Happy in the Chase

Note: This is my Boston race report from the 2007 race.  I'm posting it on my blog in homage to all my dear friends who are running the race this year!  I hope my description gives you inspiration... proud of all of you!!!

Happy in the Chase

Boston Marathon, 2007

Be careful what you wish for.

I look out the window of the hotel.  It’s 6:30 am and I see rain falling slantwise, wind whipping the flags on the flagpoles.  I think of what I have said to my husband 2 days earlier Why do these have to be so hard?  Why can’t I run a race without having to battle the elements as well?  It was a pure and simple whine.  An emotional vent, a rage at the heavens.  Poor me.  I get over it.  Because you can’t run 26.2 miles feeling sorry for yourself; you might as well not even start.  Suck it up, get your game face on, and roll.  Make it a Who is the toughest? Channel your inner Prefontaine.  Make it one for the ages.  I ran Boston 2007.  I FINISHED Boston 2007

* * *

Training for this race was a grind.  Spring marathons are the hardest because the training is done in the cold and dark of winter.  And I started in a bit of a hole: the Charlotte Marathon was in mid-December and was followed by some recovery downtime, a minor injury, and a nasty bout of the flu.  The new year dawned with my not having run more than a mile in 3 weeks and the realization I had less then 4 months to prepare for Boston.  And Boston is special.  It’s not like any other race: it’s the big daddy, the Mecca, the Holy Grail, the “show”, the super bowl of running.  Pick your overused cliché; they all work.  You run in the shadow of giants.  You breathe their air.

My training was flat.  I logged more miles than ever, but I was tired.  The Richmond/Charlotte double had taken its toll.  There are people who can run marathon after marathon with little time in between.  I am not one of them.  I was weary - both mentally and physically - and my training reflected it.  Most of it was alone.  I missed the company of Franny and Robin on the long runs.  Robin was sidelined with a stress fracture and Franny was taking time off for work and family obligations.   I looked forward to the weeks after Boston - not the race itself - so I could take a step back from the monster miles, the stomach-burning tempo runs and catch up on my rest and my life. Boston was supposed to be my victory lap.  In those intervening months of training I thought more than once Be careful what you wish for.  I had no time goals.  I wanted to enjoy the run, the course, the crowds.  I didn’t want to go for broke and crash.  I didn’t want to run so hard that the course and experience would be nothing more than a tunnel-vision blur.  I am guilty of the mortal sin of covetousness: I want that finisher’s medal, nothing more.

With less than a week to go, the weatherman crashes my most modest of dreams with a single meteorological term that turned my knees to gelatin: Nor’Easter.  What kind of word is that anyway?  It sounds like something from Moby Dick.  It’s a made-up term for a very real weather phenomenon.  It is inches of rain and strong winds in bone-chilling cold.  Shit. I wonder about those predicted 30+ mph headwinds, with 50 mph gusts; Could I take that kind of a beating over 26+ miles? Damn.  I joke to my friends, All I prayed for was “Please, let it not be warm.”  I guess I should have been a little more specific on the downside.  I laugh, I fret, I cry.  There is no way I’m not starting this race.  There is no way I’m not finishing. It probably won’t be pretty.  It won’t be perfect.  This is life. 

Pre-Game

I arrive in Boston on Saturday, a day earlier then planned.  The forecast for the bad weather has forced me to change my travel plans.  I have wholly committed to running this race.  But I have to actually GET to the starting line.  My flight is not direct, and from the segment from Philly to Boston, there are no less than 4 other runners headed to the race.  This gives me hope.  When I arrive in Boston, I get my rental car and proceed directly to the runners’ expo at the convention center.  The first order of business is to pick up my race number.  I am bib number 17288.  I pass the rows of runners with bib numbers in the 4-digits.  I am humbled.  I am a piker, a bush-league runner next to them.  I find the line with my bib assignment and pick up my race packet.  I then proceed past the rows of runners who have higher bib assignments.  My head is held a bit higher. Faster than you.  Faster than you.  And you and you and you.  Most of the time running is not so much about being first, but about not being last.

The expo is jammed and frenetic.  The highlight is “THE WALL”.  Adidas has their campaign, their “Reason XXX for running the Boston Marathon”.  Reasons range from the trite (“Chicks dig runners”) to the philosophical (“Cheaper than therapy”) to the inspirational (“Running for Joe who is stationed in Iraq”).  Any runner can grab a “Reason #” bib, write down their reason, and stick it to the wall.  I don’t even have to think about mine.  I grab the bib, stick it to the wall, grab the Sharpie hanging from a string and scrawl my reason.  I take a photo to memorialize it. To run in the footsteps of my dad.  – Monica C.  #17288

BJ, Erin, and Reen will drive with me to the state park at Hopkinton.  From there I’ll take a shuttle bus to the start.  A day earlier, I’d chatted with a woman who was also staying at our hotel in Waltham.  She was debating with how to get to the start.  When I go to the front desk that morning to get a bowl for my 3 packs of instant oatmeal – my pre-race breakfast of choice – and to check out the howling wind and rain, I see her.  Her parents and husband are in tow.  It is 7:00 am.  They are headed to Hopkinton.  I’m not even dressed for the race.  I tell her Good Luck!  Hang in there, stay warm.  To myself, I’m thinking ARE YOU CRAZY?  It’s over 3 hours to race time.  What do you intend to do?  Freeze in the interim?  I’m as equal a novice to the race as she, but can’t help to think – as she fights to open the door against the raging wind – Rookie.  It ain’t gonna take 3 hours to get to the start 14 miles away.  I’m certainly not being humble, but her caution borders on the absurd.  The look in her eyes transmits nothing but fear.  She’s done before she’s even started.

My phone beeps in volumes those 24 hours before the race.  Text messages flow like the rain outside. From Craig, my dear South African running friend/coworker I will be sitting in my office with an umbrella open in support of your gallant and amazing run…From Maria Hey, what’s a little rain and wind and from Michel, my husband, who aches to be here U can do it.  U know you can.  I love you.

I’ve been dropped at the State Park at Hopkinton.  All roads in are closed for all but residents.  The sheer volume of runners would overrun a town of its size.  Shuttle buses will take us in from this point.  I exit the car with a steady rain falling, winds gusting all around me.  I’m in full Gore-Tex rain gear, and old shoes and socks are on my feet.  A quick hug to Erin, Reen, and BJ, and I’m off across the parking lot to get on the first available bus.

After I’m dropped off, I make the half-mile trek to the “Athletes Village”. It sounds so Olympian, but in reality the athletic fields and parking lot of the local middle school have been appropriated and packed with a large white tent, more port-a-johns than can be counted, and school buses for the bag-check. During this half-mile walk, I phone my dad.  I know he is concerned about the weather.  I call to tell him that the rain and wind have substantially abated.  I don’t want him to worry for the next few hours.  The wind chill is there, but I have dressed for the occasion.  The rain is a steady drizzle interrupted by the occasional downpour, but the weathermen have assured us that it will get better, if colder, as the race progresses.    At the village, I phone my friend Glenn.  I’m trying to get a hold of Greta, his wife.  Her bib number is also in the 17-thousands; we’ll be in the same starting corral.  He tells me what she’s wearing.  I change into my race shoes, peel off the rain-resistant gear, and check my bag.

I make the half-mile trek to the start and my corral.  I’m making small talk with another runner.  I remember nothing more about her than I’m sure she remembers about me.  We’re passing the time, trying to forget what may lie ahead of us.  Wind? Rain? Who knows.  Give me the strength.  I whisper a plea, a prayer for courage.

At the corral, I look for Greta.  1,000 people are in this area.  Will I find a blond woman in a Kelly green jacket?  With 2 minutes to the start, I miraculously spot her and make my way to her.  My greeting is a frenzied GRETA!  WE’RE HERE!  CAN YOU BELIEVE IT!  The comfort and calm at seeing her familiar face is enough to distract me from my fear and excitement.  The rain has turned into a drizzle.  I’m in the middle of a crowd and the wind is more memory than reality.  In hindsight, I can say I love this moment.  We move forward.  We are on our way.  A woman on a public address system tells us to smile and wave at the camera, and our shuffle turns to a walk, then to a slow jog, then to a run.  I hear the chirp of the computers as our chips pass over the timing mat.  We are off.  I’ve started my journey to Boston.

Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head:  Miles 1-14

The race is storied for its downhill start.  A guy weaves past me after we start to run wearing a snorkel and scuba mask.  Wiseacre.  I have practiced my downhill form during my training, and put it right to work, repeating to my self Pop, pop, pop, hot like coals to keep my turnover quick and light, and stay off my heels.  I take a quick check of my watch after the first mile and see 9:14.  Nice and easy, my muscles are cold and this is a nice warm-up.  At this point, Greta speeds up and I wish her a good race.  Running my own race: this was a valuable lesson I learned in Charlotte, one I don’t intend to now forget. And while I don’t feel the wind too much at this point, I attributed this happy reality to the trees lining the streets and the densely packed crowd of runners.  I run in the center of the road to avoid puddles along the sides.  I stick right to the double yellow lines.  My own yellow brick road. 

By mile two, I am plenty warm and know my two technical shirts and wind-breaker are too much.  Without breaking stride, I manage to remove one of my shirts and tie it around my waist.  While I’d normally ditch it, it was a nice shirt and I’d worn it in Charlotte.  It has sentimental value and I don’t have the heart to throw it away.  I’ll pass it to Erin, Reenie, and BJ when I see them.

The running feels easy, and I click my watch every 5k.  I’m not paying particularly close attention to the time, and miles are melting away.  I have a very strange pain in my left ankle which is annoying.  It hasn’t hurt up to this race.  I write it off as a weird nothing and ignore it.

In Ashland around mile 4 we encounter some islands as the road forks.  A volunteer with a bullhorn announces Runners to the right.  Runners to the right.  Funny.  I’d have a hard time believing anyone would make a wrong turn with 16,000+ runners leading the way.  Go figure.  But as I pass him, he decides to interject a bit of Boston humor:  Runners to the right.  Yankees fans to the left.  I laugh and say to two tall men running stride-for-stride next to me Did you hear that?  They shoot me a look and say Why? Are you a Yankees fan?  Yikes.  They weren’t kidding about that Sox-Yankees rivalry.  No, no, no.  I didn’t grow up following baseball.  I’m a nothing, a nobody.  The one guy looks at me, and in his heavy Boston accent scolds me You’re not a nobody today.  YOU are running THIS RACE.  You ARE somebody today.  I smile at him and say Thanks!  Go SOX!  It is the nicest thing anyone’s said to me that day.

My goal is to run on autopilot to get to Wellesley College, which is situated at about the half-way mark.  There are stretches of rural road, empty of spectators, but beautiful.  The course has some rolling hills, but certainly nothing like I faced in Charlotte.  I focus on my form, and on the inclines I imagine a man with a fishing rod standing on a lamppost having hooked my shirt.  He’s reeling me up the hills.  It’s a great visual to keep my form correct.  Lean into the hill, keep my head up.  At the top of the hills, I can plan on a blast of wind.

There are some funny signs along the road, and at one mile marker one reads Mile 6: Be happy you don’t have bulls chasing you.  I laugh out loud.  I find I am smiling all the time.  I can’t help it.  We run through town squares, and they are packed with people.  Before the race I had worried that the foul weather would keep people away.  But as a Boston native assured me, this race is ingrained in the fabric of this city and its residents.  A little wind and rain wouldn’t keep them away.  They don’t disappoint:  Adults hold signs, scream at anyone who ventures near.  A Florida’s worth of orange slices are held out for anyone who needs energy, as are jelly beans, gummy bears, water.  Children at the sides of the roads keep their hands out, hoping for a slap.  I veer over and hit as many as I can.

Around mile 7 it starts to rain.  Not hard, thankfully.  A song pops in my head that Erin and I had been singing a day earlier on the way to pick up Reenie at the airport, a classic by Burt Bacharach:

Raindrops are fallin' on my head

And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed

Nothin' seems to fit

Those raindrops are fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'

It makes me think of all the worrying I had done about the weather.  I had expected the absolute worst, but I’m running in conditions that are pretty decent. 

So I just did me some talkin' to the sun

And I said I didn't like the way he got things done

Sleepin' on the job

Those raindrops are fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'

My dad had called me the Saturday and Sunday leading up to the race.  I could sense some urgency in his voice as he read the articles about the weather.  Will they cancel the race?  They haven’t done it in 110 years.  They are talking about the risks of hypothermia.  Be careful.  Pace yourself.  The winds are going to be bad.  I reassured him that I had bought an entire duffel bag’s worth of gear, that I had closely monitored the weather, and that if I had to wear an entire gore-tex suit to stay dry, I would.  Erin, ever the rational, reasonable judge, was also there to provide wise counsel.  And Reen, all heart has chimed in Quit yer bitchen.  You’ll be fine.  I was feeling good.  I was in Boston.  Nothing would keep me from this race.

But there's one thing I know

The blues they send to meet me won't defeat me

It won't be long till happiness steps up to greet me

The conditions could have been so, so much worse, and all my worrying has amounted to nothing but wasted energy.

Raindrops keep fallin' on my head

But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turnin' red

Cryin's not for me

'Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complainin'

Because I'm free

Nothin's worryin' me

After a couple of easy miles, the rain stops.  I pass the half marathon point and look at my watch: 1:58:06.  Wow.  Didn’t think I was on a sub-4 pace.  Before long, we enter Wellesley.  We pass an open athletic field of a school, and the wind is pounding.  I tuck myself off the shoulder of a taller runner.  And then I hear it:  A roar in the distance.  I smile and know I’m coming up to the famed “Scream Tunnel” at Wellesley College.

It takes a full half mile to get there, and these women do not disappoint.  I work with a Wellesley graduate, and I think to myself Mary, these women are doing you proud.  They scream and hold Kiss me signs.  A man in shorts bearing the Texas flag stops at least a dozen times to grant their wish.  I slap some hands and the screaming is deafening.  Their enthusiasm kills the whipping winds, falling rains.  We all feel something more in our steps.  These women scream their siren song, but their bewitching tune is one that propels us forward, not crashing into the rocks.  They are extraordinary.  My ears ring for minutes after.

Everywhere I look, I see your face

My sisters Erin and Reenie flew in from out of town to cheer me on.  My sister Nicole has small children at home; her presence here is impossibility.  I miss her.  The course is packed with spectators throughout. But if you want to move from mile to mile, it not particularly spectator-friendly.  My friend, BJ, had taken the day off of work to squire them about.  I’ve known him for years.  He is family. After consulting train maps, they have concluded they could probably make it to one or two stops, but not until later in the course.  I have told them that I’d rather see them later than sooner, and any time after Wellesley would be fine.

My thighs are starting to ache.  Wow, kinda early.  Those early downhill miles – despite being run with care – are taking their toll. OK, this is going to hurt.  Embrace the pain.  Smile when you do.  After passing through the scream tunnel, I spend the miles scanning the crowd for Erin, Reenie and BJ.   I figure they’ll probably be in the famed “Newton Hills”.  But I search them out anyway.  I’m also looking for a port-a-john that doesn’t have a line. At mile 15 and change, there is a screaming downhill into Lower Newton Falls.  I’d driven it the day before and again chant my down-hill mantra.  At the bottom of the hill, I see a free port-a-john.  Someone sneaks in just before me, and I curse.  I hate, hate, hate losing time like this.  And I hate that I always seem to have to stop.  But I also know something else: the first of the four famed hills is just up ahead.

The evening before the race, my sisters and I have eaten a wonderful meal at one of my favorite restaurants in Waltham, ‘The Tuscan Grille’.  We were joined by BJ, and my dear friends Dan and Tammy Smith.  It is a wonderful, laid-back gathering.  I attack the breadbasket with gusto, even have a glass of beer.  It feels like family, this gathering of ours.  I have a view of the front door, and while we are eating, a man walks in.  I do a double take. Erin!  Reenie! Look at that guy that just walked in.  The one in the beige Boston Marathon ball cap.  Doesn’t he look EXACTLY like dad?  I have so wanted my dad to be here to witness this event.  He had run so many Boston Marathons, and despite his retiring from the sport 20 years ago, he is still - to this day - my running inspiration.  But having returned from California that day, his getting to Boston by the next day is impossible.  And yet here is his spirit.  The same white beard and mustache.  And the Boston Marathon cap to boot.  We laugh at this coincidence.

I bolt from the port-a-john and make my way to the base of first hill.  I’d driven these hills three times before the race, and they are familiar.  The jury is split on these hills:  Ask Boston veterans about them and half will say They’re no big deal and the other half will rule They are death incarnate.  As I drive them each time, I find that the truth lies somewhere between these two poles.  I’ve trained hills, both up and down.  Nasty, gnarly, steep, gut-churning hills.  I throw them in the latter parts of long runs to simulate what I’ll face in this race.  My friend Robin has warned me.

As I approach the first hill, I’m still scanning the crowds for my own personal cheering section.  I turn to my left and there – standing all alone – at the base of the first hill, is the man I’ve seen at the restaurant the evening before.  He is even wearing the ball cap.  I laugh out loud I can’t wait to tell ‘em this one!  I know my dad is following every step of this race, checking my splits.  He’s probably driving his wife Marlene nuts.  And I know – know to my bones – that when he sees the next split, he won’t think the delay is due to fatigue, but to my cranky gut.

The man with the fishing pole pulls me up the first hill.  Wow.  That really wasn’t that bad.  At all.  I look down at my wrist and see the blue and yellow friendship bracelet my son, Jean-Marc has made me, just for this race.  I smile and think of him.  He, Luc, Madeleine, and Michel: they are right here with me.  There’s a bit over a mile to the turn at the Newton Fire Station and the second hill.  The crowds are thicker, and pushing into the streets.  So many of these people are looking for someone, a racer out there on this course.  I scan the road looking for my crew.  They have 6 eyes, I have 2.  Keep on looking.  You’ll find them. They’ll find you.  I see hundreds of faces, all friendly, none familiar.  I pass the Newton-Wellesley Hospital on my right.  So not going there today.  On my left is the stately Woodland Country Club.  Oh, for the 19^th hole.  I’m feeling surprisingly good.  I’m blissfully unaware of my time and am confident going into these hills.  The second one is the steepest.  I make the turn onto Commonwealth Avenue at the Newton Fire Station.  The assault and ascent to Heartbreak Hill have begun.

Running over heartache

I’ve been smiling non-stop since the start of the race.  I can’t help it; this is the unexplainable magic that is the Boston Marathon.  I start up the second hill, the steepest in terms of grade, and I still smile.  This isn’t that bad.  Just keep going.  In between the hills are sections of flat or downhill.  In my head, I approach them as intervals.  Two down, two to go.  Regroup and attack on the next hill.  The crowds are thick on both sides of the streets.  They stand or sit in chairs.  Some have drinks, others have pom-poms, signs, balloons.  With their voices and presence, they carry us all over these hills.

At the base of the third hill, a man is running next to me.  He turns my way.  You look like you are enjoying this way too much.  We are on the Newton Hills, you know.  I have been smiling since my first step on this course.  I can’t help it!  How can you not smile out here!  Look at these people!  At my qualifying race the temperature was 19 degrees at the start.  There were maybe 1,000 runners in the race.  The course was empty of spectators from the half to the finish!  He asks me where I qualified.  I give him the Readers’ Digest version of my Richmond/Charlotte double.  He laughs and points to his shirt: it is a Richmond Marathon race shirt.  You’re kidding – you were at that race?!   These spirits: they are all over the course.

I reach mile 20.  The clock reads 3 hours and something.  I don’t remember.  Was it 3:02? :03?  :04?  I neither know, nor care.  Six months before this race I would have been painfully aware of not only the hours and minutes, but of the seconds.  What has happened to me?  From where has this inner peace come?

Ten days before the race, during my last long run, I’ve had an epiphany:  I will dedicate these hills – particularly “Heartbreak Hill” - to those who are suffering heartache. Winter is the lean season.  It is cold and dark.  It is the time we use to remind us of how much we love the light, the warmth.  Raised Catholic, I am aware of this time of Lenten sacrifice.  In the grander scheme, this race is a caprice.  I am lucky to be able to participate in it with such joy and abandon. I offer this very humble sacrifice to these people.  I know each hill will take minutes to climb, and that they are undergoing pain that lasts so much longer:

Gillian, my dear friend recently diagnosed with breast cancer.  She is the mother of two young boys, and she and her English-born husband are a treasure to us here in America.  Her Irish pluck and grace give all of us pause.  Before undergoing her double lumpectomy, she informs her surgeon Make the girls look good.  I have a party to attend this weekend.  She is extraordinary.

Mom.  She is suffering through the latter stages of dementia.  She no longer remembers where I live, how many children I have or what their names and sexes are, the name of my husband of 20 years.  She lives in a nightmare of confusion and fear.

De, my feisty brother-in-law.  He has recently dubbed me “Spider Legs”.  He’s a quietly funny guy who makes the best popovers and grilled chicken on the planet.  He adores my sister, Erin.  He lost his only sibling, several years ago. He injured his back – including a fractured vertebrae - in the early autumn and has been living in pain 24-7. 

Pearl, Marlene’s mother.  90 years old, feisty and independent.  But fighting a recurrence of her cancer.

Jon.  My brother-in-law is burying his father this day.  His dad has recently lost a horrific battle with cancer.  He was in his mid-80’s when he passed, his family with him at the end. 

Franny’s mom.  My dear friend Franny, “Miss Daisy”.  Her mother has been recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.  She is a warm, wonderful, and artistically talented woman, and her children are amazing, each of them.  They are generous, solid, and strong, full of faith in and love for each other.  A wonderful family.

Robin’s mom who is battling lung cancer.  Robin is my other rock.  Solid, strong as iron, smart and sassy.  I wouldn’t be here without her.

Cody, my friend Mickey’s son.  4 years old and recovering from stage IV neuroblastoma.  Stem-cell transplants, hearing decimated by chemotherapy.  Mickey runs his first marathon wearing a shirt with the words “CODY IS MY REASON”.  A living nightmare for parents.  They live month-to-month, worrying about recurrence, praying to God to spare their son.

Kirk, another running friend, who has just buried his mother.

I approach the base of Heartbreak Hill.  I am at mile 21 and a bit.  I feel good.  I start the ascent and feel the backward pull of gravity.  Reel me in, Ishmael.  I start my chant.  I say these names as inspiration, as prayer: Gill Mom De Pearl Jon Franny’s mom Robin’s mom Mick Cody Kirk. Gill Mom De Pearl Jon Franny’s mom Robin’s mom Mick Cody Kirk. Gill Mom De Pearl Jon Franny’s mom Robin’s mom Mick Cody Kirk. I say these names over and over in my head, occasionally whispering them as I climb. Toward the end of this half mile climb, I condense it to one name, and I sound like the small ‘engine that could”: Gill Gill Gill Gill Gill Gill Gill.

 The top of Heartbreak Hill is an illusion.  You think you’re done, but then another small ascent challenges your grit.  I have driven these hills and I know that when I see the steeples of Boston College I am done.  I crest the first hill and keep charging.  I turn a corner and see the steeples.  I’ve never felt the second bit of incline.  The hills are over.  My legs are fine; I’ve not only survived, I’m ready to roll.  Amen.

Hustle and Flow

The Boston College students are out in force.  They are raucous with energy, youth, and beer.  I am lucky to be running near one of their own.  They scream JOSH!!!!  RUN JOSH!!!  They have outstretched hands and I slap so many.  I look to the steeples of the BC church, and as I turn the curve of the road feel a strong gust of wind.  Then I hear it: MONICA!  FEVE! GO RUN GO!!!!  I turn and see Erin, Reenie and BJ.  I dart to them and they protest WHY ARE YOU STOPPING?  I untie my lucky shirt from my waist and empty the pockets of my windbreaker.  Feeling great!  I’m outta here! I’m off.  It’s a steep downhill and I pump my arms.  Leg muscles be damned, we’ve got 4-something miles to go and it’s time to grind it out.  At the 35 km split, I look at my watch. It reads 3:20:21.  Holy shit! If I hustle, I can break 4:00!  I’ve lost my ability to do precise math; I can’t figure exactly how much time I have to make up, but I start to move.  A commuter train runs along the road.  It is packed with people.  I look up ahead to my left and see two runners, a rope tied around each one of their waists. They wear matching orange shirts.  One reads Guide, the other Visually Impaired.  They are both walking on the left side of the road.  As I pass, I pat the blind runner’s back.  You’re doing great!  The spectators scream inspiration to this duo.  Amazing.  He is running this without seeing all that is before him.  He can’t see the crowds, the buildings, the hills. 

Somewhere around mile 23, I see the Prudential Building.  The race finishes directly in front of it.  Oh I am so close.  Then I see the CITGO sign.  The crowds are getting deeper.  At an intersection, 3 college-aged kids bolt in front of me, pizza boxes in hand.  We nearly collide.  Taken out by 3 large cheese and pepperoni.  If I could, I would have laughed out loud. 

At mile 24, the 3 gels and the sickly sweet Gatorade I’ve consumed throughout the course wreak havoc.  A wave of nausea rises up: I have over-carbed.  Screw it.  Do your best.  You can puke at the finish.  I’m really tired now, and I know I’ve got to manage this as best I can.  Go too fast, and I’ll be heaving at the side of the road before the finish.  Go too slow, and I’ll not only NOT break 4:00, I wont re-qualify for next year.  We get to Kenmore Square.  Holy cow, how will this end?  Apparently, there is a hill going into Kenmore square.  I never feel it.  I’m running as fast as I can without ending in ignobility on the side of the road.  And then I see it, a yellow sign of hope: 1 MILE TO GO.

I don’t know how I will react at the finish.  Will it be like my first marathon – blissful, thankful disbelief?  I know it won’t be like my second at Marine Corps, a grueling disappointing crawl.  Will it be like Charlotte, the joyous, tearful shout of redemption?  I don’t think so.  It’s exciting, a drama played out in real time.  My mind is focused, joyous and happy despite the nausea Living the dream!  I am LIVING THE DREAM!  How often do we get to do this?  How often do any of us get to live our dreams?  The road dips under Mass Avenue.  I see a woman in a pink running skirt ahead of me, and I make a dash for her.  We make a quick right on to Hereford Avenue and a short block later, a left onto Boylston.  A quick glance at my watch and I see 3:57:something.  Oh man. I see the finish line, a blue and yellow arch.  I pump my arms.  The crowds are ten or more deep.  I’m sure the cacophony of voices is deafening.  I hear nothing.  Nothing.  I’m running running running.  My legs are on fire.  My stomach is in my throat.  I’m getting that medal.  I’m steps from the finish line.

Spring in Boston

What is Spring?  Is it a season, an aligning of stars, a state of mind?  In my faith, we have celebrated spring with the Easter feast a short week and a day before I toed the starting line of this race.   Spring is the conclusion of the dark season, the end to fast and sacrifice.  It is the hope and promise of renewal, the warmth of longer sunlit days, the seasonal promise of redemption and salvation.  The day before Easter, snow fell in Richmond Virginia, the first and only snow of the year.  I ran that day and saw cotton fluffs on the pink and white blossoms of cherry and dogwood.  Neighbors were out, walking on the roads as the sun broke and we marveled at this anachronism, this oddity and fit of Mother Nature.  She awes us with her ferocity, tempestuousness, and beauty.  On Patriots Day in 2007, I have found all of these.  Whatever I feared before the start of this journey –one that started back in December – is dissolved in the magic and healing that is faith and belief and hope.  Whatever nature decided to put down as speed bumps on this course – be it wind, rain, or cold - are negated by the warm embrace of those who love and believe in me.  The mountains that challenged me on this day – mountains of reality or myth – are leveled by the courage and example of those who grace my life every day. 

I cross the finish line, arms up.  I laugh out loud and celebrate all that is determination and strength and energy and life.  I look at my watch, at the 4:00:10, and am not disappointed at not finishing under four hours.  As in my first marathon, I am again reminded that the reward of the journey is not at the moment and measurement of its completion, but at the gifts that have been so generously bestowed upon me along the way.

I am a Boston Marathon finisher.  But I am more than that: I am a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a friend.  I’m smiling, and I am wholly content.

Birth of a Learning Curve

*Note: A piece I wrote for the February Issue of Robious Corridor Magazine.

In December, I ended a job I’d had for 7 years. I’d been on the job so long I could do it with my eyes closed, on auto pilot, hands free. I left to ‘pursue greener pastures’, to ‘expand my knowledge base’….in honesty I left to ‘pursue more dough’ and to ‘expand my bank account’. I’m as pragmatic as the next person and darn if those kids of mine don’t expect an education beyond high school.

Call me a sucker.

Leaving the old gig wasn’t an easy decision: I liked the company and people a lot. Then we were acquired by a giant logo so big it is only eclipsed by Coca-Cola. It wasn’t a bad thing at all; it just didn’t strike me as my thing. I like the ‘small pond’ ideal: it keeps me motivated, accountable. My last few days at my former employer were frenzied; I respected the opportunity for having worked for them enough to leave them with my whole effort. At the end of my last week, as I was catching my breath, I realized the finality of my situation. My first thought was this: Here endeth the lesson. I was closing a chapter on a book with the smug satisfaction that I’d move seamlessly on to the next chapter.

I was wrong. Very, very WRONG.

I started my new job in January. And within a few hours I was reminded of a couple things: Labor pains and the subjunctive tense in French.

OK, stay with me here, this may take some explaining.

I started in a similar job in software but in a completely new ‘space’. In software that means more the purpose of the application and less about the moon and stars. Learning a new space means not only what it does, but how it is applied across different business types. Which leads me to labor pains.

It suddenly occurred to me that learning is very similar to giving birth: you work hard, sweat, breathe heavily, fret, and wish to the heavens for it to be over. Then, when the process is done and you’re looking at the product of your work, you forget the pain. You feel joy and self-satisfaction. I’m convinced if anyone remembered how hard the learning curve is, they’d never switch jobs. I’m also wholly convinced that ‘lifers’ – those who stay with a company their entire careers – are not unmotivated or lacking in adventure, but remember how brutal it is to ‘ramp up’.

On to the French subjunctive tense. Learning this new software space and conquering all the unknowns transported me back to my days of learning a new language. You can learn the alphabet, get the hang of conjugating verbs, and learn some idiomatic expressions. During the process, you can giggle that a term of endearment is “my little cabbage”. The English equivalent is probably something along the lines of “sweet pea”. Produce, apparently, is the universal language. In English, we have pragmatic tenses. You know when to use them. But we have no subjunctive tense. It’s based on ‘maybe’, on feeling. This linguistic mystery is all too  apparent in French. I personally think if the French had employed it during WWI instead of the Maginot Line, WWII could have been completely avoided. To me, it’s a complete mystery.

I remember my days toiling to understand this tense that French toddlers could pick up with such ease and wishing I had some Gallic Rosetta Stone. And now I look at my children struggling over algebra or some other concept with new eyes: I’ve forgotten the frustration. For years they’ve expressed theirs in a variety of forms but my response has basically taken the same form: buck up, put on your big kid britches, think, and deal with it.

And now, I’m in their place. AGAIN. I’m faced with the French Subjunctive in the form of a software space and the clock is ticking. And the labor pains start. I think back to Lamaze classes, that silly concept that regular breathing will help you cope. Until the anesthesiologist gets there. Regular breathing helps nothing but to keep you living. Between that and the birth, we have to just use our minds and hope like heck there isn’t a pop quiz. So here I am, mid-learning curve, in pain and breathing for all I’m worth. And I envy the future because when I get there, I’ll forget how hard these current weeks have been. I’ll feel the comfort of the learning amnesia. And I’ll fix dinner and smugly cluck to my homework-grumbling children to buck up, put on their big kid britches, think, and deal with it.  But definitely not in the French subjunctive.

Season of Lights

*Note* A piece I wrote for Robious Corridor Magazine in December...


It’s the time of year when the days get shorter. They’re still 24 hours long, but the sun takes a bit of a holiday for several weeks. The shorter daylight and cold air compel us to hunker down and more often than not, stay inside. I spent most of my life in the snow belt of western New York and learned the way to survive the gray skies, mountains of snow, and frigid temps were two face cords of wood and a sturdy crock pot.

When I moved to Midlothian eight years ago, I was immediately struck at the number of people who ran, walked, and biked throughout my neighborhood in Salisbury – even in winter. Granted, our much gentler climate allows for this luxury.

The neighborhood is lovely indeed – it’s streets a ‘bowl of spaghetti’ of turns and rolling hills, instead of the grid-like neighborhoods in which I’d grown up. I’m lucky to live in such a park-like setting which provides miles of roads for safe recreation. I’ve spotted the Albino deer, hurtled snakes, seen owls and hawks fly past. I chart the progress of the seasons with the budding and blooming of trees in the spring, the smell of honeysuckle in the summer, and the riot of color in the fall. But the winter running is often the hardest of all, as most of it is done in the dark.

The 6 weeks between Thanksgiving and New Years, though, provide a gift of light. The winter solstice – the darkest day of the year – falls right in the middle. After the seasonal chow-down of Thanksgiving, the Christmas lights start to show up on the houses, and each run through the neighborhood reveals another house or two that is lit up to celebrate the holidays and combat these long dark days. I’m wearing my own version of “Holiday Lights”: reflective clothing and a halogen headlamp that I refer to as my “miners light.” Getting out on a cold night and anticipating the next new set of lights then finishing up with my cheeks red from the cold and seeing my breath in the cold air, I’m transported back to my middle-school self running home for dinner.

The neighborhood is a friendly place. People rarely fail to wave when I pass them in a car or on foot. In the dark of winter, they often have their bright headlights on to see. And if they don’t, often times they’ll put them on when they see a runner or walker as if to say “Yup, I see you.” It’s just a funny observation I’ve made over the years that many drivers turn off their highbeams for oncoming cars but turn them on for people on foot, and I’ve taken to wearing a ballcap in the middle of winter to block the glare, a seasonal anomaly for sure. I went for a Christmas Eve run one year to do a tour of the luminaries. It was a crisp winter evening; the glow of the candles along the road was enchanting. Headed home around a curve in the road I saw an oncoming car. And – you got it – the driver turned on his brights. I was momentarily blinded, took a wrong step on a spot of crumbling pavement and tumbled head-over-heels into someone’s yard. It was not an elegant dismount. Fortunately I didn’t hit any of the luminaries and become the Richmond version of Mrs. O’Leary’s cow. To his credit, the driver stopped to make sure I was ok. Gasping for air – the fall had winded me – I thanked the driver for stopping and explained the source of my gymnastic exhibition. I then wished him a Merry Christmas and continued home to bandage my bleeding hands and knees.

The mornings can be particularly dicey with people rushing to school and work, trying to beat the clock and I take extra care to avoid the routes that have a lot of traffic or blind corners. A week or two ago, I was running with my Tuesday/Thursday morning group. We were turning a corner on Kentford Drive in single file headed toward the Salisbury Golf Course’s water fountain. A car came caroming around the corner, its tires hugging the edge of the road. We were all wearing some kind of reflective gear and I was wearing my trusty “miners light”. In addition, the sun was rising and it was light out. However, the driver was either careless or distracted and all four of us were forced off the road to prevent being hit. Out of breath and incensed is not a good combination and we loudly grumbled the remaining tenth of a mile until we got to the water fountain. What if that had been a kid? What make of car was it? Someone had seen the first three numbers on the license plate; someone else mentioned the car was a Volkswagon. To which I laughed and said “BLACK ONE” and gently smacked his arm.

After Christmas, the light displays are turned off, and are pretty much gone by early January. Then it’s just me and the occasional headlights. The temperatures dip, they days are pretty dark, and spring seems a long way off. And while the desire to hunker down is as strong as ever, I’ll still take to the streets for a run. And when I return, I’ll throw another log in the hearth and then fire up my crock pot.

Airplanes in the Night Sky

Everyday we make choices. Do you need the jolt of caffeine or will decaf do? Has the workout allowed for the favorite lunch or are we going to be a low-fat citizen? Expressway or the road less taken? Most of the time the options are barked by some underpaid, disinterested hourly worker. There’s no urgency in the question or in the process of the decision beyond the few seconds that proceed or follow it. Despite how they may momentarily distract or irritate us, these choices are meaningless in the grand scheme of our lives. We make them often without really thinking about them. Most of the time we are barely paying attention.

On the other side, we have so many ways to occupy ourselves that personally I’ve lost the ability to listen. To be really listen. I can’t remember the last time I waited in line without whipping out my blackberry to check email or search the web, looking for a way to speed the ticking clock. I find myself so distracted by so much noise and static that often I lose the ability to sort out the wheat from the chaff.

I was waiting in the airport for my flight when I had a small lesson on clarity. I’m funny in airports: I’m always looking for a familiar face. I’ve never seen one, but I always look. All those people; I figure the odds are in my favor. Like most people, I try and find a seat away from all the strangers. I read the paper or a book, catch up on work, or return phone calls. But here I was with time to kill and without my tools to kill it: my flight was a bit delayed, the paper was read, and my toys of distraction – blackberry, laptop, and iPod – are out of juice. And not an outlet in sight. The result is a restlessness which is uncomfortable. Life is so busy sometimes I feel I’ve lost the ability to be still, to be quiet. It’s an ongoing effort to still the horses in my head that are ready to break from the gate.

I head to Legal Seafood near the gate to grab a quick bite to eat. It’ll deliciously kill the time. I park my suitcase against the metal bar the divides the small open-air restaurant from the adjoining gate and claim a seat at the end of some stacked tables designed for singles or small groups of fliers not looking for a privacy. I’m lucky on this night to find an empty seat – the rest of the tables are full. My seat is across from a neatly dressed woman who I take to be in business. She’s got a glass of red wine in front of her and she’s staring at her blackberry. She’s on the end and I’m across from her, and next to another traveler and his companion sitting side-by-side. I order my food and sit and think. The company for which I work has just been acquired and there is plenty to work through.

The waiter brings my glass of wine and I swirl and contemplate the straw-colored liquid. This woman across from me – I’ve just about forgotten she’s there. Until she starts talking. A quick glance verifies she’s on her phone. It clearly isn’t a business call. There is something about her voice. She’s speaking in low tones, but I’m so close to her. I can hear a looseness to it, a rawness. She speaks, How could I have been so blind? It was all a lie…I thought it was real. For 3 years, I thought it was real. What would I know – it was the first real thing I’ve had. What do I do now? I keep swirling my wine. I take a sip. I can't betray my eavesdropping ways.  I’m so close to her. It’s odd how anonymity can give someone the feeling of privacy. She takes a deep breath, listening to the person on the other end of the line. She lifts her glass and takes a deep draw. She utters an odd yeah…I know.. uh huh… from time to time. She starts to speak again I know. I know the smart thing to do is to move on. I just don’t know how to do it. I just want to call him, to beg him to make it like before. Pathetic. Goddamn, I’m so pathetic. Please, promise me you won’t let me do that… her voice is quietly shaking. She’s really angry and sad and so all over the map. She’s momentarily distracted at the waiter as he puts down my food. She lifts her hand and catches his eye, points to her glass. She orders another without uttering a single word, her ear still listening to the person on the other end of the line. She keeps talking and I try and focus on my food, my wine.

Shortly, the waiter sets down another glass of wine and then clears her plate of nearly untouched food. The only indication that she’s aware of this is the change of her grasp from the empty glass to the full one. She says I just want to get home. Fall into bed. Wake up when this is all over…She swirls the red liquid; a bit splashes over the edge on to her hand. She lets go of the glass for a second and wipes the back of her hand on a napkin. She’s staring at the placemat, her eyes open, her breathing slowed and regular. Her emotional fatigue or the wine – or a combination of the two – is slowing her down. I swear, between work and him, I’ve been moving so fast for so long, I think I … I don’t know. I think I missed my exit or something. She utters a weary laugh. I’m ashamed at my eavesdropping but equally rewarded with this verbal gem. “Missed my exit.” I literally do that more often than I’d like to admit. I’ll be driving somewhere and will get so caught up in my thoughts that I miss the turn, the street. Recently, I blew through a red light without even being aware of the intersection. I realize this woman was speaking metaphorically, but I instantly boil it down to the dual demons of choices and multitasking. We’re so intent on both of these that we miss so many details – important or not. They are the threads of the fabric of our lives. I sit there and look at the dinner I barely thought about before ordering, and realize I haven’t tasted a bite.

The waiter brings her bill and she mechanically retrieves her credit card. He processes it right in front of her with a clever little gizmo, and prints off three copies of her bill. She scribbles the tip and signs her name and slides one copy across the table to the waiter. She’s still on her phone. She says quietly I’m fine. I’ll call you tomorrow. She disconnects the call and lays her phone on the table. She swirls her wine – gently this time – and takes a sip, then pushes the glass away. She puts her face to her hands and rubs her face, as if removing evidence of the day. She rests her forearms on the table, her hands clasped as if in prayer. She’s looking at her hands then nods her head slowly; I hear a deep sigh. She unclasps her hands and studies her palms for a second or two. I’m struck with the idea that she’s astonished to find them empty. She stares at them for a second longer, then rubs one gently against the other, as if brushing away crumbs. Ok then. This is the last thing she says before gathering her phone and briefcase and heading out of the restaurant.  I watch her, walking across the concourse to her flight home.  I don't know her and am left with the feeling that - despite this - she is oddly familiar.

Note to Self (Race Report for the Crossroads 17.75K)

Dear Monica,

Just a quick note to remind you of a few things. Please think of these as constructive criticism, not the heiney whomping you so richly deserve.

1. Confirm the start time of a race. Preferably the evening before the race as opposed to 30 seconds after you hear the starting gun fire.
Putting the race in your calendar (but not verifying all the details), printing out the confirmation ticket 4 days prior to the race (but not actually reading it), and thinking you know the start of the race is not the same as actually knowing the start time of the race. I'm jogging to the start when I hear the gun go off. I'm thinking "Oh, kids fun run!" Until I see lead pack of very post-pubescent men round the corner. Sprint in opposite direction ("she must have taken the small bus to the race...") about two tenths of a mile and somehow find the packet pick up. Which has been broken down. Nice lady goes into truck, gets number and chip. She's pinning my number on my shorts as I'm putting chip on shoe. She tells me “you better hurry to the start before they break it down…we've radioed down that you're coming” and I sprint toward it thinking that I’ve just used up about 75% of the energy I needed for the entire race…As I pass the starting line – alone - a dozen or so marines cheer me. Humilitation: I ran your gauntlet.

2. Turn on your Garmin well before you need it.
Realize my garmin isn't on. Power it up and it takes half a lifetime to synch. Make a turn onto a street and hope I can see people in the distance. I do, but…mirage? Warm and humid. I have no clue how fast I’m running or how far I’ve gone since Garmin is still scratching its rump. Realize I'm a slave to technology. Wonder how Phiddipedes managed without even the cheapest of Timex choronographs. Catch the walkers ...then the speed walkers...then the back of pack runners. Finally garmin synchs. I haven’t seen mile markers, so I start scanning the crowd of runners for signs of techno running geeks who can give me some clue as to time and distance.

3. As with starting time, make sure you KNOW the terrain.
At mile 2, make a turn into Prince William Park. I’m wearing racing flats which have the advantage of being nice and light, but the disadvantage of not having a lot of cushion. The pavement has been replaced by packed dirt and this big rocky gravel. Ow. Wonder how I'll handle many miles of this. Fortunately the nasty gravel goes away after a while. About the same time I realize I forgot the headband for my hair. While we have hills/trails it is shade covered which is great, and the glasses now are used as de facto headband.

4. In order to take care of essential pre-race business, see memo point #1.
Since I got to race late I was unable to attend to certain pre-race business. Take a bio break at the mile 4 fluid/aid station. It’s very warm/humid and I hadn’t had time to take my pre-race gel or drink as much Gatorade as I’d wanted, so I make the decision to hit every station: 3 gulps of Poweraid, dump cup of water on back of neck/head. One highpoint is I actually execute this in the correct order, which is good because it’s BLUE Poweraid and I would have hated to look like one of those blue smurfycats from Avatar in my race photo.

5. In order to not get frustrated at trying to pass a bunch of people on a narrow trail, see memo point #1.
The trail narrows and passing anyone is an exercise in patience. There are lots of up and downs and funky footing and it’s crowded on the trail. I keep weaving in and out of folks and try to be polite when I pass. There are times I wait rather than do the “gentle nudge past” (aka, ‘elbow shove’) because that person had the good sense to VERIFY WHEN THE RACE ACTUALLY STARTED. However, there is always the one guy. The one who is pissed when you try and pass, even though there is a mass of humanity in front of him. The one who thinks the only thing that stands between him and everlasting glory is NOT the 800 people in front of him, but the lady in the sweaty lime green sports bra next to him. We pass someone at about the same time, and then he tries to lose me. He speeds up and I just keep running my pace and eventually am even with him. He does it again. And a third time. I realize he is incensed he's getting passed by an old broad. I'm thinking "Dude, I started probably 5 minutes behind you." Cue eye roll.

6. Take a peek at the course elevation before the race.
Before I know it I'm about halfway thru. I have no clue what my elapsed time is so I'm just treating it as a hard workout. Then we hit hills. We'd had some up and downs but the trail is now road and these things are monsters. At 8.5 there is a hill so steep I can almost walk it as fast as run it (yes, I test the theory, what the heck, the race is a complete cluster at this point). Then steep down hills which are equally painful. And another half-mile long exquisitely painful hill. Exit park at about 9.5 miles into full sun. Move glasses from top of head to eyes: they are totally smudged and icky. Hit the 10 mile mark, and feel ok - legs are trashed from hills - I'm tired, its hot, and I just want to be done. But at least we’re on flat pavement. We make a turn on the street that goes to the National Museum of the Marine Corps and the finish. It’s uphill. At this point I want a quick death. Turn into entrance to museum - still uphill. And, well, I start grunting. Literally. Every exhale I'm sounding like Monica Seles hitting a killer forehand. Embarassing but I'm exhausted.

7. There is no grunting in road races.
Finally the uphill gives way to a gentle downhill. I see the finish line. I’m grunting louder and louder which is just disturbing. TO ME. I can't speak for those who were running near me. I cross the finish line and continue the gruntfest. A Marine hands me a bottled water and I hand it to another because I swear I can’t open it. He does it without asking questions because any Marine has good sense enough not to mess with a grunting, sweaty, stinky, exhausted, organizationally-challenged woman. And don’t even talk to me about the race photos…we're talking a Code Blue to the Makeup Unit.

8. Marines run great races.
All runners can appreciate a well-organized, well-staffed, well-stocked race. But there are also the very special ‘only the Marines’ intangibles that make these races so special: a strong "looking good ma’am", the funny signs planted at intervals throughout the race, my favorite pair being a photo of a barking drill Sergeant and “MY GRANDPA IS ABOUT TO PASS YOU…” followed by “IN HIS WALKER!!!!!”, a randomly called ‘OORAH’, and the finish line organization that is world class. Not to mention the fact that they bent over backward to the disorganized piker who couldn't even get to the starting line on time. And beer company race sponors. Which mean BEER AT THE FINISH. 9:15 am, Micholob Ultra, Breakfast of Champions. Oorah.

Enduring Love

It is early morning in Manassas, Virginia. The sky to the east is just showing the first colors of purple and red. Mickey Johnson, 47, makes his way to the end of the driveway, ready to set off on a morning run. Today holds 6 miles, part of his marathon training regimen. He reaches the bottom of the driveway and looks down a small hill. It’s the hill his 3 children would ascend on their trip home from the bus stop. Justin and Daniela, his two older kids, would be ahead, bickering, laughing, their packs bouncing on their backs with the rhythm of their stops. Cody would be behind them. He was quiet, and air of calm around this normally frenetic child. Mick would wonder if it was the work going up the hill, the weight of the pack, or just the fatigue from a full day of school. Mickey smells the air. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath trying to catch a familiar scent.

It’s August 13th, 2009 and 12 friends who have never met meet for time at a Forum Event. All of these runners post on the Masters Forum of the Runners World On-Line Discussion Boards. While they normally share daily workouts, training tips, and race results on line, this “FE” gives them the rare chance to gather and share a meal before a race. They all agree that the Masters Forum is a special place, that it fosters incredible friendship. They have a digital community of runners from different walks of life whose foundation for acquaintance are the common bricks of running, cemented by mortar of dedication and shared sacrifice. They tend to be over 40, but the Masters Forum attracts those younger than, those who are looking for the sweet, grounded advice of those who have been around the block or the track more than a few times. There is a sense not only of kinship, but that they have each others back: a DNF is met with words of encouragement, a PR is a group celebration. There are even non-running topics discussed and shared: a new job, a child’s graduation, a move to a new city.

The organizer of this group, Scott Reiss, lives in the events home state. The others have travelled from a confetti of locales - Indiana, Virginia, New York , Maryland,– and will run multiple legs and double digit miles in the ‘100 on 100 Heart of Vermont Relay’ that rolls through the Green mountains from the Trapp Family Lodge one hundred miles to Ludlow, VT.

The next day, race day, is forecasted to be warm and sunny. These newly minted friends eat, laugh, and share stories. They review details for the next day’s race, fret about the weather, terrain, clothing, and food. This is what runners do: they sweat the details as much as the miles. However - unlike other races - they are here not to chase a PR or win an age group. They are here to honor a child they have never met: Cody Johnson.

Cody Johnson was diagnosed with stage 4 neuroblastoma 3 days before his 2nd birthday. He was born on the first anniversary of the 9-11 terror attacks and grew to be a feisty, spirit-filled toddler. Neuroblastoma is an “orphan” cancer: it occurs almost exclusively in children under the age of 10 and as such doesn’t benefit from research done on cancers such as leukemia and lymphoma that strike both adult and child populations. The average age of a child diagnosed with Lymphoma is 17 months, so young the child can’t articulate their pain. Like Cody’s case, 70% are not diagnosed until the disease has spread.

Cody was admitted to Georgetown Hospital for 10 days of baseline testing. His radiology scans lit up, the cancer present in every part of his body. A round of high-dose chemo was ordered and required Cody to be in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) for 31 days where Mickey slept every night in a chair next to Cody’s bed. Cody suffered from the treatment: he vomited a pitcher full of blood from cancer-infected adenoids. He suffered fevers and side effects from the toxic chemicals. Surgery was required to remove the remains of lung and kidney tumors, as well as his adrenal gland and surrounding lymph nodes. The final step in his 4 month treatment – during which he rarely was home for more than 24 hours at a time – was a stem-cell transplant. The transplant had complications - Cody had a reaction to one of the transplant drugs. His lungs filled with blood and he suffered congestive heart failure and partial kidney failure. His oxygen intake dropped to 30%; doctors worked through the night to save him. A priest was called to the floor to be on stand by. His condition was minute-to- minute for 9 frightening days. Mickey and his wife, Diane, kept vigil over their fragile son, praying for a miracle, praying for their 2- year- old to endure and pull through. He survived those harrowing days and greeted the nurses treating him by throwing anything he could reach at them.

The 100 –on-100 was not the first time the RWOL masters had come together to support Cody. In April, Bill Allen – a member of the 2009 US World 24-Hour Run Team - put out a call to the Masters Forum and organized a team for the Virginia 24 hour Run for Cancer - 24 hour Ultra and Relay. Bill had been deeply moved by Cody’s struggle and wanted to support the Johnson family. He found the race and was committed to participating, despite it being a few short weeks before the World Championships in Italy. Ten ROWL Masters made the trek – from Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, Mississippi, New Jersey, and Virginia – to run for Cody. Bill made a flag that each would carry.

One participant, Shannon McGinn, 33, drove from Rahway, NJ to run in Virginia. Diagnosed at 29 with breast cancer, she survived and took up the sport of running. This race is special because she is raising money to fight the illness that has so personally touched her. In doing so, she abandons her bib for the 113th Boston Marathon to be contested the Monday after this relay. It was to be her first Boston, but it matters little to her: she understands all too clearly the fight for life against this disease; Boston can wait.

Nine of the ten participants complete 50 miles during the 24-hour relay and each carry the “Cody’s Crew” flag. During the dark hours on the trail, Mickey thinks often of the pain his young boy endured; these miles become spiritual for him, an act of contrition, perhaps, that parents feel for not being able to spare their children from certain pain. Cody’s Beach Bound Crew of Pirates raises $1200 for Neuroblastoma research.

Cody’s first treatment caused agony beyond imagination. While he’d learned to walk before the disease struck, he needed to re-learn the skill – twice – due to muscle atrophy caused by the cancer treatments. When Cody finished his treatments, Mickey looked at his own physical health and found it wanting. He took up running and put his sights on running the Richmond Marathon in November, 2006. Race day was unseasonably warm and as he struggled with cramps and fatigue over the last half of the course, he thought of his son – his image on his t-shirt and the words “Cody is My Reason” – and the pain he had endured. He thought of the treatments that would cause Cody’s lips to blister and peel, the mucositis that resulted in the degeneration of the lining of Cody’s mouth. Drinking milk from a bottle felt like drinking shards of glass. He thought of Cody’s first words, and how they related to the hospital, the drugs, his treatments. Mickey knew that his own fatigue and cramps were nothing, that the discomfort was temporary. He knew when his pain would end, that whatever agony he was feeling was but a small slice of what Cody had. Cody had survived his first brush with cancer; Mickey would finish this race.

Race day in Vermont dawns cool but the sun will quickly heat up the course. Each team member will carry the Cody’s Crew flag during the relay. Eric Cheung of New York City is the lead-off runner for Team 1 of Cody’s Crew. He’d met Mickey at a Masters FE at the 2007 Philadelphia Marathon, and found him to be as ebullient and warm as the man on the boards. Mickey believed with all his heart that Cody was cured, but his son’s battle for health was a constant, the disease has a frighteningly high rate of recurrence. Eric could feel this weight on Mickey. “When the 100-on-100 teams were recruiting runners, I felt a strong urge to do something, anything to help.”

Somehow, this 6-year-old boy has infected these runners with his toughness and determination. During each of the 3 legs of this hundred mile relay, they’ll think often of Cody, this boy they know but never met. They feel a common mission, a common a purpose. None can put a finger on it; perhaps it is that Mickey could have been any of them, that Cody could have been any of their sons. Tobey Hobbes of Indiana would later reflect “The emotional energy and sense of purpose from these other 11 people was so contagious that you couldn’t help feeling like we were all one big family.”

When Karen Faber, 42, of Bowie Maryland, signed up, she knew nothing about Cody or Cody’s Crew. She stumbled upon a thread in the RWOL Masters Forum looking for a runner to fill in for a participant who had withdrawn. “At the time I knew very little about Cody or Mickey or neuroblastoma. But I liked to run and I wanted to see Vermont.” During her preparations for the race she frequented the Masters forum more often. “I started learning more about Cody… I read about the 24 hour relay in Hampton, and I found out that there was this big, compassionate group of runners out there…”

It is 2 days before Thanksgiving, 2007. Cody is cranky, his belly is hurting. He’s a typical 5- year- old: he’s started kindergarten, he loves his teachers, he tests the rules. He gets tired and cranky at the end of the day but he loves getting on that bus with his siblings Justin and Daniela. Mickey and Diane take him to the doctor thinking he has nothing more than a virus. But the beast is back, Cody has relapsed: Scans show an enormous tumor on his liver. One of the top Neuroblastoma surgeons at Memorial Sloan Kettering declares the tumor inoperable. Mick and Diane refuse to surrender. They find a surgeon at Georgetown University hospital who will perform an 85% liver resection. Before the surgery, Cody goes through additional rounds of chemo to shrink the tumor. Santa visits the children’s Oncology unit at Georgetown University hospital. Mickey is there and uncertain how Cody will react; he has been in a foul mood all morning. Cody is angry; his world has been upended yet again. He’s had to withdraw from his beloved kindergarten. He has to have the toxic chemicals with their nausea and hair loss infused in his veins. He wants to be home with his family. He submits to the treatment but has tantrums in between: he is incensed at this intrusion in his life. Cody sees the bearded man in red and hesitantly approaches him, then wraps his arms around him and hugs him for nearly half a minute. A Washington Post reporter is on hand to capture the moment.

“A gift for Santa too”, Washington Post
 Elizabeth Scott, 44, a native of Vermont, has been an active fundraiser for cancer research for years. “You start feeling powerless and that there’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop the march of this beast.” She relishes the opportunity to raise money to combat the disease, and with good reason: it has claimed nearly the entire side of her father’s family: Her grandmother, uncle, and father all perished from colon cancer. Her sister has fought breast cancer. A cousin had lung cancer, another is fighting an aggressive brain tumor. “Running races for cancer research funding has given me a bit of peace, and a feeling of control over this disease.”

Rick Knuth from Fort Wayne, Indiana competes despite a nagging hip injury. A devout Catholic, he feels participating in the event is a spiritual call, to give something. “I have been blessed with three healthy daughters and just can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for Mickey and Diane during Cody’s illness. Nobody should have to go through that.” During the difficult parts of the day’s racing he falls back on traditional Catholic prayers, saying countless Hail Marys and Our Fathers.

Cody endures additional cycles of chemotherapy and radiation during that winter and spring. Cody never complains about going to the hospital, but he doesn’t always willingly submit to the treatments. He misses kindergarten, and is thrilled when he is able to attend his class’ Valentines Day party. He’s excited to be going back and when he arrives Cody had hugs for everyone: the secretaries, the school nurse, even the principal. He goes to his classroom and hugs both of his teachers. Back at the hospital, Cody is Jekyll and Hyde with the nurses, charming one minute, angry the next. Mickey worries at how Cody lashes out, at how angry his little boy can be. In hindsight he realizes Cody was fighting back the only way he knew how. He has such spirit – he enters a room and takes it over with his smile, his laugh, his devilish charm.

The day goes from cool to very warm with temperatures reaching the 90’s. The course is very hilly and there are stretches where there is no relief from the sun. The relay runners feel the fatigue and discomfort from the course and heat. They carry Cody’s flag and all think of him during the tough stretches. Elizabeth is suffering from nausea, as is Mickey. Despite his second leg of the relay being relatively flat, the lack of shade is crippling. “Although it was relatively flat the heat just sucked the life right out of me.” The thought of Cody and all he had gone through kept him from walking during this leg. After he finishes this part of the relay he finds an ice cold stream and jumps in. He thinks about Cody’s favorite place, the beach.

Over the summer, the Johnson’s take Cody on a trip to Ocean City, Maryland,. The beach is Cody’s favorite place and it is a wonderful chance to be together without the intrusion of hospitals and doctors. The trip is a respite for the marathon treatments to come. In September, the Johnson’s take Cody to Memorial Sloan Kettering Hospital in NYC to undergo 3F8 antibody treatments. These treatments are designed to attack any remaining cancer cells in Cody’s body and are the best protocol available to fight neuroblastoma. It is a painful process, each infusion causing more and more pain, and morphine rescues are often needed during the 20 minute treatments. Cody is in MSK for 2 weeks and passes his 6th birthday in the hospital. The doctors are hopeful: the results of the tests show Cody is tolerating the treatments well. He returns to MSK in October, and again in November to undergo additional cycles. It has been a year since his cancer has returned and they feel a corner has been turned, that Cody is getting better.

While the afternoon conditions are tough, Cody’s Crew is smiling: they are having so much fun. They joke about not making unscheduled stops at the Ben and Jerry’s ice cream factory that they will pass. They crew for each other, provide water for their runners on the course. Other runners question Cody’s Crew about the flag, and they are happy to spread the word, to share the mission. Later in the day, they are cheered along the course by other participants who have heard of their cause. They feel like running evangelists, spreading the gospel of Cody.

The Johnson’s hope is short-lived. It is December, 2008 and they are looking forward to spending the holidays together as a family. Just before Christmas, Mickey takes Cody to Georgetown University hospital for some tests. The whites of Cody’s eyes have developed some yellowing and the tests indicate increased bilirubin: something is going on with Cody’s liver. The doctors conclude that it is inflamed due to a virus, and work to get it stabilized. Just after Christmas, Cody begins to limp. He’d hurt his leg the last time he had been to New York City and this same leg is giving him trouble. Mickey and Diane pray it is related to the injury and the doctor thinks it may very well be. However, on December 30, 2008, a scan shows the presence of a bone lesion: the beast has returned.

The sun sets on the runners in Vermont. They have each started the third and final leg of the relay; they are closing in on the finish line. Teams 1 and 2 of Cody’s Crew run the third leg together. Their legs are sore and tired from the miles. Their feet hurt and the heat of the day has sapped much of their energy but the cooling air and the colors of dusk lift their spirits. They wear reflective vests, head lamps, reflective arm and leg bands. They see the faintly glowing figures of other runners. It is a spiritual, - almost holy - time for them.

Time. Runners seem to be centered on it, measuring miles and kilometers run in hours, minutes, seconds. Marathoners trying to qualify for Boston know all too well how long one second can be, the difference between standing on the starting line and sitting at home on Patriots day. But this evening in Vermont, the time it takes to run the course has ceased to have meaning. While these runners would normally want to speed through the miles as fast as possible – minimizing time - they instead savor it on this night. They remember how Cody loved his older brother Justin, and how his one wish was to be ten years old like him. That’s all Cody wanted, just a little more time. They have a new clarity of just how precious it is; Cody’s journey has given them that.

The presence of the cancer so soon after the 3F8 treatments is not good news. More lesions are found Cody is scheduled for chemo and radiation to try and knock it out fast. However, the chemo can’t be administered until his liver resumes normal functioning. The doctors wait as long as possible, and then have to settle on half doses of chemo to prevent further damaging his liver. They are balancing the delicate scales of time: they need time for his liver to heal, but every day they wait is a day the cancer grows. Cody starts treatment at the end of January and is home in time to watch his beloved Pittsburgh Steelers play in the Super Bowl. Photos of Cody show him smiling wide, excited. But one can’t help but notice his yellowed skin. It’s incongruous, to see the beautiful smile on this evidently ill child. His liver numbers continue to deteriorate and the doctors have to suspend the chemo.

 Bill Barnes of Boston runs the final stretch of the relay with Mickey. They will carry the Cody’s Crew flags over the finish line. It is dark out and they chat amiably about the relay, their previous runs that day, how they felt. The air is so cool they can see their breath. They get very quiet. At that moment, Bill experiences his first ‘runners high’. “It was extremely dark and our senses of sound, scent, and touch took over from our sense of sight. We ran in silence except for the perfectly cadenced footsteps and breaths… We were, simply, two runners doing what we love to do.”

2 weeks later Cody’s stomach begins to hurt. When the Johnsons call the doctor, she tells them to come in the next day. This gives them pause: why wait, why not take him in now? She tells them gently that it is most likely the cancer, that it has spread. Scans reveal cancer covering 50% of Cody’s lungs. There are new spots on his liver in addition to the lesions on his leg; the progression of the disease is frighteningly fast. They cease all treatment. Mickey and Diane go into ‘Memory Making Overdrive’. They quickly plan a final trip to Florida, to get Cody back to his beloved beach. The trip is hard, Cody is ill and irritable. His skin is deeply yellow and people stare at him. He is quiet and tired during most of the time there; the cancer is wearing him down. They play miniature golf and he sits after each shot. He is only well enough to go to the beach one afternoon. They return home on March 1st and take Cody to Georgetown University Hospital for an evaluation. The cancer is rapidly advancing in his lungs and liver. Two weeks earlier Cody’s doctor had thought he might have 3 months left. She now says he has a week, perhaps two. His breathing is becoming more labored and he is in continual pain. They take Cody home with a morphine pump and oxygen. He is sleeping when Mickey and Diane have the hardest talk imaginable with Justin and Daniela: they have to tell them their little brother is dying.

Mickey would reflect on this time, this last leg of the relay. “There is nothing like running at night, along a lake, in the pitch dark with a friend and just listening to the sound of your shoes hitting the road.” He and Bill approach the finish line and see the cluster of the other ten members of Cody’s Crew waiting for them. “I can’t explain what I felt or what I remember at that moment. It was all just a blur. I remember all of the Cody’s Crew members hugging each other and the tears were flowing. It was all I had hoped it would be. I know my son was watching me and was very proud of all of us. I felt closer to Cody at that moment than I have since the day we lost him.” They crossed the finish line together, each of them holding their “Cody’s Crew” flag high.

Every runner at one time or another questions his or her reason for being out there, for running mile after mile without regard to weather, fatigue, discomfort. But what makes runners go out of their way to run for a child they’ve never met? It makes you wonder about the nature of friendship, particularly of these friendships. Are they friends because of the running, is the sport the cement that holds these people together? Or is it something more, that the running and the Masters forum were the springboard for all of this? They started out with a common denominator of running, but at the end it wasn’t about the running; it was about Cody, he was their reason.

Kerry Lambert, also of Vermont later reflects on the weekend. “Cody deserves more…he deserves a legacy, a positive legacy. If our run and this race can raise funds and awareness that get us even a smidgeon closer to helping another child with this horrid disease, then sign me up. Make me a shirt, give me the flag, point me toward the race. I’ll run because I can…and because Cody can’t.”

Karen Faber – who joined the relay so she could see Vermont – left knowing she had been there for something much more meaningful than a weekend sightseeing trip. “I get a little choked up when I think about the weekend… I realized that I wasn’t just there to run a few miles in Vermont, I was there for something much bigger. I was there for Cody. I was there for an amazing kid that even after his death is doing great things through his parents and his dad’s running.”

Despite his tremendous loss, Mickey is overwhelmed by the generosity of both spirit and body of these people. “Runners are not afraid to work very hard for something they believe in. Where many people would just write a check from their check book to help, our team members did that plus wrote checks with their sweat, tears and pain.” He is humbled by their gesture. He intends to continue his fight and while his intention was to raise funds for a cure for neuroblastoma, he also finds he has collected willing volunteers who spread his mission a step, a block, a mile at a time. They are, after all, runners.

Mickey loved the smell of Cody’s hair, loved the way it felt on his face when Cody would sit on his lap. He feels Cody with him, in his aching heart. He misses him so much. Mickey opens his eyes. He takes one last look down the hill; Justin and Daniela will be headed down to the bus later that morning. He turns and starts out on his morning run. Cody is his reason.

Cody Johnson died on March 6th, 2009. He was 6 years old.

Donations to find a cure Neuroblastoma may be made to http://www.codys-crew.org/