for the first time in 14 days, I went for a run. A surprisingly speedy run, albeit a considerably shorter one than recent runs. Life goes on. We continue with our everyday motions because they are what we know and what we are comfortable with. We fold up our yesterdays and past excitements and put them on a shelf with mothballs, air them out every once in a while for nostalgia's sake. Sometimes, though, something - some event or idea or person - comes along and jars our complacency all out of whack. Anyway, that's what happened to me.

Two weeks ago, I finished my first marathon. Finishing, however, was absolutely nothing like I expected it to be - hence the out of whackness. I have honestly spent the past two weeks in a weird post-marathon funk/depression, partly because, well, it's over..., but also because I have been beating myself up a bit about the whole thing, wondering where I go from here and how do I improve? Instead of feeling proud of my accomplishment, satisfaction at having completed a goal I have had for almost 10 years, I feel frustrated. I feel somewhat that I let myself down here. And I also feel strangely unsettled.

The race itself was sensory overload: People Everywhere, smells (I swear there was chocolate somewhere right outside of the Loop), screaming spectators and signs ("Your feet hurt because you're kicking butt!"), bystanders with hoses spraying shockingly cold water on runners dehydrating in the 84 degree heat. My story is that I was doing super well. On pace for the entire first half. I hit the 13-mile clock exactly where I wanted to be. Sadly, that is just about also when the pain in my left knee became nearly unbearable. I started walking. And I did not stop walking until about maybe 100 meters from the finish line, when I started jogging again just so I could cross that stupid line "running."

So my frustration stems from the fact that I walked basically the last 10 miles of the marathon. One of my coaches, to whom I will be forever grateful, joined me at mile 16. I'm sure he saw the look of absolute dejection on my sweat-stained face, noticed my slogging limp as I tried to keep moving forward. He stayed with me to the end. I don't think I would have given up if it hadn't been for his help, but who knows... Around mile 18, I sure as hell wanted to stop. A curb on a Gatorade-cup-strewn street in downtown Chicago had never looked more comfortable. Yet I shoved the "oh God; there are still eight more miles to go?!" thought to the back of my brain and focused, instead, on my breathing. Interestingly, deep, concentrated breaths actually diminished the pain in my leg a bit, added just a little bit more range of motion to my hips. That, or it was just helpful to try and shift my focus off my leg.

Some time later, I trotted across the wide FINISH line, stumbled down to where smiling volunteers were putting medals around finishers' necks, grabbed a HeatSheet for posterity (it was already warm enough outside), walked another quarter mile to the gear check, got my stuff, and flopped onto an empty patch of grass to take off my sneakers and call my friends. And that was it. I found my jubilant friends waiting for me by Buckingham Fountain; they were a huge reason I got myself to the finish. We walked back to the Team in Training tent where I did not have a beer but did have a fantastic cinnamon roll an amazing friend thought to bring me. Seriously. Best post-race snack ever.

And here we are: my world has been shifted because I Finished the Chicago Marathon, but I did not do well. I want to do better; I know I can do better. One year ago, when I decided to train for and run this race, it was for so many different reasons. This marathon because this is the city in which I received the most hellacious parts of my cancer treatment. This race because if I could run 26.2 miles through the streets of Chicago, I could literally and figuratively run down my cancer demons. This year because I was back living in Chicago, and I needed something to work towards. Needed a tangible goal to shoot for because otherwise, I would just be right back home in the suburbs with only a vague plan to get out of here as soon as possible. So I did it! Running has, once again in my life, become one of the most important facets of who I am.

My hitherto unspoken expectation that completing this race would be the absolute end of my relationship with Chicago has proven unrealistic. I am definitely still here, still don't have any definite plan to get out of here. And running certainly did not usher cancer out of my life forever. But I want to do better. I want to run far again, and soon. Instead of being a cap, a tidy end to an extremely untidy past four years, I am confronted with a wide-open path or trail or whatever this race has led me to. This is not the end of anything, really. It is the beginning of an overwhelming desire to keep pushing myself, to actually run the whole 26.2 miles of a marathon, although probably not Chicago again any time soon.

No, I am not satisfied with merely finishing a marathon. I get that it is a big deal; I get that a whole lot of people cannot fathom running any distance anyway. But I also feel that I am more than just finishing and putting my medal in a sock drawer of stories to tell. I am stuck, now, with this running thing, but like I said, it is a question of where to go from here. My world was shaken up when my life-expectations were, per usual, trounced. Nothing ever turns out how we expect it to, apparently.

So what's next? Who will employ me somewhere far away from here? What races will next I run? I've started slowly, haven't yet burnt out. There have been setbacks, injuries and whatnot, but I'm working them out and will not give up. Not yet. There is still too much ahead of me to give up. I turned 24 three weeks ago; I have so much to experience! So much I need to do with my life, not the least of which is run long distances. But anyway, that's my marathon story. Good story, right? I have a 15K race in two weeks and a new Photo Project on the internets. And I can't help but get excited about the possibilities approaching, even if I don't know what they are yet. Like I said, I can only get better. Right on long posts!. Peace.

Self-perception. Or a lack thereof...

Is it possible to recognize ourselves in the present tense? Can we ever be fully aware of life as it happens to us, cognizant of the changes every single experience forces into our psyches? I don't think so. Awareness is found in retrospect: looking back at major events and being able to acknowledge how we as individuals have changed with respect to the past. Hopefully we can say we have grown and become better people in the ensuing months or years, but it probably does not always happen that way. Sometimes people regress; sometimes people simply stagnate. They become complacent. Or they take where they have come from and stare it down and laugh. They laugh and run and bike and try hard to move on with their beautiful lives.

Five years ago I was a freshman in college with a dopey boyfriend who would break my heart over Christmas break. I was so young, so naive. I suppose we all are, though, as freshmen in college. We are allowed to be innocent and illegally drunk on Friday nights on very, very bad beer and even worse vodka-based questionable cocktails. Five years ago. What were you doing five years ago? Were you such a completely different person that you no longer recognize the shadow you once cast? One year later, finally a sophomore in college, I turned 20 and was ecstatic to officially no longer be a teenager. I celebrated with a couple close friends in my dorm room with a Godiva chocolate cheesecake and a bottle of Southern Comfort. My body was already being overtaken by cancer, but, of course, none of us knew that yet. We were all still cracking jokes about my need for more iron in my diet. That was only four years ago.

And then I was diagnosed with ALL, and I started treatment for it, and, as I wrote in my personal journal, "then they cut my legs off." Hospitals, clinics, drips, pills, catheters. No studying, no drinking, no biking, absolutely no running. No running... I lost weight; I lost my hair; I lost my identity on so many different levels. Medical waiting rooms became their own sort of void: It was a Dali dream world where time melted off the clocks and half-closed ears tried to pick out which bouncing announcement carried their own name so they could float over to a plastic recliner and watch as lines were strung up between their fleshly bodies and sacs of caustic fluids attached to even thinner metal bodies.

It was cancer; these were the treatments. And then it was over, but it wasn't quite over. Just about exactly two years ago, my doctors allowed that the growing pain in my face wasn't actually a sinus infection. The face-tumor! But that was two years ago. It feels like a lifetime ago. It feels like it all happened yesterday. That the vice-presidential debates were on my birthday four days ago as opposed to on my birthday two years and four days ago. So time, what, flows? Moves, progresses, doesn't ever stop doing something? "Time" passed, and I quickly grew up and looked back at what I had experienced and decided I was proud of the person I was becoming. I had gone through a hell of sorts and was living a much better, fuller life than I had pre-cancer.

Finally, one year ago, following a bit of an epiphany in Jackson, Wyoming, I started running again seriously. One year ago I promised myself that this next year, this year following my graduation from university, this year that I found myself without options and with little hope and living with my parents again, this year would lead me to the Chicago Marathon. At last - the denouement!

Changes in the present tense. Physically, I hadn't noticed my body morph into that of a semi-athlete's. And yet I look at myself in a mirror and am awed by the muscles I can actually see defined in my body. I have biceps?! What? When did that happen? Emotionally, I haven't really been thinking about this week every single day for the past year. The marathon itself is never far from my mind, but the reality - the actuality that here I am, three days removed from actually running this thing - that was never much a concern. And yet here I am, mentally freaking out, finally, because in three nights I will (ideally) just be getting ready for bed the night before running 26.2 miles. Running a marathon I honestly did not think was possible three, two, almost even one year ago.

Five years after my freshman idealism; four years after cancer; two years after face-tumor; and One Year after promising myself that I will do this. This is happening. My God; I am actually going to do this. Who knows what will happen on race day, on Sunday (will it seriously be 80 degrees...??). Perhaps my knee will decide, as has been its recent wont, to screw me and sideline me and crush me. Or maybe I will reach my physical and emotional breaking points and push through, push through all of the limitations I have allowed to fester over the past four years, the setbacks and letdowns and disappointments that I haven't fully been able to let go of. Run straight through and beyond and away from everything negative the past four years have brought me.

Like I said, who knows what will happen on race day. All I Do know is that I will be standing (or nervously hopping around) squished between 45,000 other runners near the start line when the gun goes off for the Chicago Marathon this Sunday, 10/10/10. I am 24 years old; I am a runner. I am a cancer survivor, and one day soon, I am going to break out of the little stagnant hole I have found myself in, and I am going to summit mountains. I am deliriously happy with who I am today. I love my life and the people in it without reservation, and I am scared out of my mind to run a marathon 84 hours from right now. But this is LIFE. This is me being Alive, and it amazes and frightens and overjoys me every single day, whether I consciously admit it or not; every single day I am beyond thankful to still be alive.

Thank you all so much for being here with me through this. I promise to update post-run. Possibly a few days post... Incidentally, my most recent scans (one month ago) were all clear. Haha. But really, I could not have gotten this far without your support. Thank you. Peace.

Seeing the world through Fridge-colored glasses

Unless you are a member of an elite group of amazing people, I don't expect you to understand this post's title. Luckily, I explain! Just over one year ago, I participated in an outdoor adventure camp for young adult cancer survivors. First Descents offers cancer fighters and survivors between the ages of 18-40(ish) the opportunity to spend a week kayaking or climbing in any number of different locations in the western states. So in 2009, I opted to go climbing in Jackson, Wyoming, where I was promptly (and questionably...) nicknamed the Fridge. I am a Chicago Bears fan, after all.

My experiences that first week climbing in the Grand Tetons altered my entire perception of myself as a cancer survivor. I met a group of people whose love and support and unconditional acceptance were unlike any type of friendship I had ever experienced. The connections were immediate and lasting. What is it about having had cancer that we were all able to identify with each other, regardless of our general interests? Perhaps we were all searching for a camaraderie that had been lost with the onset of our illnesses. Whether we accepted it or not, cancer took a part of our lives: it took my college years. It took someone else's senior year of high school. It denied yet another woman of her ability to bear children. We lost our identities, and those are difficult ephemera to quickly redefine. So, Jackson introduced to me the idea that we truly are all in this together. That first camp allowed me to step back and allow another person to be there for me, to pick me up when I was feeling the post-cancer blues. Much more powerful than any pill and more effective than any workout, I was blessed with a beautiful, new family.

My winter brought with it a bit of an emotional backslide, but luckily, I was signed up for another FD camp, this one in Moab, Utah at the end of April. Once again, I laid my heart bare to a group of relative strangers, and once again, I was buoyed by their support and love. Not to mention one woman's insistence that every time I look in a mirror, I wink at myself. Self-confidence: a notoriously elusive force in my life. And yet, somehow, perhaps when I was free-rappelling from a 100-foot sandstone arch, I thought, "All of these people can't be that mistaken. Maybe I can do this whole 'life' thing..."

Flash-forward through an oppressive Chicago summer to this past Friday and me getting a little emotional during the final descent into Midway airport on an uneventful flight from Denver after an exhausting and amazing week as staff photographer for an FD climbing camp in Estes Park, Colorado. After I put my personal photographs from Utah online, someone in the First Descents office thought it would be a swell idea to ask me if I would like to attend one of the camps as the official photographer. Well, for me, a no-brainer, although nerve-wracking.

Last week I had yet another amazing experience with FD, but this time, it was for a different reason. While I still have a few of my own cancer-demons lurking, this week was an opportunity for me to give back a small bit to the organization that has already done so much for my personal healing. It was amazing to be able to observe and try to capture each camper's experience on the rocks. The entire time, my goal was to help each person have as amazing a week as I have had at the previous camps. I desperately wanted to shoot fantastic photographs that they would be so happy and proud to have as reminders of their amazing week climbing in Colorado.

This time around, I was present to help facilitate the "FD experience," and I honestly could not have felt more honored. It is one thing to stare down your fears and face your perceived limitations while hanging from a skinny rope, feeling around for a foothold that extends more than two inches from the rock face... It is a different experience altogether to be able to witness the transformations of 13 individuals and the growth of the group as a whole. To witness friendships being made, to truly see the unconditional support I had previously felt. To watch a camper's face as she placed her implicit trust in the person belaying her and stood up on a toehold that by all accounts should not stick... As a photographer, I could not take enough photographs. Someone staring at a rock or laughing at a joke or releasing everything while standing on the literal top of a mountain, 13,000 feet above sea level.

Like I said, I only hope I was able to adequately capture the struggles and emotions and love of the week. (that whole self-confidence thing creeping in...) I really did not want to leave Colorado this time. But I have to thank First Descents with everything that I have for helping me grow and figure out who I am post-cancer. And I am so grateful they asked me to attend camp as the photographer. I hope I did the week justice in my photos, and I cannot wait to see what the next year will bring. So much awesome, and hopefully a lot more rock climbing! Peace.

Insomnia, hormones and survivor's guilt

And so I find myself unable to sleep and with steel-tipped butterflies filling my stomach. Tomorrow brings my semi-annual PET/CT scan, my six-monthly descent into the underworld, into my personal medical Hades. These scans remind me that I am still embedded in that first circle of hell, still in Limbo. Not yet free of all of this yet no longer defined by my diagnosis: "Lost are we and are only so far punished/ That without hope we live on in desire." Virgil was referring to the unbaptized and "virtuous pagans" who inhabited Limbo in The Inferno, but I feel similarly. Maybe I am being dramatic; perhaps an allusion to a Christian allegorical epic poem is a bit much, but I am freaking out.

I am freaking out because I found out earlier today that an old friend of mine's mother passed away two weeks ago after an ugly fight with cancer. Freaking out because following this news, I was looking at the blogs I follow on blogspot, and I came across this recent post by a woman who had beaten Ewing's sarcoma. She was just diagnosed with a second primary cancer. Now, I don't know her and I am pretty sure she has no idea I follow her blog, but her blog is witty and frank and I respect and appreciate her outlook during her own adventures with cancer. But now she, this absolutely gorgeous and talented young woman, has been diagnosed with cancer all over again. What? Seriously? Why and how and to what ends does this happen? Why does one woman die and another have to stop her young life Again and stare down a cancer diagnosis?

I am struggling with survival. Almost exactly one year ago, I returned home from Jackson, Wyoming, having just met some of the most tremendous and strong and utterly inspiring young adults I will ever meet. I had no meteoric self-revelation after my initial week with First Descents, but it changed me in ways I am still trying to define. Among probably more important things, it at least sparked my running back up. After I came back from my week with FD in Moab this past April, I was affected even more powerfully. For better and for worse, in some respects. The survivors I met in Utah are Exceptional. I am super small potatoes compared with these men and women: leading their own young adult cancer survivor kayaking adventures; running and biking miles and miles and then a few miles more; living life with unimaginable fervor just because they Can, because they are alive to do what makes them happy. Even their daily adventures and activities are awe-inspiring to me. One of them can update her Facebook status that she went to Whole Foods or something equally banal, and I feel a surge of pride that I have had the honor of meeting this person.

And I fear I am not living up to their examples. Every day I wonder if I am living my life as well as I should be. For some reason, I am still here, still kicking and screaming through each day, but I am filled with a tremendous restlessness, a Knowing that I am not meeting my potential but an uncertainty as to what exactly that means. Maybe it is because I am so young... 23 is pretty young (although I will be 24 in a month!). Perhaps it is because I am once more living in the bedroom where I had some of my worst battles with cancer and the effects of treatment (ugh, the suburbs). Maybe it has to do with my lingering and annoying medical issues. Relatively serious immuno-deficiency, anyone?

Ahh, and I know none of this is helpful to anyone. No one wants to read about my own lack of confidence. Self-doubt doesn't make for very good dinner table conversation. So I'll just wrap this rant up and say, I am sure tomorrow's scans will go smashingly. Happy Tuesday, sad toad. Perhaps one day I'll find my way out of this bog of uncertainty and inadequacy. I just hope that day comes sooner rather than later... in the meantime, still searching for

Peace.

Full Circles? What is a "full" circle?

The two photos above are from August 25, 2006, not quite four years ago. On August 25, 2006, I had decided the time was ripe for a new haircut. I walked to the awesome hair salon in my downtown and told the stylist I was open for anything. We decided to go short, and I decided I wanted to go short enough that I could donate my hair. For no reason in particular other than I figured it was a nice gesture, and why not if I was already going to get a drastic new do? I was about to begin my sophomore year of university and was completely oblivious to the little cancer cells that were gradually taking me over.

I have thought a lot about that haircut over the past four years. The symbolism of innocently donating my hair to Locks of Love; my reluctance to shave my head the first time I lost my hair; my refusal to wear a wig. I actually even blogged about that haircut one year after the fact in August 2007, when I was mostly hairless and going through treatment. In retrospect, it only confirms my belief in the fact that everything happens for a reason.


This here fun photo was taken right now (woo!). Obviously, my hair is all back. Curlier, but otherwise exactly the same. And vain or not, I love it. Short hair was, for me, a constant reminder of the physical side effects of the chemo. As were the intense chemo curls I used to have, but those have mostly grown out as well. These days the hair is long and healthy and, actually, in pretty dire need of a trim.

So full circles: I had an idea a few days ago. Everyone knows (I hope...) that I am training for the 2010 Chicago Marathon with Team in Training. I think about my training and running and the marathon every single day. It is only 2 months away, and it scares me to no end. Anyway, I mentioned to one of my coworkers this crazy idea I had: I am throwing around the notion of holding off on a haircut until October, until the marathon. At that time, I would chop it all off and, once again, donate it. My coworker's response: "That's a great idea. It would be like everything has come full circle for you." Donating the hair; losing it; regrowing it; donating it once more...

Full circle. I don't like that image. In fact, it threatens me: to have gone through so much the past four years, hair being the least of it, only to end up right back where I started... But then I realized it's just an expression; don't take it so literally. I am training for a Marathon, for goodness' sake. Absolutely nothing is the same. I graduated college. I am not the same. Cutting my hair in anticipation of the 26.2 miles I will run for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society would be the end of the past four years, not a return to the beginning.

Maybe I put too much emotional emphasis on symbols in my life. Running this race is a symbol. Donating my hair. Turning 24... If I can do this one thing, I can finally let go of something else. And yet I need these milestones, these tangible reminders of how far I have come in four years. So I probably will wait for my haircut. Anyone want to join me....?! Haha, thanks, as always, for reading and putting up with my silly vanities. I think I'll go for a run now. Happy Wednesday. Pax.

Mind games.

Also titled:  Was Jerry Garcia, perhaps, a runner?

Also titled squared:  Am I a runner...?

This week's training run was a "cut back" week.  Only 90 minutes.  TNT's training schedule sporadically alternates between running set mileages and running for a set time.  So for me, today's 90 minutes meant 8 miles and a couple desperate 5-minute walk breaks.  Because today, for me, was an Epic Struggle.  I say that not in my usual, Oh, it's no big deal, self-deprecating way, but in an honest, this run was forced and ugly, kind of way.  I haven't been able to pin down the reason, but I can try and explain what I mean.  Perhaps someone can tell me where I went wrong with this...

Usually when I run, my brain turns off.  It is my time to totally decompress, to not have to think about or process anything.  I zone out in tune to my footfalls and the rhythmic sloshing of my half-full and warm water bottle.  Random ideas pop in and out, but nothing sticks, and I literally do not think.  Today, however, my brain did not shut down.  Thoughts kept popping up; I spent most of my first two miles trying to tell myself to focus on my breathing, clear out the distractions.  But two miles in, my legs were leaden, struggling, and my brain was loaded.

Right around 2.5 miles, this thought fired up: "I can't do this."  Rarely, very rarely, does that little "c-word" pop up for my consideration.  There is not much I can't do, and even less that I am not willing to try.  And yet, here I was, 20 minutes into a 90-minute run, thinking I can't do it.  Thinking my legs were just going to stop propelling me forward at a mediocre pace.  And then I thought, as smiling runner after smiling runner kept passing me, "I am just freaking jogging.  Not even running."  That thought lasted probably a good 3 or 400 meters before I managed to shut it out and let it go, focusing on the packed gravel trail we were running on.

I did not let myself stop until just over half-way through the run.  But stop, I did.  Who knows if I would have been able to keep running for another 45 minutes, if I could have forced a way through my mental roadblock...  Here is what I think though: this was not entirely mental.  As I turned around at about mile 4, I literally felt like I could fall asleep on my feet, right there.  My body was completely exhausted, utterly worn down.  I had this mental image in my head of my hip joints as rusty, ineffective gears, the type that takes a lot of physical effort to get turning.  I think our bodies know what they need, but we have to listen to them.  Mine was telling me that as much as my breathing was easy, as much as I mentally wanted to keep running, my legs were just not going to do it.  So I adapted to it.  I poured some cold Gatorade into me; I walked.

And then I was able to start up running again.  Two more miles and another water break, then a mile and a half to finish it off.  I think I ultimately ran for about 80 of the 93 total minutes clocked.  So, well, it is what it is.  To round out this post, my brain successfully quieted down on the second half of my run, thanks in large part to random Grateful Dead lyrics about running and trucking that kept popping up.  It was a pretty sweet mash-up actually.  But anyway, next week is a "long run," which, apparently, is any run over 10 miles or 90 minutes.  I would like to politely disagree with whomever decided that...  Pretty sure anything over 3 miles is a long run.  Hopefully, though, it will go better than this week.  Sleep might help...  A better pre-run meal; a better night-before dinner?  Sleep will help.

Hope you are staying cool wherever you are this weekend.  It is supposed to be 90 degrees with 90% humidity in Chicago today.  Movie day, anyone?  Thanks again for reading and cheering and laughing at my silliness.  Also, I know I am a runner.  My brain was just scraping the bottom of the barrel for reasons to get me to stop.  It is all good.  Pax.

Long-distance runner, what you standing there for?

The 2010 Bank of America Chicago Marathon is three months from today.  From Today. 10/10/10 is just over 90 days away, and, fittingly, my Team in Training group ran 10 miles this morning.  Somehow and somewhat surprisingly (at least to me), I actually ran 10 miles this morning.  Every Saturday at 7:00 a.m., the whole training team meets up for our weekly "long run."  And every Saturday morning I stand around with everyone, waiting, almost shaking in my sneakers with nervousness.  Sleep is rubbed from eyes; good mornings are exchanged.  We listen to each week's "Mission Moment," where someone shares their story or a friend or family member's story about their experience with a blood cancer.  The Mission Moment is basically a few minutes for us to reflect on why we are putting ourselves through this; it is a reminder that, whatever our personal reasons for running are, there is a greater purpose behind all of it.  And then we push ourselves out of the parking lot and begin the journey to a set mile-marker and back.

This morning, prior to our running 10 miles, I offered up the Mission Moment.  I briefly shared my story, my diagnosis and subsequent remission.  I also brought up the importance of running in my life.  How the worst part of treatment was being unable to run, sometimes even unable to walk from exhaustion and all the other stuff.  And now here I am, three years later, preparing myself to run the longest distance I have ever run.  I told my team members that I have trouble finding inspiration from myself; others' stories and accomplishments keep me going.  But I realized and tried to express that I am surrounded by inspiring people.  Watching my teammates run, knowing why they are running and that they are pushing themselves to their physical and mental limits because they can, That inspires me.  That is amazing.  People will do amazing things for the causes they believe in.

When we signed up to join the fall Team in Training program, we were all given TNT technical shirts to wear during our runs.  They are a bold purple and have TNT in large, block letters on the front.  On the back of the shirt, on top of the list of sponsors, is the phrase, "Creating a world without cancer," a pithy summation of the LLS mission to cure blood cancers.  I was just about at my eighth mile, and, while I wasn't exactly struggling, my body was wearing down.  (8 miles having been, so far, the longest I'd ever run...)  Anyway, I passed one of our run/walkers, and, for whatever reason, her shirt's message really struck me.  If you'll please excuse my language, basically, my immediate reaction was, "F*** cancer.  F*** it for screwing up my life and putting me in this position where I can have such deep-seated anger at something."  And then I clenched my fist and gritted my teeth and ran just a little stronger.

Because here I am.  I finished the run in about 1 hour and 45 minutes, which is about a 10:30 min/mile.  Certainly not fast, but, whatever; I finished strongly.  I am proud of myself, and I am proud of my teammates, and who knows...  Maybe I will actually be able to run a whole 26.2 miles.  You never know what life will offer you in the form of opportunity.  Maybe it's a job offer; maybe it is cancer.  Either way, I would not be who I am and where I am right now if the events of the past four years never happened.  Maybe for better or worse, but here we all are, so I guess it is all about getting up, getting off, and getting out of that door... to finish this post's title.  Thanks, Grateful Dead.

So that was this morning.  That was my running update.  As for everything else, the colonoscopy went well...  The biopsies were all negative, so now I just have a wonky colon and no good reason why.  It's fine.  It is hot in Chicago; I guess it is hotter in Boston.  I drink an ungodly amount of coffee, and yet I still desperately want to find a job where I don't get as much free coffee and coffee-based beverages as I want...  Oh Starbucks; what would we do without you?  Life is life I suppose.  I hope you are enjoying your summer, staying cool!  Thanks for checking in, and when was the last time you checked out my Training Page??!!  Thank you So MUCH if you've donated...!!  Happy Saturday; Happy July.

Peace...