Radiation Treatments - 6/11/10

It's amazing how much I remembered of the radiation office in the cancer treatment center that I attend. It's been seven years since my last radiation treatment. At the time, I had five weeks of treatment, every day, Monday through Friday, totaling 25 treatments. I came away with badly burned skin that healed over several weeks and a good prognosis that we had killed off any remaining cancer cells in the left side of my chest. I didn't think I would ever have to come back, but here I was again.

The radiation office is in the building behind my oncologist's office and is in the basement. The first thing you notice is that there are no windows. And when I say it's in the basement, it's really buried. Even with lighting, it still seems to be dark and hidden away from the rest of the world. You take the elevator from the main entrance, go down a level, and then you follow the many, many directional signs to the radiation office. It's a maze. Without the signs, one would surely end up in another place and time.

The beautiful, shiny hardwood floor is my first memory. I instantly want that floor in my home, but I imagine that the upkeep would be a nightmare. The place had not changed since I'd been gone, but I'm pretty sure that the receptionist that greeted me was not the same one that was here seven years ago. She asked me several questions and then gave me several forms to fill out. In the mean time, every few minutes, radiation technicians came into the waiting room to get patients for their treatments. My second memory was that the wait was never long. A treatment session lasted less than five minutes. It took longer for a person to take off and put back on their clothes than it did to get the treatment.

It's Thursday and I will talk with my radiologist. We will set up a time to get my markings. Afterwards, I will start my treatments. The radiologist that had done my treatments before had retired and so I am assigned to another one. I am relieved. I don't have warm and fuzzy memories of him.

Four weeks into my radiation treatments for the breast cancer seven years ago, I developed blood clots in my left lung that kept me in the hospital for five days. I had never been hospitalized during the six months of chemotherapy that I had received, and I had only been in the hospital for three days when I had my mastectomy. Needless to say, I was not a happy camper that the least invasive and least toxic procedure had put a stop to everything. When the doctor told me that I had more than likely developed the clots from over-radiation, I was down right angry. When the blood clots were finally dissolved and I was released from the hospital, the first thing I did was go for a very long and very hard run to clear my mind. Next, I went to my office and researched blood clots from over-radiation. It was possible but rarely happened. There was about a 2% incident rate. Unfortunately, I was unlucky and had fallen into that 2%. I printed off papers and was ready to have an intelligent discussion with the radiologist on the following day, when I would resume the radiation treatments. I wanted and needed an explanation of why my radiation treatments had almost killed me.

On that ill-fated day, when the radiologist's assistant called me back to see the radiologist, she asked about my hospitalization. I had missed three treatments that week. While we were talking, the radiologist came into the room. His assistant said that I was the third patient of theirs that week who had developed clots. What??? The previous week the radiation machine had been recalibrated and . . . . She never finished her thoughts, because the radiologist interrupted her with a stern look. She had over-stepped her boundaries and had said too much. A blind person could see that. The doctor who had treated me for the clots had been correct. I had been over-radiated and two other patients had suffered the same consequences as I had.

We didn't discuss what the assistant had just blurted out. He asked me about my hospitalization and I told my story again, relating that the doctor who had treated me for the clots thought that I had been over-radiated. I handed my research papers to him. Instead of even glancing at the papers, he told me that I couldn't trust anything that I had found on the Internet. I protested and showed him citations from the British Medical Journal. He wouldn't even entertain the concept that I had blood clots from over-radiation. He had been doing this for 20 plus years and had never had one incidence of blood clots in his patients. He said that it was from the chemotherapy. But I had completed chemotherapy four weeks ago and prior to starting the radiation. He told me that blood clots were more common in males. I had one breast remaining, but I didn't think that qualified me as a male. He also told me that blood clots were more common in people that were overweight and immobile. Thanks to the successful "diet" of chemotherapy, I weighed 120 pounds at the time, and I was back to running every day. I didn't fall into those categories either. Every explanation that the radiologist threw at me, I rejected, and he was getting angrier with me by the minute. I was expecting an apology for taking away five days of my life, and I wanted a path forward to prevent this from happening again. Had that been too much to ask? He didn't apologize. Instead, I had been reprimanded. His path forward was to end the radiation treatments at five weeks instead of the initial six weeks that had been discussed previously. He jokingly brushed me off by stating that all I needed to do now was to find a left-handed boyfriend. His remark was cruel and insensitive. And it was the assistant's turn to give him a stern look. I couldn't believe that I had just been dismissed like I was a child. The intelligent discussion that I had hoped for had deteriorated to the painful reminder that I had one remaining breast on the right side of body. At the time, I had no rebuttal, and I quickly lost the little confidence I had to question my doctor about what was going on with my body under his care.

I tried to shake off that horrible memory. When the radiologist's assistant called me from the waiting room, she remembered me immediately. I remembered her, too. She had been the only voice of reason in that awkward situation. If it had not been for her honesty, I would not have understood what had happened to me years ago. Whether she remembered that particular incident will remain a question. At this point, we needed to concentrate on what was happening presently.

She asked me a few follow-up questions about the forms that I had just filled out. My old records were stored off-site, so it was like I was a new patient. If needed, they would access them for additional information. After she left, a few minutes later a nurse practitioner entered the room. I did not remember her from the past, and as she shook my hand and studied my face, she plainly stated that she was trying to remember if she'd worked with me before. Seven years is a long time, and we came to the quiet conclusion that this would be a new relationship.

The nurse practitioner gathered information that she needed and wrote me a prescription for more pain relievers. Some times there's a delayed reaction with radiation to the bone. I probably wouldn't feel any relief until after the treatments, and she wanted me to be comfortable in the mean time. She told me to double my dose of OxyContin and to use the Hydrocodone for breakthrough pain. It seems like everyone wanted me off of the Advil, the only thing that seemed to help, even though it was for short periods of time. I'd been on the Hydrocodone, and like OxyContin, it really didn't help. I suppose that taking both drugs together could possibly offer some relief, or alternatively, send me into LaLa Land. I feel like a drug addict.

Next was a visit with my new radiologist. I liked him right away. He had been studying my scans and had a good idea of how to alleviate some of the pain. There was nothing he could do about the tumors in my spine to relieve the back pain, but there were several sites in my pelvic bone that he could radiate to relieve the pain in the hip and possibly the groin. I am willing to try anything at this point. He added that radiation was very successful in relieving bone pain. It would only require two weeks of treatment, every day, Monday through Friday, for a total of 10 treatments. I would come back the next day for my markings.

On Friday, the radiology technician left the room as I pulled down my pants and underwear to the middle of my thighs, laid down on the table, and covered up with the sheet that he had given me. I told him I was ready, and he came back into the room. He positioned me on the table, binding my feet with a flexible and padded oval device. He then handed me another one for my hands so that my arms were stable across my chest. He adjusted the simulator to measure and mark my hips. All I had to do was lie still. Easy enough. He would leave the room, adjust the computer based on my scans, and come back and adjust the simulator. This routine went back and forth until he was satisfied that measurements were precise. When he was done, his assistant came in to actually measure with a ruler certain points on my hip, and they began to make markings ("X" and "L") on my body with a purple pen. I had one X on the right hip (for alignment only) and three X's on my left hip. Two L's were also on the left hip. He then covered the X's with clear, plastic tape. The L's would wash off in the shower, but the X's remained because of the tape. This all took about 45 minutes. He said if I had time to stay, he could check the measurements and program the radiation machine within 30 minutes and I could have my first treatment today. I had plenty of time, and it would save me a trip down the line. He led me back into the waiting room.

As I sat in the waiting room, I picked up a copy of "Why We Walk" about the 3-day walks for breast cancer. The walks totaled 60 miles and took place in several different cities across the country. I instantly wondered if there were participants who ran the event. Twenty miles a day for 3 days wouldn't be that bad. I've run 60 miles or more in one day on several different occasions. As I read some of the stories, I played with the idea of doing it, but raising $2,300 would require a lot of work. And I thought about a recent thread on the Breast Cancer Mets List Serv (http://www.bcmets.org/). Many thought that events such as the 3-day and the Race for the Cure 5K Races were not for us. They were tired of the pink ribbons and the accolades for only those diagnosed with primary breast cancer who had become "survivors". The advances in primary breast cancer have been phenomenal over the past few years, but the research has not been as successful for those with metastasized breast cancer because it's so hard to treat it completely. What works for "Mets" to the liver, doesn't necessarily work for "Mets" to the lungs, which in turn doesn't work for "Mets" to the bones. Those with "Mets" are continuing to die way too soon and are only "surviving". The thread emphasized that no one seemed to care that some of us had no light at the end of the tunnel and would never be "survivors." And those that knew about us condemned us to death while we were still here fighting this disease. We live for years with Mets, trying different treatments and having periods of regression, stabilization, and progression before it finally takes us out for the last count. I didn't agree with all of the points raised in the thread, but I did understand the frustration. When I was told that I had metastasized breast cancer in 2008, I found very little literature for Mets, but all kinds of books exist for primary breast cancer. I have one book geared towards Mets, "Advanced Breast Cancer: Living with Metastatic Disease", and it's been a struggle to get through it. It seems to focus on (I hate to say this) dying with dignity. It's not exactly what I was expecting. I wanted discussions about different treatments, clinical trials, natural solutions, nutritional suggestions, exercise options, and mental imagery. The book is very vague on all of these topics. The Breast Cancer Mets List Serv has been the most helpful informational source that I have found. These are real people dealing with the same things that I am dealing with on a day-to-day basis. There's an archive that is very helpful when investigating specific topics. The depressing thing is to follow one List member's threads over several years of posting only to come to an abrupt end of posts from that person. Usually, the reason why there are no more posts from that person is because that person passed away. I have yet to find out a person no longer posts to the List because that person found a treatment that cured them.

With my reading and thoughts, the half-hour passed quickly, and I was called back to have my first of 10 radiation treatments. Two female radiology technicians would be assisting me today. Each day I would be asked to verify my name, my birth date, and what part of my body will receive treatment on that day. I noticed a scan of my pelvic bone on the computer. How did they know where to aim the radiation beams? I expected to see clear holes were the cancer was eating through the bone or at least different colored spots where the Zometa was helping to rebuild new bone. Instead, it looked like any other pictures of a pelvic bone that I'd seen on the Internet. It looked healthy. It appeared strong and pain free. And yet, if that was the case, I wouldn't be here.

I answered all three questions correctly, and I was then ushered into the radiation room. Again I was asked to lie down, to pull down my pants and underwear, and to cover myself with a sheet that they provided me. The oval bands were placed on my feet and into my hands as before. The technicians went about their business of setting the machine and lining up my markings. They left the room to radiate the front of my hip. A couple of minutes later they came in to rotate the machine (all done with a remote control device) and then they left again. The machine radiated the back of my hip, and a couple of minutes later, the technicians said I was done. I fixed my clothes, wished them a good weekend, and told them I would see them on Monday.

Over the next 2 weeks, I have a regular appointment at 11:00 a.m. Monday through Friday. I can use my lunch break to take the short 10-minute drive to the radiology office, have my radiation in 5 minutes, and then come back to work. The schedule is perfect for me.

I am hopeful. If I can get to a pain free state of being, I think I will be more mentally and physically capable of focusing my energy on the work ahead. I have to catch up with my work in the office. I have to concentrate more on my fitness and get back to running. And, of course, I have to deal with my cancer. I am willing. I am able. I am ready. By a divine grace, I am here.

My Oncologist Never Sits Down - 5/12/10

She never sits down. Today, she pulled up the rolling, cushioned stool directly in front of me and sat with my rather large, light blue medical file in her lap.

I had been sitting and reading my book. I always have reading materials with me when I know that I'll have to wait for an extended time. The cancer treatment center that I attend is always busy. Waiting is not one of my better virtues. So that I won't feel like I'm wasting my time and getting angry in the process, I have a running magazine or good book to take my mind off of the wait. Today, I was reading "The Good House" by Tananarive Due, one of my favorite authors. I was nearing the climax of the plot, and I was totally focused on the book that I had in my lap. It had to be more exciting than what my oncologist had in her lap.

My first thought as she rolled the stool in front of me was that "she never sits down." She's like a little dynamo, constantly moving, talking, smiling, and touching. I imagine that she has an excellent bed-side manner, but she spends her time in this office, on her feet, reviewing her patients' vitals, scans, and other tests; asking them about any side effects from various treatments; asking them how they are feeling; administering prescriptions; and determining which of the multitude of treatment possibilities would work for each individual case. She is such a petite woman. I'm a good 3 or 4 inches taller than her, even though she always wears high-heeled shoes. How she manages to stay on her feet all day in those heels is a mystery to me. I wear my sneakers most of the time, even when I'm in the office. She probably doesn't weigh 100 pounds soaking wet, so I'm like a giant compared to her. She's sitting, and this is not a good sign.

She was upset because the new computer system was double booking patients, and there was no way for the scheduler to correct this easily. Therefore, she was even more overworked than usual, trying to see twice as many patients as she normally would on a daily basis. She was tired. It was a good idea for her to have a seat, and it was a nice change of pace for both of us.

I had a bone scan on Monday, and PET and CT scans on Tuesday. Today was Wednesday, and I was there for blood work and to get my results from the scans. There are times when you already know the answer before you ask the question. This was one of those times. I had been in so much pain lately that even without the scans, I knew something had changed.

She told me that I have new "spots." There is a tumor on the left side of my skull. There are two tumors in my left lung. I had thought that the chest pains were from my breathing problems induced by the anemia, and my oncologist had originally thought that I may even have some congestion. More than likely, the tumors in my lung were causing the problems. She continued. There is also a nine millimeter tumor in my liver. How can they measure something so small, I wondered. There is also more visible activity in my left hip, with extensive inflammation. My tumor markers have been constantly rising. Clearly, the Femara had stopped working. At what point is not really definable.

She asked, "How's the pain?" Constant. Every day and all day. Last month when I had my Zometa treatment and my quarterly Lupron injection, she had given me a prescription for OxyContin (time-release morphine in a pill form), that was not working. I was told by several pharmacies that they do not stock this medication on a regular basis. As hard as it was to have the prescription for this pain reliever filled, I was still taking Advil and on a more frequent basis. It was the only thing that gave me relief from the inflammation. For all the good the OxyContin did, I should sell it on the streets and get my money back. I've read that this pill is crushed and snorted to get high. Hah! I did not feel high with OxyContin, and the pain I should not have been feeling with OxyContin, was still present. Aleve, which is what my oncologist prefers to Advil, was a complete waste of time and effort. Nothing helped with the pain, but the Advil did allow me to continue to move, to sit, and to sleep for a few hours a night. The pain is really bad when I lay down. Sitting is equally as bad. Surprisingly, standing and walking eases the pressure on the nerves in my back, along my hips, and down my left leg. So, I stand and walk as much as possible during the day. If nothing else, it's time on my feet for training purposes.

"We have to switch out the Femara with something else. And I'll check to see what other treatment protocols we can try." She left the room for free samples of Aromasin. Because my cancer is estrogen-dependent, the treatment protocols vary according to whether a woman goes through menopause naturally or the menopause is medically induced. My menopause has been medically induced by Lupron, but that situation also rules out certain treatment options.

When I started my treatments for the bone cancer, I was told that we would try Tamoxifen and all three of the aromatase inhibitors (AIs) first. Afterwards, there were other treatment protocols to try before chemotherapy and radiation. We would stick with a treatment protocol as long as it worked, and then we would move on to the next treatment protocol. As long as the cancer stayed in the bone, chemotherapy would be the last resort, because it rarely produced successful results for bone cancer. Now that the cancer was spreading outside of the bone, chemotherapy was back on the table as an option.

Tamoxifen lasted for about a year before it stopped working. And now the Femara, the first of the AIs, has stopped after about a year. I will be taking Aromasin next. After Aromasin, there is Arimidex, the last of the AIs. Faslodex will follow. "We're dragging our feet on the chemotherapy," she reminded me. We both knew why. I had read so much about metastatic breast cancer that I knew that at the point that we tried chemotherapy meant that I would be running out of other, less toxic, treatment options. As long as there were pills, injections, radiation, and surgery at my disposal, I should use them. Because of the toxicity, you can only be on chemotherapy for so long before you're taken off of it. Enough time has not gone by to make me forget about the horrible side effects of chemotherapy. I was in no rush to start that process up again. Let's try one more pill. Aromasin, you're up!

Along with the free samples, she gave me a prescription for the Aromasin. Aromasin is $450 for a 30-day supply. With my health insurance, I pay only $75 a month. Femara and Tamoxifen were cheaper at $25 a month with the health insurance. It boggles my mind that a pill that is the size of a Tic Tac can cost so much. A month's supply of Aromasin is a race entry fee. Aromasin had better work!

Next month, I'll have my Zometa treatment. She'll check my tumor markers to see if the Aromasin has had any effect. The next scans will be in four months to also check for any tumor regression, progression, or stabilization. If there's regression, she's hoping that the pain will also subside a little. If not, we'll try radiation. We're at that point now. Palliative treatment is always the goal for metastatic cancers, to make the patient as comfortable as possible. I really wanted us to drag our feet on the radiation, too, but quality of life issues are at stake now. It's hard to concentrate on anything else when all you can think about is the pain. We had the discussion with the neurologist at the onset of my diagnosis about radiating the tumors in my spine. It's a risky procedure, but apparently, radiation can be directed to alleviate some of the pain. I'm all for that.

It's taken me almost a week to digest everything. Even after three years (two and a half of those years on a treatment protocol of some sort), I still can't believe my body is failing me. The results of my recent scans are frustrating and makes me angry all over again. I'm an engineer. Give me a problem, so that I can find a solution. I don't stress about the details, and I don't care how hard I have to work to solve the problem. As long as I have a plan of action, I'm ready, willing, and able. Metastatic cancer is like a maze. You never know when you'll hit a dead-end, before you have to retreat and follow another path. I like puzzles, so we'll figure it out. I also like my oncologist. She worked with me for the breast cancer, and now, she's working on the metastatic cancer. I'm not giving up, and I'm not going to allow her to give up either. I have enough faith for the both of us, and my faith is stronger than any cancer that has or ever will invade my body. There is a solution out there for this problem, and I am confident that we'll find it. I'll practice patience and wait on time.

Tallahassee Marathon - 2/7/10

On Friday, I was at work, regretting that I was not on a plane to the Rocky Raccoon 100 Mile Race. For 3 years, the first weekend in February has been reserved for that race. My first 2 years were completions and then last year was a DNF. I was in worse shape this year than last year, and I didn't want to chance another disappointment at one of my favorite races. Therefore, I signed up for what I thought would be a sure thing - the Tallahassee Marathon. It was my fastest marathon in 2009, a very slow 5:12:12. I knew that I couldn't get even close to that time this year, but with a very flat course, I thought that I would have no problems beating the 6-hour cut-off.

Cheryl (FL) and I shared a room at a Motel 6 the night before the race. We have run several races together, including the Tallahassee Ultra Distance Classic 50K in December. Since then, I have been affectionately calling that race the Tallahassee Monsoon. If not for her company, I probably would have hated life that day, lol. It rained hard and steady all day. We stuck together for the whole race, finishing cold and sopping wet but happy. Cheryl tells lots of stories, whether she's running or not, and I wanted her companionship again. But Cheryl has also been cheating; she's been training, lol. She goes to the gym for elliptical workouts, treadmill intervals, and weights. Listening to her the night before, I knew I wouldn't be able to keep up her pace. She also was coming off a sub-5:30 at the Ocala Marathon the weekend before and would be gunning for that time this weekend. It appeared that I would be all alone in my struggle for a sub-6:00.

The weather was perfect, probably in the low 40s at the start and in the high 50s towards the finish. There was no precipitation, but it was overcast the entire time. I saw Phil (AL) before the start. Last year, Tallahassee was good to him, and he finished with a sub-4:00. He didn't think he would get a repeat this year, but he still finished very well in 4:22:44. Nice job, Phil!

Art (FL) was also there. I saw him at the Jacksonville Marathon in December. When we see each other at races now, it seems that we always end up talking about how our weight gain has screwed up our times. But we're still out here and doing our best. He finished in a fine time of 5:44:28.

We start with a small double loop through the Florida State University campus before hitting the roads to get to the 11-mile (22 miles total) out-n-back on a bike path. We then finish the race on the track. As we started, I saw my running buddy, Frank (MN), in his signature red shorts and red jacket. I rushed ahead to catch up to him, and I'm glad that I did.

Frank and I talked, laughed, and ran/walked our way through the race. He is always so upbeat, never complains, and seems to thoroughly enjoy every race that he runs. He has dragged me along in several races, but today would be a struggle to keep up. My normal aches and pains were along for the race, too, and they worsened early in the day. Several times I told him to go on ahead without me. He was moving well and effortless, but my strides were choppy at best and favored the side of my body with the least resistance. Right before we reached the half-way point, he took off. I was sad to see him go. But later, I mustered a little pep in my step and caught up with him again. He was talking with another runner and that must have slowed him down. We then continued on together.

Frank was keeping time for the both of us. No one would ever guess that I have a background in engineering, because my math is all fuzzy during a race. He would tell me when we were ahead of pace and when we were slacking off. I dreaded every mile marker when he told me that we had lost another minute. That meant more running and less walking and talking for the next mile. For the last 6-8 miles, I would ask how we were doing as we approached the next mile marker. I'm sure he grew tired of me asking. Heck, I was tired of asking. Every time I looked at my watch and calculated how much time we had, I didn't think we would make the cut-off. Frank kept reassuring me that we would.

At 5:53:51, Frank and I stumbled across the finish line. Cheryl had finished in 5:36:11, very close to her goal. Congratulations to her for placing 2nd in her age group! She waited for us and snapped our picture at the finish line (see above). Just like last year, the pizza was all gone, but I really didn't care. I appreciated my official finisher's time and shiny, new medal more than anything, both of which I owed to Frank. He could have left me out there on my own, but he sacrificed his own race to make sure that I crossed the finish line under the cut-off. Maybe one day, in another race, I'll be able to return the favor.

I missed being at the RR100, but in the end, it was the best decision for me this year. After finishing 26.2 miles, I couldn't imagine tacking on 73.8 more miles on this day. I'm glad that I was at the Tallahassee Marathon instead.

Volunteering at the Mountain Mist 50K - 1/23/10

I've been looking at the Mountain Mist 50K for years, and I wanted to run it. However, wanting something doesn't necessarily mean that I should have it, lol. The intermediate cut-offs were too tight for me, and the overall cut-off of 8:30 was impossible for me on such a difficult course. The closest I would ever get to the Mist course was to volunteer for it. I could live with that.

After searching for a marathon/ultramarathon for this particular weekend and coming up with nothing that I could get to inexpensively, I decided to send Dink, the race director for the Mist, an e-mail to see if he needed any more volunteers for the race. He responded that they (he and his wife, Suzanne) would be in touch. Sure enough, a few days later, Suzanne sent an e-mail asking if I could work the 24.9 mile aid station. I replied that I would be happy to do that. A few days after that she sent out another e-mail with all of the assignments for volunteers. I was in there!

Early Saturday morning, I drove the two hours to Monte Sano State Park in Huntsville, AL. Over the past few years, I had run several races either on the roads or trails in this park. It was a beautiful park and relatively easy to get to from the downtown area. I wanted to arrive just before the 8:00 a.m. start to see several of my fast running buddies before they took off. The race had been sold out for months, and there were about 350 starters. It had rained all week. But today, it was just cloudy and cool, a perfect day to be out in the woods. I hoped that the trails were dry enough, but looking at the area around the lodge, I figured that it would be a very muddy day for the runners.

I saw Diane (TN) and talked with her for a while. She had been hampered by a stress fracture over the last few months, but she said that it was much better. Diane had successfully completed 8 Mists and was gunning for the 10-year prized Mist jacket. I credit (or blame, lol) Diane for getting me started in ultramarathons. Truth be told, she is such a strong runner and runs the more difficult courses. Her first 50 Miler was Mountain Masochist, and her first 100 miler will be Massanutten this spring. She finished the Masochist easily, and I have no doubt in my mind that she will finish Massanutten in the same manner.

As we headed for the start line in front of the lodge, I also saw Mona (AL). Mona is another strong runner. We met at the first Black Warrior 50K several years ago. She was working an aid station and swept the course for the last nine miles or so. Of course, I was the one that she was sweeping, lol. She kept me going, and we have been buddies ever since. I've yet to really "run" with her because she is so fast, although we've been in the same races several times over the years.

"I don't see why you won't run Mountain Mist," she told me at the start line. I hung my head. I wanted to run it, but I couldn't. It's hard to explain to someone as fast as Mona how difficult it is to battle cut-offs. It's not the course that gets me. It's the clock. I can't beat the clock on a whole lot of races that I would like to do. Embarrassed, I told her that I couldn't make the cut-offs. Being a friend, she smiled and said, "I bet that you could." I wasn't taking that bet.

And they were off!

My aid station wouldn't set up until 10:30 a.m., and we would close at 2:30 p.m. There was a strict cut-off at 2:20 p.m. (6:20 elapsed time for 24.9 miles). Everybody coming into the aid station after that time would be pulled from the race. I thought about that for a long time. I had been pulled from so many races for missing a cut-off that I've lost count. It's a miserable feeling. I hoped that I wouldn't have to pull anybody from the race, especially at the point when they had only a 10K to go to the finish. I had been told that runners would reach my aid station after completing the hardest part of the course, which meant crawling up Waterline on all fours in mud. To do that and still not make the cut-off would be devastating. I had made up my mind that they would all make it under the cut-off, and no one would be pulled at my aid station!

I listened in on a conversation that one of the volunteers that had been checking in runners earlier was having with crew members, explaining exactly where aid stations were set up. He gave me some good directions for my post, Aid Station #5-Monte Sano Blvd Road Crossing. I went back out onto the roads in the park to locate the area. No one was there, of course, so I went back to the lodge. I asked around to see if anyone needed any help, but it appeared that everything was under control. In that short amount of time, volunteers had covered the furniture in the lodge with plastic and covered the hard wood floors with rugs. The runners would be muddy when they finished, and everything in the lodge had to be protected.

I went back to the parking lot and sat in my car. I had plenty of reading materials to keep me occupied until time to set up my aid station. At 10:00 a.m., I drove back out to Monte Sano Blvd. A couple of cars were there, but nothing was being set up. I saw the bright lime green flags marking the trail from the area and decided to head down the trail just to check out the conditions. I didn't go very far. It was muddy, and I didn't have the proper shoes. I headed back to sit in the car to read and wait. It would be an interesting day.

It was now almost 10:30 a.m. and our aid station was still not set up. Several crew members and volunteers were in the area, but no one had seen a van or truck with our supplies. Megan, a volunteer from previous years, stated that someone would have usually dropped off the supplies by now. Another volunteer headed back to the lodge to see what the problem was. I looked at my watch. The elite runners would be coming through soon. We had to hurry. Just as I was beginning to panic, a van drove up onto the opposite side of the road. The two police cars that were conducting traffic had been set up minutes before. The runners would come off the trail, cross the two-lane road, get their aid, and then head down onto the next trail on our side of the road. Megan waved to the volunteer in the van to come across the road. We needed to set up the aid station at the trail head.

We quickly unpacked the van and started our set-up. We had two long tables, several large coolers of Heed and water, liters of Mello Yello and Coke, and a large tub of goodies: cookies, chips, pretzels, pre-made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, bananas, gels, potatoes and salt, and bite-sized chocolate candies. Dink came by to see how we were doing. He gave us our long-sleeve, technical Mist shirts and took our picture. He asked if we had everything we needed and reinforced our instructions. No one was to continue the race if they arrived at our aid station past 2:20 p.m. We should start breaking down our aid station at 2:30 p.m. The park closed at dark, and if anyone continued after 2:20 p.m., they wouldn't finish in time for all of us to be out of the park by dark. He was serious, and all I could think about was the mud that I had seen on the trail when I arrived at our aid station. The mud would slow the runners down. We were going to have to pull some runners. He thanked us for volunteering and moved on to his next job.

We felt we were ready. Cups were filled with fluids and plastic bowls were filled with goodies. We had cut up bananas and unwrapped the chocolates so that the runners could quickly pick them up and go. We filled pitchers with water and Heed so that we could top off bottles easily and quickly. Garbage bags were set up for disposables. A volunteer was positioned across the road to alert us of runners coming up the trail and would shout out bib numbers to the time keeper on our side of the road. She would record their splits, and another volunteer checked off their numbers. We wanted to make sure that no one was left out in the woods.

As we waited, I talked with Jaclyn, a young, professional dancer and very enthusiastic, new runner. She was training for her first half-marathon and was intrigued by this sport. She had been reading "Ultramarathon Man" by Dean Karnazes and decided that's what she wanted to be, an ultramarathoner. I was wearing my jacket from the Wild West 100K, and she asked how far that was. When I told her that it was 62 miles, she was in amazement. When she asked about my longest race and I told her it was 100 miles, I thought that she would jump out of her skin, lol. She exclaimed, "I want to do that!" Jaclyn and I would talk during our lulls in the action about running and racing. I gave her several things to Google when she had the time. She had a lot of energy, and she will become a good ultramarathoner. I just know that I will see her on the roads and trails soon.

Our first runner came through flying, of course, and didn't stop. Someone knew him as David. We watched in amazement as he continued on down the trail. We looked across the street, waiting and anticipating for another runner. It seemed like forever before we saw anyone and then we saw Dewayne (AL). He was smiling and also didn't really need anything from our tables, except someone to slow down David for him, he said. We laughed at his joke as he, too, continued on down the trail.

And then the runners started trickling in. One or two at a time and some times four or five at a time. We scrambled around and found our groove. I was on water detail, filling bottles and offering words of encouragement. I asked how they were doing out there. I received various responses: "okay," "fine," grunts, or smiles. I helped with their camel-backs. I opened packets of gels or other goodies for runners whose hands were stiff, cold, or swollen. I poured magic powders into water bottles from little baggies that the runners had with them. I took care of their trash. They were all in various states of being. Some were covered in mud from taking falls. Some looked good; others looked as if they wouldn't make it. Some were able to talk and joke with us. Some got what they needed and headed to the trail head, seriously contemplating the next section of the race. Others looked lost, as if they had seen a ghost, a demon, or a deity. We learned to ask specific questions. Water? Heed? Coke? Salt and potatoes? Gel? We reached for their bottles to refill instead of waiting for them to thrust them forward. Some knew exactly what they wanted. For some, "water or Heed" was one of the most difficult questions they had to answer in their lives. Some times the answer was a question back at me of "half and half"? Sure. Anything to keep you going. One runner wanted Coke in his bottle. I've done that. It fizzes up too much for me and splatters everywhere when I sipped, but I'm sure he knew that and didn't care. When you need caffeine towards the end of a race, you want it consistently.

Several runners wanted new legs. I offered to screw mine off and give them away, lol. They smiled and grazed at the tables. "I want a tall, Asian, red-haired woman that can cook fried chicken," came one request. Megan was on it. "I'm everything you want except Asian," she responded. She was on Heed detail and kept them going. We had several requests for alcoholic beverages. We jokingly told them that it was at the next aid station, 4.5 miles away, even though we all knew that aid station was a water stop only. Some times we said that the faster runners had consumed it all, lol.

As volunteers, it's important to know how far to the next aid station, how far to the finish, and cut-off times. When we were asked (and it was often), we were always ready.

Our first casualty came early. He had to have been in 14th or 15th place. He announced that he was done. He had all the time in the world. He could walk it in to the finish, but he refused to go on. I offered him water or Heed or some food maybe. He wouldn't take it. He went off to himself and sat down on a rock. When we had a break in action, I walked over to check on him. I knew that I was disturbing him, but I wanted him to finish. He could do it. No broken bones were showing. There was no bleeding. There wasn't anything visibly wrong with him. Yet, he couldn't go on. We didn't know what was going on inside, and he wasn't offering an explanation. He could have been in great pain. He could have been unbelievably tired. He could have been just mentally out of the race. Whatever it was, he knew, and we didn't, that he had to drop from the race. My heart went out to him. Usually when I drop from a race, it's because I can't make a cut-off. I did not understand not going on when there was plenty of time on the clock. I offered to get him anything he needed. He gave me a blank stare, one that cut through my soul. "No," he responded flatly. I left him, feeling stupid, wondering why I had gone to him in the first place. He was indeed done. I felt I had failed as a volunteer because it was my duty to keep him going. Runners were steadily coming in, and I had to stay the course. Water? Can I top your bottle off? How's it going out there for you?

Another runner came in with a tight hamstring. He laid down on the rocky ground and stretched. His face grimaced in pain. His crew came to him to help in any way they could. He would find the strength to go on. We cheered for him as he left our aid station.

Being a volunteer, I had the pleasure of seeing fast runners that, even though we've been in the same races, I never get to see because I'm in the back of the pack. As they came through my aid station, I made an effort to call them by their names when I offered them aid and encouragement. Byron (SC), Rich (GA), Christian (GA), Bruce (TN), Gary (FL), Andrew (GA), and Yikena (GA) are just a few.

Susan (TN) is a fast runner, too, but when she came in, she gave me a hug. She looked good. She is such a strong runner. Rob (TN) was somewhere behind her. She gave me a message for him. "Tell him I'll come back out on the course when I finish, but he needs to hurry up." I laughed and told her that I was on it. She had her bottle filled and ate some potatoes and salt, saying that we were the only aid station that had them. Several more runners told us the same. We were happy that our aid station had something the runners really wanted and needed.

When Rob came through the aid station, he immediately asked about Susan. "Did she fly through here?" I told him that she had, and that she wanted me to kick him out of this aid station quickly. He laughed and had his bottled refilled. I relayed her real message, and he went about his way.

Fast Mike (TN) seemed surprised to see me. But I knew he would be here. I had scanned the entrants' list before coming so that I would look for all of my running buddies. He looked tired, but he was still strong. He stated that he thought he was the last one. I told him that he couldn't be and that I hadn't seen Mona, Graham (AL), and Diane. He nodded, but we were both thinking about the time. We were getting close to the cut-off for our aid station. We had been so busy that the time had just flown by, and I hadn't realized we were approaching the end of our shift. Where were they? They had to make the cut-off. They had to hurry.

Sarah (GA) came in with a full camel-back of an orange fluid. She said that it had started to bother her stomach, that she had been barfing for a long time, and that she needed to dump the liquid. I helped her rinse the bladder and filled it with water. She thanked me and continued on. I met Sarah years ago on the morning of my first ultramarathon. I was much too bubbly, talking and running with whomever I could keep up with and maintain a conversation with. She was very subdued and warned me that I should run my own pace. I knew she was right, but I had waited so long to run my first ultramarathon that I went with my energy and ran the early parts of that race with much faster runners. I eventually slowed down, and she passed me, probably saying to herself "I told you so." I finished the race with badly blistered feet from the heat of the day. It had been a while since I'd seen her. I never saw her in races that we were in together because she was so much faster than me. It shocked me that she even remembered my name. She is tough. With a fussy stomach or not, she would finish.

Mona came through the aid station looking well. She said that she would hug me, but she was too dirty. I hugged her any way, hoping that it would push her to the finish line just a few seconds faster. Bless her heart! Her hands were swollen like Italian sausages. "Too much salt," she said. Experienced as she was, she was in and out in no time.

Several more runners came through. One at a time. The clock was ticking. The timers were looking at their watches and checking the list. There were runners who would not make it. Where's Graham and Diane?

The time was 2:20 p.m. And we saw Graham emerging from the trail on the other side of the road. He was walking. I started yelling for him to get into the aid station. We all did. I looked over at the timer. He's a good runner, I said. He's strong. He'll make it. We have to let him go on. She looked doubtful, but when he made it to our aid tables, she nodded that he would be the last one to leave. I was so happy I couldn't contain myself. You made it, Graham! He looked at me and said matter-of-factly, "No, I didn't."

Water or Heed? We had to get him what he needed and get him out of there. We filled a bottle with water and another one with Heed. He grazed at the food table and then continued on. And now we started the sad part of our day, packing up the aid station and waiting for the runners that hadn't made the cut-off. And when the two sweeps that were behind them came through, our duties would be officially complete.

Diane came in, followed by her friend Heather. As always, Diane was still upbeat. She commented about the mud, but having finished this race 8 years in a row, she had seen worse conditions on this course. She now had to run 2 more years before she could get her 10-year jacket, instead of the planned one year. She would be back. She had been fighting the cut-offs all day, but she still looked good. If we could have let her go, she would have finished the race with no problem. She could have gone the distance, if not for the clock that she had no control over. I offered her food and fluids. That was my job. I wished that I could have offered her more. I'm sorry, Diane.

Heather was crying. How many times had I been pulled from the race, crying, knowing that I could go the distance if not for the clock? She stood stark still. I watched her, wanting to go to her, wanting to hug her, and lie to her that it would be okay. She could come back next year and finish. She had put in a valiant effort and 24.9 miles on this course was nothing to beat herself up over. It was hard today, with the cold and with the mud, not to mention the rocks, covered with leaves, and the steep climbs. None of that would have mattered to her. I knew all too well that nothing a volunteer said mattered at times like this. I watched as another volunteer went to her. Heather commented that when she had fallen, getting a gash in her forehead just above her right eye that had been bandaged at a previous aid station, she had lost so much time. She cried again, just thinking about it. Who knew what other demons she had been fighting out there?

A few others came in, dejected. Volunteers checked them off the list, gave them food and fluids, and then ushered them to cars to be driven back to the lodge. When our two sweepers came in, we packed up the remaining items, dumping any fluid left over, and collecting the trash. The police were gone, and the rescue team that had been hanging around for the last hour or so (just in case) went about other business. It was now just as quiet and deserted as when I first arrived for my volunteer duties. It was so different when it was lively with muddy runners and volunteers helping them out. I drove back to the lodge with a heavy heart.

I wanted to see those last runners finish. I wanted to see what it looked like to be tough and fast enough to beat the clock. I wanted so much to be like them. I wanted so much to will my body to do what my mind knew I could do and what my heart wanted to do if . . . . So many "ifs".

I sat at the finish line at the back of the lodge. The timers were removing the tags from the runners' bibs as they crossed the finish line. A volunteer wrapped them in a mylar blanket to keep them warm. Another volunteer handed them a finisher's card to be filled out to receive their finisher's plaque. I had heard several runners say that at the bottom of the mountain, it had become warm, but once they finished up on top of the mountain, it was windy and cold. I don't believe we ever reached the promised 55 degrees from the weather reports. All of the runners had to remove their shoes and socks before entering the lodge. All I could think about was how their poor feet must have felt walking over the cold concrete that led inside the warm lodge. Hot pizza was waiting for them if they made it in successfully.

I saw Rob finish. He has completed about 600 ultramarathons, and he's only 48 years old. He came through the finish line with another one in the bag. Susan had indeed gone back out onto the course to run with him. She sat beside me just as he crossed the finish line. I asked if she had finished second female. I had heard Dink announce her name for an award when I arrived at the lodge. "No," she said, "It must have been second in my age group." Wow, that was an awesome accomplishment!

Rob gave me his finisher's card, and Susan told me his age and race number. I took the card inside the lodge, filled it out, and picked up his finisher's plaque. When I got back to the finish line, they were ready to go. It didn't take long after finishing that the runners would become cold. I gave Rob his hard earned finisher's plaque, hugged them both, and then sat again on the stone wall waiting for others to finish.

Mike, Mona, and Sarah all finished well. Sarah's stomach was better, but it was hard finishing without being able to keep any food or fluids in her stomach.

I watched the clock. It was getting close to the 8:30 elapsed time, the final cut-off for the race. Graham was still out on the course. If he finished under the cut-off, he will have finished the Fleet Feet Grand Slam (Dizzy Fifties 50K/50M, Huntsville Marathon, Recover from the Holidays 50K, and Mountain Mist 50K). He was going to do it. I just knew it. The crowd was dying down. Everybody was heading home, but I waited. Mona had cleaned up and changed into warm clothes. She came out and waited with me.

And then we saw his signature yellow Marathon Maniacs shirt coming up the last hill through the finish chute. He crossed the finish line in 8:28:40, looking tough, like I aspired to be. We cheered loudly for him, the last finisher. Grand Slam Graham is what Mona called him. Indeed he was! Everyone wanted to take a picture with him. We all gathered around at the top of the mountain in the cold wind, nearing 4:30 p.m. to do just that (see above). It would be getting dark soon, and we had to leave the park. We had to get him inside, get his finisher's plaque, and his Grand Slam finisher's jacket.

I said my good-byes to Mona and Graham. I will see Graham at the Black Warrior 50K next month, but Mona said that she wouldn't be able to make it because she had to work that weekend. I went out to my car to make the 2 hour drive back home.

Tough. That's what best described all of the runners in the Mountain Mist 50K, whether they finished or not. I wanted to be just like them. I wanted to be tough. Now how do I do that?

Volunteering at the Flying Monkey Marathon - 11/22/09

Since 2004 on the 3rd Saturday in November, I have been running the JFK 50 Miler in Boonsboro, MD. When the Flying Monkey Marathon began in 2006 in Nashville, TN, my heart took a dive. Both races were on the same weekend. Being a Marathon Maniac, the first thought was to run JFK on Saturday and make it back in time to run the Flying Monkey on Sunday. This never happened. Because it always took me 12:30-13:30 to finish JFK, I could never get a late flight out of Baltimore to make it back by Sunday. Every time I saw Trent (the race director for the Monkey) at a race, I would threaten to run or volunteer at his event, but my luck was not that good.

Last year, the JFK increased the entry fee to an amount that I did not want to pay. I run a lot of races during the year, and it takes some serious budgeting to get to all of these races. With the flight, rental car, and 2 nights stay in a hotel the night before the race and the night right after the race, the increase pushed me over the limit for one race out of many. Besides, as much as I love that race, I was not willing to cut out another race or two from my schedule to make ends meet. Therefore, I made a promise to myself. I would run the JFK one more year to give me 5 finishes there, and if the entry fee increased for 2009, I would not run it. For 2009, the entry fee increased again to $145, leaving the 3rd weekend in November free for me to run another race.

For years now, I had been looking at the Dizzy Fifties (50K, 40 Mile, and 50 Mile) Trail Runs in Huntsville, AL. This race is on the same day as JFK. It was cheap to enter ($24), and it was only a 2-hour drive for me, which meant that I could sleep in my own bed. I signed up before it became full. Here was my chance to run Dizzy and then run the Monkey. With a 10 hour cut-off, the only distance I could pull off would be the 50K at Dizzy, so a double looked doable. The only problem was that the Monkey had already reached its 200 runner limit.

I have run a lot of races, but I'm ashamed to say that I have never volunteered. This sport has given me so much, and it was time for me to start giving back to it. I hear from race directors all of the time about how hard it is to find enough volunteers for their events. Here was my chance to be a part of the solution. I sent Trent an e-mail, asking him if I could volunteer. Trent, being the super nice guy that he is, asked me if I wanted to run it instead. I told him that I couldn't run it because it was already full. Again, he gave me the opportunity to run it by jokingly saying that he knew the race director and he could get me in. I loved the fact that he would let me in, but I really wanted to volunteer. I wanted to be on the other side of that start/finish line.

Early Sunday morning, I drove over to Percy Warner Park to check in for my 6:00 a.m. to 9:00 a.m. shift. I had been assigned to packet pick-up. I would be working with Sharon, who would check off each runner's name on the entry list. In turn, I would pull the runner's packet. Diana, the volunteer coordinator, and Trent, were buzzing around getting everything set up and putting the volunteers to work. All of the volunteers had been asked to bring a food item to share for the party afterwards. I had never seen so much food set up for a post-race party. There were three tables full of all kinds of desserts, sandwiches, fruits, vegetables, side dishes, and coffee. My stomach growled as I watched more and more food being dropped off at the tables by the volunteers as they checked in for their shifts.

Several of my running buddies were in town to run the Monkey: Andy (FL), Phil (AL), Graham (AL), Dave (CO), Larry (TX), and Mike (ME). Locals like Diane (TN) and Lisa (TN) were also running today. As they checked in or just came by our table to say hello, I wished them all well and told them to have fun. I promised to come out onto the course to see them after my shift was over.

Check-in started slowly, with 1 or 2 runners every few minutes, and then we got a steady stream for a while before it eased back to 1 or 2 runners every few minutes. Sharon and I worked well together. We only had one problem. A couple checked in. Her packet was available, but there wasn't a packet for her husband. Sharon and I desperately checked and rechecked the boxes, but we never found the runner's packet. We called Trent over. The runner's packet had to have been given out to someone else. We thought we had been thoroughly checking the numbers against the names. Could I have handed out the wrong packet? I didn't want to think that it was possible.

In our defense, a number of packets were picked up on Saturday evening. Another runner came up and told us that she had been given an incorrect packet on Saturday and had to go back and exchange it. Each packet had a bib number, goodie bag, and a race t-shirt with the runner's name on it. Surely, if someone had this particular runner's packet, he would have noticed that his t-shirt had the wrong name on it. The runner and his wife looked concerned. Trent was calm and told the runner that he would still be able to participate. If I was the race director, I would have been a nervous wreck. Our line of runners waiting to check in was growing. Sharon and I had to continue our job. Before the race started, Trent made an announcement to try and recover the missing packet. I didn't hear anyone owning up to having the wrong packet. Bummer!

At 8:00 a.m., we watched as the runners took off and the large digital clock began keeping time. As all of the runners climbed the hill on the cross-country portion of the course, they quickly began to spread out in a neat line. I felt like I had just pushed my kids out into the big world. Will they all make it back home safe and sound?

I love running in Percy Warner Park. There's a 5.8 mile loop and an 11.2 mile loop on the roads. Both were rolling hills the entire loop. I'm in relatively good shape when I can run the 5.8 in less than an hour and the 11.2 in less than 2 hours. It has been years since I was able to do that, but I still come out here every now and then to test myself. The race course pretty much followed the 11.2 mile loop twice with some additional routes to get the full 26.2 miles.

There are also some wonderful trails in the park that I love to run. Like the road loops, the trails are rolling hills with just enough roots and rocks to make it interesting. There are also plenty of deer to keep you company on the trails.

With all of the runners out for their adventure, the volunteers were left to fend for ourselves. A few of us grabbed something from the food table, drank coffee, and stood around talking. I talked with 2 volunteers for the next couple of hours. Andrew (AL) is a young ultramarathoner studying to become a physical therapist. Forrest (TN) had walked 65 miles in August to celebrate his birthday. Andrew and I were so impressed with his story. He had started out at 300 pounds several years ago and began walking and running to lose weight. He had lost his son to diabetes. While reading Pam Reed's book, he became inspired to run his age in miles for his birthday on a 10K loop that he created in Hendersonville, TN. The local news media did a story on him, and a helicopter hovered above him as he walked. Several people came out to walk with him. It took him 18 hours to finish. Wow! I wonder if Forrest knows that he has a 100 miler in him. And yes, we did joke about people saying "run, Forrest, run".

Two and a half hours after the runners started, Peter (the president of the Nashville Striders Running Club) announced that our first place winner would be coming across the cross-country field. Like moths to a flame, we all migrated to the finish line. Family, friends, and volunteers watched and waited. Volunteers lined up at the finish line to give out the Monkey finisher's medal and to tear off the runner's tag from their bibs. Several false alarms came when locals enjoying the park on the cloudy and cool Sunday morning came across the hill. And then we saw him, and he was flying. Was it Josh (TN)? Was it Chuck (OH)? My bet was on either one of them.

The winner looked good when he came through. You would not have thought that he had just run 26.2 miles on a tough course. We were all in amazement. We clapped, shouted, and congratulated him. And then we looked over the hill. No one was chasing him. I instantly felt sorry for him. Wasn't he lonely running all of those miles by himself?

And then we saw another. It had to be Josh or Chuck. They were so fast and had won so many races between the two of them. But it was not. It was another runner that I did not know. The crowd burst into claps, shouts, and hardy congratulations to him. And then we watched the hill. Waiting. Anticipating. I loved this!

I saw him. There were rumblings up ahead amongst the anxious crowd. Someone noticed his stride. His strong legs were pushing forward. He would finish 3rd. It was Josh. I yelled, and I was probably louder than I should have been, because he saw me waiting near the end of the finish chute. He had worked hard on those hills, chasing those two runners in front of him. He had to be tired. He had to be happy to finish and to finish so well. But he stopped, and he gave me a hug. I was surprised. I could feel the crowd watching our exchange. I wanted to jump up and down and tell everybody, "that's MY running buddy". I can't even run half of a marathon these days in the time that it took him to run the entire marathon, but we share the same love for this sport. That's what makes this so special to me.

Volunteers pulled his tag from his bid and gave him a Monkey medal. He went over to congratulate the two runners who finished before him, just as champions do. And the crowd watched the hill. They came one by one.

One runner had run so hard that he laid in the grass at the end of the finish chute. The medics came over to give him oxygen. I have never pushed my body that hard. I don't know what that feels like, but I wanted him to be okay. I wanted him to be able to run another day.

I stayed until the first female came through the finish chute. Friends ran with her, encouraging her, and then pulled off at the last few seconds so that she could have her well-deserved moment in the spotlight. She looked young and strong. I can't even imagine what went through her head, leading all of the women, and gaining on the men in front of her. It must have been a wonderful feeling. It must have been worth it all.

I said good-bye to Forrest and his wife, Judy. Judy had also volunteered this morning and helped organize all of the food that kept coming in for the party afterwards. I was ready to go out onto the course and back track. I wanted to run some of those familiar hills. I wanted to see my other running buddies.

As I ran and walked the course in the opposite direction, I tried to give encouragement to the runners heading to the finish line. I don't know how many times I said, "good job", "nice work", "stay strong", and "keep it going". I received a variety of responses in return: blank stares, grunts, silently hung heads, smiles, and thank you's.

Josh was out on the hills. Was this his cool down? We talked for a minute and then I continued on, greeting runners and looking for familiar faces. I saw Lisa. She wanted to know, "how far"? I had not been paying attention. I did not know. "Less than 2 miles, Lisa. You're doing great." It was a wild guess at best.

I saw Trent next. It is a remarkable feat for any race director to have things so organized that he can relax and run his own race. I admired him for that. As he flew past me on a down hill, giving me a high five, I told him that he had put on a great race. "You need to run this next year," was the last thing that I heard him say before he sped around a bend in the road and out of sight. He is right, of course.

Runner after runner passed. I knew that the next buddy I would see would be either Dave or Phil. They both are fast. It turned out to be Dave. He was walking up a hill. I asked if he wanted me to walk with him, but he said he would be running the next down hill and was on pace to finish in 4:35. I couldn't keep up that kind of pace. I wished him well and continued on. Maybe this was a bad idea.

I saw Phil next. I asked if he would like some company. He said yes. I felt better, and I hoped that he did, too. We talked and ran/walked the rolling hills, but it was short-lived. He was having to slow down to wait on me. I didn't want that to happen. I wanted him to have a good race. I sent him on his way. Going along with Phil, I had become winded. I walked some more, continuing to encourage runners that I came upon and looking for my buddies.

Graham was next. He had finished the Dizzy 50K the day before 2 hours ahead of me, and here he was looking very strong. I asked him the same question that I had asked Phil, and he accepted my offer. We talked and ran/walked the rolling hills. I had not recovered from my time with Phil, so I wasn't much help to Graham. I didn't want to slow him down either. When we got to the aid station, I let him go. He would continue to run strong and to finish well. Some how I thought I would be able to keep up with them at the end of their race, but I was doing a poor pacing job. Would I have to run all of the way back to the start/finish area alone?

There were still buddies on the course. I was now a little over 3 miles from the finish. Mike, Larry, or Andy would be next, but which one would I encounter first. Well . . . I was lucky enough to get all three of them at once. They made me work to keep up with them, but I wanted to stay. It had been a while since I had run with any of them. Larry had also run a marathon the day before, but that's his norm. Every weekend, he runs doubles or triples. He's an incredible man and as humble as he could be. Mike and Andy have run hundreds of marathons and ultramarathons. They all give me so much inspiration, and when I'm with them, I want to soak up their essence, hoping that whatever they have is contagious and that I will get it, too.

We laughed and talked our way along the last 3 miles of the course. Andy took this opportunity to inch his way ahead of us. And when we came over the hill, the crowd was still lively. They clapped and shouted just as vigorously as they had for the lead runners 3 hours ago. I pulled off from the course, and I watched my buddies run through the finish line. They all had wonderful finishes, and I was so happy for them.

Did I miss racing today? No, of course not. Am I glad that I volunteered? Most definitely. It was a great experience.

Surf the Murph 25K - 10/31/09

Hi. My name is Tiger, but you can call me Stupid. It was stupid of me to even try to run a marathon on trails with a 2 week old sprained ankle. Not only am I stupid, but I'm also stubborn and impatient - not a good combination to have.

The week following the spraining of my ankle, I walked with the air cast for a couple of days, followed by wrapping the ankle with the Ace bandage for the next couple of days. Every day after I arrived home from work, the ankle was elevated and iced. I never used the crutches. The swelling went down after about a week, and with the swelling gone, the pain decreased.

I was having cabin fever, trying to sit most of the day and limiting the amount of time on the ankle. So on Friday night, I went out dancing with some friends. Apparently twisting and turning on the dance floor aggravates a sprained ankle. Who'd've thunk it, lol? So on Saturday morning, of course, the swelling and pain were back. On Saturday afternoon, I did some shopping, and on Sunday, I just sat, switching from the computer to watching football on television. The ankle was elevated and iced most of the day.

With the ankle feeling much better and based on the fact that I could now see the veins in my foot again, I decided to try a little bit of walking. On Tuesday of this week, I walked to work, a mere 4.91 miles, according to Mapquest. The last mile was the most difficult. The ankle screamed in protest. I now had my limit, but I was going to push it any way. At work, I kicked off the shoes and elevated the ankle, while I diligently went about job. It's a good thing that I work in an office (for the most part) in which I'm forced to sit all day in front of my computer.

On Tuesday night, I walked the same 4.91 miles back home, elevating and icing the ankle afterwards. Wednesday and Thursday went similarly. On Friday morning, I decided that I would keep my plane reservation and go to the Surf the Murph Marathon in Savage, MN. My flight wasn't until 7:00 p.m., so I put in a full day of work. Since I needed the car to get to the airport, I drove and only walked the mile to the office from our employee parking lot and then back again after work.

I arrived in Minneapolis about midnight, picked up my rental car, and drove the short 20 minutes to Savage. It was cold and raining, which later turned into a few snowflakes as I drove. The trails would be nasty. How would the ankle handle slipping and sliding in the mud?

Early Saturday morning, I drove to the race site to pick up my packet. The race offered four distances - 25K, marathon, 50K, and 50 Miles. The 50 milers took off an hour early. On one hand, I envied them. I would have loved to do the 50 mile (or 50K), but I could not make the cut-off for either race. The marathon (and 50K) had a 9 hour cut-off. I felt that I had a better chance of finishing the marathon than the 50K in that amount of time, so that's what I registered for. On the other hand, I was glad that I didn't have to put that many miles on the ankle. It was a blessing in disguise.

Other than the walking, I had not run since the Race for the Komen 5K 2 weeks ago. But with a 9 hour cut-off, I was sure that I could walk the entire marathon. I put the air cast on, but it did not fit comfortably in my trail shoe. I then tried wrapping it with the ace bandage, but the shoe then felt too tight. Bump it! I would just let it go as it is. I wasn't planning on running any way.

While waiting inside the little building designated for packet pick-up, Jeff (CA) found me. We had been corresponding by e-mail for about a month, having been introduced by a mutual running buddy, Diane (TN). This is the first time we've seen each other in person. Jeff is trying to run an ultramarathon in each state, so he was running the 50K today. I had an ultramarathon (Trail Mix 50K) already for MN, but I needed another MN marathon (along with VT, ND, NM, and MT) to finish my 2nd time around the states with marathons. I have 18 states to grab for a completion of the states with ultramarathons, and I think Jeff told me that he is about half-way through the states with his quest. He even has someone organizing an ultra in ND, which presently has no ultras. I asked him to keep me informed, because I need that state as well.

It was still dark when the 25Kers, 50Kers, and marathoners lined up at the start. The rental car's thermometer read 35 degrees, but at least the rain/snow had stopped. The wind was howling and with the excitement of the field, I could not hear the instructions from the race director. For the marathon, there was a 1.2 mile out-n-back, a 15.5 mile loop, and a 9.5 mile loop. Hopefully, the ankle would hold up, and I would be able to keep up with at least one other marathoner to finish the course. I had missed the Columbus Marathon and the White Tail Trail Marathon in Ohio over the last two weekends because of the ankle, so I was very ready to get back out there and do what I love to do.

Even in the dark, I could see the orange flags on the wires stuck into the ground on the left side of the trail every few feet. This course was marked extremely well. Even when the course merged with other trails, the flags reinforced which way to go. You did not have to stop and think about it. I was impressed.

After a while, I noticed that runners were coming back towards me. Not knowing what the course was like for the 50 milers, I assumed that those runners were in the 50 mile race. Pay attention. I will come back to this point later.

It did not take long before I was all alone. The trail was beautiful. It was on wide ski trails that went straight up and then straight back down - over and over again. The surface had very few rocks and roots with lots of grass. On such a smooth surface, I decided to run a little. I found out that it didn't hurt any worse than walking so I continued to run the relatively few flat sections and to walk up and down the hills. Going up was faster and felt much better than going down the hills. I had to put too much weight on the ankle to navigate down hill, and it would later take it's toll.

At some point, the trail became less grassy and a little muddy. Fallen leaves from the trees hid rocks and roots, and I stepped on one of them and twisted the injured ankle. Darn it! Another runner saw me stumble and asked if I needed to go back. I assured him that I would be okay and continued on. He was out of sight in no time. I thought that I was the last one, but several more runners came by me. For the second time, reader, pay attention. I will also come back to this point later.

After the ski trail, we entered into open meadows. The sun was peeking through the clouds but never made a full appearance. Without the trees blocking the wind, the open meadows were cold. I was glad that I had worn my knit cap and gloves. Although the faster runners had on shorts and technical short- or long-sleeved shirts, I had on tights and a jacket, in addition to my long-sleeved technical shirt. The open meadows had a little more mud, but it was still not too bad. We continued to go up and down, up and down, and up and down, lol. We seemed to be circling what I assumed to be Murphy Lake. I love courses that have a view of a body of water. I knew it was there, even when I had to look down at the trail for possible tripping obstacles. I was enjoying this course!

After the open meadows section, we ran on a short, single track trail to a horse trail, where you could not distinguish the mud from the horse poop. This section was flatter than the ski trail and meadow section, so I ran a little more. However, it had a lot more roots, rocks, and thick, long sections of mud, so what I was doing would probably not be classified as running. At this point, those runners in the longer distances were beginning to lap me. And I was beginning to hobble without really realizing it. Several runners stopped and asked if I was okay, even though they could visually tell that I wasn't.

After the horse trail, we were back to open meadows, another short, overgrown single track section, and then more ski trails. I really loved the width of the ski trail, and all of the grass made the trail very soft. I wished that I could have taken advantage of the smooth trails. The marathoners were flying by me on their way to finishing. They assumed that I was finishing too, but I had not even finished the 15.5 mile loop. I started watching my watch. I wanted to do the first half in 4.5 hours, but I was not going to make it.

To make matters worse, I was not having fun any more. I've always said that I would stop running when it was no longer fun. The ankle (among other things) was hurting, and all I could think of was the pain. I took two Advils, but they did nothing. I continued to walk and think about what to do. I had to be getting close to the finish of the loop. I would not make the 9 hour cut-off to finish the marathon, but a little piece of me wanted to ask the race director if I could continue on, since some of the 50 milers would still be on the course for several more hours. Maybe I could finish in 10 or 11 hours. I had slowed down that much. Granted, if I stayed to finish the course, I would miss my plane. An 8 hour finish would have gotten me to the airport in plenty of time. A 9 hour finish would have been pushing it, but it was still doable. A 10 hour finish would find me begging the ticket agent to find me another flight without charging me the $100 change fee. I had already DNF'd a MN marathon (Lake Wobegon) earlier this year, and I was on the verge of DNFing this MN marathon. What do I do?

Almost 6 hours after I started the race, I finished the 15.5 mile loop. A race volunteer told me to keep going because there really wasn't a cut-off, except for the 50 milers, which was 14 hours. He told me that I had until 8:00 p.m. and that I could walk the 9.5 mile loop in that amount of time. I was in pain and completely out of it, but I knew that I had only done one of the 3 loops that was required for the marathon. Another volunteer that was listening to our conversation chimed in and asked if I did the 1.2 mile out-n-back at the start of the race. No, I had not. He insisted that there was a turn-around sign when we first started, but I never saw it. The first volunteer asked if I had listened to the race director "yelling" at the beginning of the race for the marathoners to do the 1.2 mile out-n-back first. He looked angry, but I was too dejected to care. No, I told him. With the wind, the other runners talking around me, and being in the back of the pack, I could not hear anything the race director was saying. In the dark, even with my headlamp and 2 handheld flashlights, I had missed the marathon turn-around. The volunteer walked off to talk with the volunteer at the timing table.

I went to the porta potty to think about what to do next. As I sat, I now knew why runners were coming back towards me early in the race and why I was being passed when I thought I was last. The runners were other marathoners that had done the 1.2 mile out-n-back section on the 15.5 mile loop. But for the life of me, I didn't remember a sign or marking for the turn-around point. I could go back out and do the 1.2 mile section. Surely, I would not miss the same marking in the daylight. That was the least of my problems. But how was I going to finish the 9.5 mile loop (a modified version of the 15.5 mile loop) with the ankle hurting like it was? My heart wanted to keep going, but my body and mind were long out of the race. Two against one is horrible odds.

I went back to the start/finish area and sipped coke and ate a few potato chips. A familiar face came up to me. "Do you remember me?"

Of course I remembered Bonnie (MN). I had met her and Don (MN) during the Mother Road 100 Mile last November. They were a nice couple and had run lots and lots of tough ultras. She told me how she and Don volunteered to mark several of the MN ultras, and Surf the Murph was one of them. They even had to be here at 5:00 a.m. to mark the two sections of single track trail that we ran through today. She stated that they had about 800 flags to mark courses. That's why the course was marked so well and so abundantly. She seemed really disappointed that I missed the turn-around. But it wasn't her fault; I didn't blame her and Don at all. Although I loved the course, the loop is tough with all of the ups and downs, and the muddy sections were hard to navigate even on two good ankles. That's what worried me. The ankle was not happy, and therefore, I was not happy. I could handle being hurt and unhappy for a little while, but to do that for several more hours would push me over the edge. Bonnie listened to me agonize over the decision, but she ultimately told me what I already knew. She couldn't tell me what to do. I had to decide for myself.

A third volunteer came over from the timing table. "Are you continuing on with the marathon?" I told her that I was not. She smiled and said, "You still get a medal for finishing the 25K." Nothing against her or the race, but my goal was loftier than that when I arrived this morning. When she came back with my medal, I thanked her.

Bonnie and I talked a little more, and then the standing around in the cold finally got to me. We said our good-byes, and I headed back to Minneapolis. At least I would make my flight. For the third time, I would have to find another MN marathon to run. Maybe by then, the ankle will have healed, and I'll be faster.

Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure 5K - 10/17

"Your co-pay for emergency care is $75, but if you pay today, it will only be $60." I laughed. I couldn't help myself. Since when did hospitals give patients a discount for paying up front?

"It's a way of encouraging patients to pay their bills on time." I laughed again. I'm not sure why this conversation was tickling my funny bone, but I scrambled in my purse for my credit card. I appreciated the discount. Things were beginning to look up after a scary situation just a few hours ago.

I gathered my belongings and carried the crutches as I hobbled out to my car. The nurse had shown me how to use them, but I felt awkward with them. That's all I needed to do was to fall again and really mess something up. I tried to give the crutches back to her, but she insisted that I keep them. She believed that I might actually need them later. I doubted it, but I took them with me to be on the safe side.

The x-rays showed no broken bones in my right ankle or foot. That was the good news. It was just a bad sprain that was causing me so much pain and causing me to hobble my way through the afternoon. I read the papers that the doctor had given me. Three to six weeks would pass before the sprain would completely heal. In addition to the crutches, I had an air cast to immobilize the ankle. I also had a prescription for pain killers. I was told to elevate and ice the ankle and foot as much as possible. There is little else that can be done for a sprain.

Did this mean that I couldn't run for almost 2 months? What about all of the races that I had registered for over the next couple of months? I was already down in the dumps about missing the Columbus Marathon the next day. However, in this condition, I couldn't run. I could barely walk. How did this happen? Was it bad karma coming back to haunt me? Who did I screw over in my previous life to get to this point in my present life, lol?

The day had started on Saturday morning with a 4:30 a.m. drive to Cookeville, TN for it's inaugural Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure 5K. It was raining, cold, and slow going. I arrived at Tennessee Technological University (TTU) about 6:00 a.m. I checked in, picked up my timing chip and goodie bag, and headed to the Survivors' Tent. I filled my plate with a delicious breakfast of mixed fruit, a muffin, and a bagel and grabbed a cup of orange juice. I sat down with Judy (MI). She told me about her sister who had the same condition as I did - metastasized breast cancer to the bones. Just like me, her sister was also taking Zometa to help rebuild her bone tissue, but her sister's prognosis was not a good one. I wanted to talk with her more and to find out why there was a difference between her sister and me, but I did not have the opportunity.

The survivors had a full schedule before the race. Pictures were being taken as we ate our breakfast. We were then asked to summarize in one word what breast cancer meant to us as survivors. When I viewed the board, I noticed that others had already posted the 2 words that I had come up with: "blessed" and "life-changing". I thought quickly as the volunteer patiently waited for me to come up with a word. "Courage," I told her. She wrote my word, my name, and the year of initial diagnosis (2003) on a piece of construction paper shaped like a butterfly and then pinned it to the board with the others. "That's a good one," she said.

We were then told to pick up our special survivor goodie bag and to sign up for the give-aways. Another volunteer approached me and asked if I would like a massage. She had not had any customers that morning. I was pleased to be her first of many for the day. Outside of a chiropractor's office, I had never had a massage. I didn't even know how to sit properly in the specially made chair. I removed my glasses, and the volunteer placed a sheet of tissue-like paper onto the chair for me to lay my head face down. I also straddled the chair, resting my knees and palms on the cushions below the chair. She proceeded to give my tight neck, back, hips, and arms a gentle but firm massage. It was like she was kneading dough to bake bread. "How's the pressure?" she asked. Wonderful . . . just wonderful, I told her.

I thanked her profusely when she'd finished. I was surprised at how loose I felt after I stood up. She did great work. She then gave me her card. It may come in handy one day.

I then proceeded to my car to drop off the bags of goodies, to use the porta-potty, and to get ready for the parade of survivors. Mark (NJ) is the male face of breast cancer. You can read his story on the New Balance website: http://www.newbalance.com/events/komenpartnership/honorary_teamnb_mgoldstein.php.
He was diagnosed at the age of 55 and ran his first Race for the Cure four years later. He is now 76 years old. This will be his 201st Race for the Cure. He has travelled all over the country, including 5 international Races for the Cure. He and Eileen (TN), the hard-working organizer of Cookeville's event and a breast cancer survivor herself, were instrumental in making me an Honorary New Balance (NB) Team Member. As Mark explained, NB chooses an honorary team member for each Race for the Cure that it sponsors. I benefited with a pair of NB 769s, shirt, shorts, socks, hat, and jacket - all with the signature pink ribbon. What a blessing!

Mark and I chatted during the parade - a short walk around a small area of the parking lot. We ended in front of the stage, while each of our names was called. After each name was announced, everyone shouted and clapped for that particular survivor. There were about 50-60 of us. It was a very emotional moment. Everyone was dressed in something pink - pink hats, pink wigs, pink shoes, pink shirts, pink tutus, pink capes, and pink jackets. Other runners, spectators, and volunteers were taking our pictures, clapping, and smiling. At some point, my friend, Dallas (TN), came up and gave me a hug. He had invited me to participate months before and had recently written an article for Cookeville's Herald-Citizen highlighting the Race for the Cure, http://dallasfallsforward.blogspot.com/. Throughout the day, many of the volunteers, survivors, and other participants would recognize me from that article. That made me feel very special.

After all of the survivors' names were announced, Mark went up onto the stage and gave a very inspirational speech to all of the other participants. I could tell that he was very comfortable talking to us about his life mission. The audience embraced him immediately, and I was proud of my new running buddy. Afterwards, the survivors headed to the steps of the Hooper Eblen Center for more publicity photos. I was honored to be included amongst all of the survivors. I was glad that I had come to Cookeville.

After the photos, it was time to get ready for the 5K. Mark wanted to line up at the front of the pack. I never line up at the front. I'm too afraid of being run over by the faster runners. But Mark insisted that we had to line up there. He had a valid reason for this. As others passed by him, they would see the back of his shirt, which read: "Men Have a Breasted Interest". It was a powerful message that he wanted to spread on so many levels. Dallas, who is accustomed to being at the front, joined us as well.

Josh (TN), who also was featured in Dallas' article, gave me a hug before we started. Josh is fast, but he would be running for fun today, saving his energy for the Louisville Marathon on Sunday. He wore a pink cape that he would use to fly through the crowd of runners.

And then we were off. I wanted to run as hard and as fast as I could for as long as I could. I had a goal of a 30 minute finish. Dallas and I ran together for a while. Like Josh, he was just out to have fun and would not run as fast as he's capable of running. His friend, Amy, was running the 80K (50 miles) at the Nashville Ultra, and he was going to run a few miles at the race with her later in the day. He also wanted to attend his sister's cookout for her turnip greens. I couldn't blame him for that, lol.

After a while, even at a leisurely pace for Dallas, I could not keep up. The 5K loop ran from the TTU campus, through the small downtown area, and back to the campus. There were 2 noticeable hills, but I refused to walk either one. I took short walk breaks at the aid stations at mile 1 and mile 2 while I sipped water, but for the most part, I ran the entire 3.1 miles. I was feeling good, breathing hard, and enjoyed seeing other runners around me accomplishing their goals for the day. Surprisingly, there were very few spectators along the course, but the finish line surely made up for this.

At around the 2.5 mile mark, I saw Josh and his pink cape running towards me. He had finished and was coming back onto the course to run with his wife and mother-in-law. He had seen Dallas, who had also finished by that time.

As I turned the last corner down hill to the finish line, I could see that I was out of the 30 minute range. I would finish in 31 minutes plus a few seconds. But I was still happy. Dallas ran in with me, which meant a lot to me. We decided to go back out onto the course to run in with Mark. When we found him, Mark was flanked by a woman on each side of him. What a stud muffin!

We joked and ran along, and as we neared the finish line, Gabriel, a friend of Dallas, also joined us as we all crossed the finish line with Mark. Everyone was cheering. Little kids were handing out pink roses to those who had a pink survivor race number. What a nice little race!

Mark had worn shorts during the race, so he hurried off to put on warm clothes. Although it had stopped raining before I reached Cookeville, it was still pretty cold. Dallas and I grabbed bottles of water and fruit and sat down on a curb. Josh soon joined us for runner conversation.

At some point, we all decided to take a walk over to the fitness center before the awards ceremony. We were walking along, talking, and laughing, and then I did a full-bodied hit on the ground, feeling my right foot twisting in a manner that it should not have. My heart must have stopped and started before I realized what had happened. I could hardly catch my breath, and then the pain . . . oh, my . . . the pain . . . .

Josh and Dallas helped me to a sitting position onto the curb. I had not been paying attention to where I was walking and stepped off the curb awkwardly. A volunteer who saw me fall rushed over to see if I was okay. She then went back to get a bag of ice. Dallas instructed me to try and move the foot. I painfully did it. Surely, it was not broken.

I have twisted my ankles on the trails so many times that I knew that if I just sat for a while, the ankle would readjust and I would walk just fine. I sat as Dallas applied the ice. After I had gathered my senses about me, Josh and Dallas helped me to stand up. But unlike other times when I had twisted an ankle, this time the ankle was not cooperating. I limped and hobbled, pain radiating on the inside of the ankle and along the top of the foot. What have I done? I'm suppose to drive to Ohio in a couple of hours to run the Columbus Marathon on Sunday. I felt stupid, and I was so embarrassed. I wanted to hide and cry. How could I have done this?

We decided to go inside the Hooper Eblen Center where it was warm, and Dallas continued to apply the ice while my foot was propped up on a chair. Hopefully, the ice and elevation were keeping the swelling down. I was in panic mode at this point. What if the ankle was in bad shape? How would I run? Goodness . . . how was I going to walk? And although I was in a panic, I felt guilty for keeping Josh and Dallas. They had important things to do for the rest of the day. They didn't have time to take care of my foolishness.

Josh and I said our good-byes, as he went off to find his wife and mother-in-law. Dallas and I made our way over to the medical tent. The doctor poked here and there until I let out a breathless, "Owww". He had found the spot. He prodded, twisted, and turned the foot, while I let out several more "owwws". And then he told me what to do. "If I were you, I would go home, elevate, and ice the ankle. If it doesn't feel any better in a couple of days, make an appointment with your regular physician." Defeated, I turned to Dallas, and simply said, almost questioningly, "I'm not going to Columbus today."

Mark had rushed over. After the doctor had left, and we made our way to the stage, he looked me straight in the eyes. "Get it checked out right away. Do not wait. Remember, there is a reason for everything. There is a reason why this happened." Words of wisdom.

Dallas was still with me. I couldn't leave until I at least had gone up on stage with Mark. I had promised him I would do that before we started the race. He would talk a little about New Balance and their support of the Race for the Cure, introduce me as the honorary NB team member for Cookeville's Race for the Cure, and then I would have the privilege of announcing the two winners of NB gear. But first, I had to hobble onto the stage in front of all of those people.

They must have thought I was a fool. Being written up in the newspaper, being an honorary NB team member, having run marathons and ultramarathons across the country, and here I couldn't even walk up to the fitness center without spraining an ankle. I felt lower than low, but I would go up on that stage, accept the love and support from this Race for the Cure family, try not to embarrass Mark, hold my head up high, and do as I had promised. And even though Dallas had several things he wanted to do for the day, he waited in the audience for me to finish. He waited to make sure that I was okay. I could not ask for a better friend. Thank you, Dallas.

I said my good-byes to Mark and then to Dallas. I assured him that I would be okay. Harry, Eileen's husband who's also a doctor, wrapped my ankle with an ace bandage. "It will keep the swelling down so that you can drive back home." A young volunteer, Natasha, helped me to get a chair and to put my foot up so Harry could do his magic. She had someone to take our picture, and she told me about her husband, who was also a cancer survivor. Cancer survivors are a big family. This Race for the Cure has demonstrated that to me.

As I drove home with the foot and ankle throbbing in pain, I thanked my higher power for again allowing me to do what I do. Yes, I will miss the Columbus Marathon, but there is always next year. If I have to take off from running over the next couple of months, then so be it. There are no broken bones in the ankle and foot, and I would like to keep it that way. Thank you Race for the Cure for making this a memorable experience for me. And thank you Mark and Eileen for my 31 minute (and a few seconds) 5K in my pink NB 769s!