From the bottom, looking up

This morning I woke up to with the knowledge that today's workout was going to be awful.  And not just awful-lite, we're talking a trip the dentist without Novocaine kind of awful.  You see, my dear reader, today was hill training.  And it was cold.  And it was windy.  And I just didn't wanna.

Throughout my journey to becoming a runner, and not just a trotter or plodder, I have created a list of dislikes about the sport.  For example, I dislike that I have to use a product called Body Glide - just sounds wrong, to prevent something called chafing - just IS wrong.  I dislike that sometimes no matter how much Body Glide I use, I still wind up chafing.  I dislike the fact that running attire is almost entirely made of spandex - there is no such thing as a fat day in spandex.  But what I REALLY dislike is hill training.

See, hill training involves sprinting up a hill at an ungodly speed only to trot down slowly and do it all over again.  It's "supposed" to make you a faster runner, but it just makes me feel like my airway is closing and I'm throwing up all at the same time - again, similar to going to the dentist.

But here's what I came to realize... hill training is in some ways similar to going through treatment for cancer.  Looking up at the hill is terrifying; you don't know anything about the journey until you start.  You may have preconceived notions, but you don't know how badly your legs will hurt, how your lungs will burn, or if it will ever end (some hills are winding).

Watching my best friend, KT, go from diagnosis all the way through treatment was like running up a hill for the first time.  When she made it to the top of the hill, or remission, her adoring fans were waiting there with open arms, cheering and showering her with love.  When she relapsed, it was like being at the top of the hill looking down, knowing what awaited her, and yet not knowing if it would be the same... or worse.  So she began the climb, again, with her fans carrying her along.  But like the wear and tear of hill repeats, the chemo had taken its toll on her body.  She trudged up the hill with all her might and made it to the top; a successful bone marrow transplant.  Sure, she was a bit more weathered and weary, but she did it. And then came the call - the transplant didn't take.  The hill became a mountain, and the mountain was insurmountable. 

In my eyes, no hill will ever compare to what KT went through.  She conquered her hills with dignity and grace; never once losing her smile or spirit.  And in the end, in my eyes, she remained on top.  She is the reason I continue to climb; she is and always will be, my inspiration.

KT - This hill's for you!

In sickness and in health

A bald head.  A Port-a-cath.  A hospital bracelet.  A bride to be.

Last night at the Ronald McDonald House was a sobering reality to the world that is CANCER.  Standing in the dining room on the second floor of the house I bore witness to the cruelest of truths: CANCER just doesn't care.  It doesn't care if it is your birthday.  It doesn't care if you are an infant.  It doesn't care if you are getting married.  It just doesn't care.

As we served the families from the dessert table last night, I noticed a young couple about to sit down to dinner.  They were both in their early twenties; a rarity at the Ronald McDonald House.  He was gentle and kind; setting the table and pulling out her chair.  She was loving and nurturing; making sure the food was warm enough and pouring his favorite beverage.  They bowed their heads, said grace, and began to eat.  It was then that I noticed IT.  The beautiful, delicate, and sparkly diamond ring on the fourth finger of her left hand.  The left hand that was attached to the young woman with the bald head and penciled eyebrows.  After talking to them for a few minutes I learned the following: They had been engaged for a month; she had been sick for a few months.  They wanted to plan a wedding; she wanted to wait until her treatments were over and her hair grew back.  They were very much in love; CANCER didn't care.

I walked away from their table feeling like I had been sucker punched.  As some of you may know, I am getting married to a wonderful man this coming November.  Throughout the planning process I have experienced every emotion under the sun, including the less lovely ones like impatience, frustration and general craziness.  And here was a bride to be who had lost her hair, lost her eyebrows, had endured months of treatments aimed at making her better - and at the same time making her sick, and she was happy.  Happy to be alive, happy to have a partner by her side through all of this, and happy to sit down to a chicken parmigiana dinner that they cooked together.

It was, in every sense of the word, a slap in the face.  After leaving the Ronald McDonald House last night, I walked the mile back to my apartment in complete silence.  I realized that I am running this race not just for the Ronald McDonald House, but for the stories that live within its' walls.  I am running 13.1 miles because I am privileged.  I am privileged to marry the man I love without worrying about my bald head or lack of eyebrows.  I am privileged to choose a dress without worrying that my Port-a-cath will leak or that I'll be hooked up to IV fluids.  I am privileged.  So I run.

Privileged to Love.  Privileged to Run.

Perspective and Pink Paint

In my opinion, Thursdays are the best days in the whole entire world.  I know that many would argue that Friday is a great day because it is the start of the weekend, or Wednesday, as it hump day.  However, in my world Thursdays are the best because for just a few hours I have the opportunity to gain perspective.

There are so many colors in a rainbow!

I've found that it is incredibly easy to lose ones' perspective from time to time; whether you live in New York City or the suburbs of New Jersey.  Maybe your subway was delayed, and as a result you arrive late to work, enduring a tongue lashing from your boss.  Maybe you've gone to make lunch, only to realize that the mouse in your apartment has already helped himself to your bread.  There are many maybes that I've dealt with since moving to New York City, and from time to time I find myself completely caught up the silliness that comes with them.  However, each Thursday night I find myself slapped in the face by PERSPECTIVE.

Last Thursday night my volunteer team and I cooked comfort food for the families.  Parents are responsible for providing their own meals while staying at the Ronald McDonald House (though there are some companies that donate meals).  I can't imagine spending all day helping a child go through chemo, radiation, therapy, etc. and then come back to a communal kitchen to cook dinner; but there is no other option.  Many of these families can barely manage to pay the $35 a day it costs to stay at the Ronald McDonald House, much less order in food... even if it is just a slice of pizza. 

Happy Valentine's Day!

After serving up meals to the 85 families that stay at the Ronald McDonald House we ventured down to the playroom to decorate Valentine's Day t-shirts.  It was there that my heart broke; one of my little beans had not only relapsed, but progressed through her chemo.  She was as skinny as a twig and had lost her hair, again, on her 7th birthday.  Her treatments were painful, but not nearly as painful as the cancer ravaging her body.  However; if you looked at her that evening, you would have never known that this little girl was fighting like hell to live.  She was SMILING from ear to ear because she could paint her whole entire shirt pink!  And paint it she did... for the better part of an hour she painted with unstoppable joy.  Never once wincing from the pain, never once stopping due to sheer and utter exhaustion.  For the better part of an hour she was a carefree child; intent on using as much pink paint as possible and enjoying every second of it.  Last Thursday  night she showed me what it meant to live in the moment, and that is a lesson that I'll never forget.

She is my hero, she is my perspective.

Make Like an Engine and CHOO!

For those who knew me during my "formative" years, the fact that I am not a naturally graceful runner should not come as a surprise.  I was not, in fact, a graceful dancer.  So much so that I actually sashayed my way off the opposite end of the stage as my fellow ballerinas.  My plies and leaps left much to be desired.  But I had spunk! 

(*****JAZZ HANDS*****)

So it shouldn't come as a shocker to anyone that I am less of a gazelle and more of a Little Engine that Could. However; like all great blue engines I'm trying my best in order to beat my goal.  You see, I have what I like to call Adult Onset Athleticism.  This condition affects those individuals who were better suited to stationary sport positions during their childhoods.  For example, I was the goalie in soccer, the catcher in baseball, and the only girl who went out for track and field to run, and came home a "thrower." 

Here's where practice makes as close to perfect as I'm gonna get!

Each day I get up around 6am and head up the windiest hill in New York to NYSC in order to ensure that I set a personal record and bankrupt Adam Moser.  Adam is going to donate $10 for each minute I take off my best half marathon time: 2:26.  By my calculations, if I play my cards correctly, this could be a very lucrative race.

So, this morning I put on my best Target  (Tarrrjayyy to those in the know) running shorts and hit the treadmill... facing the mirror.  This was the first mistake.  There is only one thing more sobering than the site of your own almostCasperlike legs running towards you early in the morning... the site of your definitelyCasperlike legs SPRINTING towards you early in the morning.

BUT, like all great Choo-Choos I made it, and beat my best time for a 5k!  This Sunday I am participating in the NYRR 4Mile Gridiron Classic, otherwise known as, burning calories before I eat wings during the Super Bowl.  Here's hoping that both the NY Giants and I have repeat performances.