Sunday, November 4, 2018

The race I did not run

It was the third Saturday in October 1994. As I stood in the dark pondering the day, I was a jumbled mess of nerves gone wild. "Fifty miles? What was I thinking?!?"

But then again, when David Horton, the author of this race through the Blue Ridge, chides you with "Bet you can't run fifty miles," there is no recourse but to prove him wrong.

That was then and this is now. A lot has happened over the years. I've been on the top of the podium, run sub-9 hours, but I've also finished a mere fifteen minutes under the twelve-hour cut-off. I've had twenty finishes and two unfortunate medically-related DNFs. I've run the entire length sweeping the course, nearly getting stranded in Montebello because  everyone had already abandoned the finish line. And then was the time I left Virginia's borders so I would not be tempted to run too soon after extensive feet and ankle surgery. But today I did something very unfamiliar. I drove around the countryside and watched.

Today was all about Hannah Quigg, one of my Jr. Shindigglers. Some years ago, after kids I coached in high school caught the adventure bug and followed me to the mountains in their college years, we formed an unbreakable bond. Together, the five of them and one of me, called ourselves the Shindigglers. Oh how I cherish all the miles we shared, the adventures created, and the honesty and openness the trail seems to produce. We did life together, on and off the rocky, dirt paths we trod.

But now those five have grown up and gone away. Sarah lives in Mexico, is married and has a tiny wee one, a Shindigglet, if you please. Abby joined her beloved in holy matrimony this last summer and works as a critical care nurse in Minnesota. Rebecca is hitched to a preacher. Caroline is in medical school. Kendal lives in Texas and will say "I do" this spring. She, too, is a nurse.

With the original Shindigglers no longer available to hit the trails, I've adopted a small but growing group I call the Jr. Shindigglers. I coached Makena in high school and now as a college student, she is running long and strong. In fact, she ran the four races in the 2017 Lynchburg Ultra Series, including this race of masochistic proportions. And then there is Hannah. A classmate of Makena's, she is one of four Quiggs who called me Coach T, sister to Sarah and Abby. She ran the first three 2017 LUS races, but a week before last year's Masochist, her knee went wonky when playing broom ball on the ice. It took months to heal. So on this fine November day, it was time for the monkey to quit taking a free ride on her back. MMTR 2018 was a 50 mile run for redemption.

The night before the race, I asked Hannah to email crew directions. I know the trail so well I could run from point A to point B with my eyes closed. But drive? I had no idea what roads would get me to one or two aid stations. So with directions and coffee in hand, I set off. It was crisp, the sun shining brightly. The trees shimmered with brilliant golds and yellows, the reds just as fetching. I was constantly wowed at the beauty. I couldn't remember a previous race that rivaled the spectacle. But then again, I was never riding the roads in a car nor hanging at an aid station. I wondered if I had
previously failed to appreciate the finest nature had to offer in the heat of the challenge.

Runners approached the aid station, traveling along the gravel track that parallels a swift, bold stream. I picked Hannah out of the crowd, her running style well known to me. She was cruising along sporting a huge grin. With a hug, a few words of advice, and a quick refuel she was off again.

I ran backwards on the course from the next crew access point. Makena had jumped in to keep her company, making spotting the pair easier than picking out a screaming baby in a Sunday service. Laughter and optimism reigned supreme, even when Hannah participated in an impromptu interview for my cell phone. When we arrived at the aid station it was more advice and encouragement, more food, more progress. The two started up the mountain and I started up the car. Quite the contrast from the last 24 years.

I had plenty of time to socialize at the next three aid stations. Chatter was light and easy with aid workers and spectators. It was getting easier to anticipate Hannah's arrivals because I recognized the runners who ran a few minutes in front of her. But in the quieter moments I projected myself into the race, recalling what it was like to have 30 miles on the legs and 20 more to go. Was I jealous? Hum. "Not sure," I thought as I zipped up my coat and snugged my hood to keep the wind from chilling me to the bone.

The last time I sent Hannah down the trail she was 35 miles into the race. Though still smiling and positive, she was getting tired. Makena's time as a companion runner had come to an end. The last miles were going to be foundational to Hannah's development as an ultrarunner. She needed to set her own pace, find her own limits, and come to understand herself in a whole new way. It was an important fifteen miles in which to embrace suffering, solitude, and sustaining grace.

The clock ticked 11:07 when Hannah Quigg crossed the line, exhausted and beyond happy to bring relentless forward progress to a halt. Sausage-like fingers told the story of fluid shifts and electrolyte imbalances. Reddened skin spoke of the increasing cold and biting wind as the sun dropped below the tree tops. But she smiled. She accomplished the task. She started. She finished. She cemented her role as a second generation Shindiggler.

I could not be happier after a race I did not run.

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

Follow the yellow lines

Jack in his younger days
"Well, you know I can't live here by myself. I'm moving in with you." I guess he was serious. Within a couple days we drove down to his place pulling an enclosed trailer behind the truck. That was the beginning of a whole new reality.

Gary's dad, Jack, boldly made that proclamation back in August. We were rather shocked to find his house in such disrepair, piles of accumulated trash, (most of which were empty ice cream containers), everywhere. Neglected bills hid under the rubble. His neighbors across the street said his decline from ambitious living to hesitant toddling was rapid. It was obvious the time was right to make the move. We packed what we could fit in the trailer and headed back west, leaving for another day the huge task of cleaning out a house and garage filled to overflowing from thirty plus years of accumulated auction finds.

Addy (2) and Great PopPop (92) chat

Great PopPop, as Addyson called him, had an instant impact on our daily lives. At 92, he seemed a bit invigorated by the move. Even as we unloaded the trailer, Seth looked up to see Grandpa barrelling down the hill on his bicycle, both legs spread outward, resembling an ancient PeeWee Herman.Wheeeee! Not too long after his motorcycle was rolled off the truck, I looked out the kitchen window to see him cruising across the yard on his two-wheeled chariot. Oh, boy. This was gonna be a brave new world--for all of us.

Sept 2017 dove hunt
Gary is such a good son. He included his father in garage activities, even if it meant he simply acquired a perch to watch, talk, and sometimes get in the way. When dove season hit, Dad was given the best spot in the field, Gary sitting by his side to ensure that an increasingly confused old man would pull the trigger only when appropriate. (Incidentally, Dad dropped three of those darting fowl to the ground, quite proud that he still had it.) Gary installed a heater in the little out building and bought a special chair with a gun rest so his father could "hunt" deer when that season rolled around. Together, they watched hours of cars shows in the evening at an almost unbearable volume. Dad seemed content and relaxed because his needs--and then some--were taken care of with such love.

Addy and Great PopPop
Then one day we came home. Grandpa and his beat-up, sticker-laden PT Cruiser were gone. It had only been a week since the move. Could he have changed his mind and headed east to his old home? Five hours later and after getting the state police involved, we chased down the blinking dot on the computer screen, thankful that Gary's sister had put tracking on Dad's old flip phone. After driving hundreds of miles up and down I-81, he was finally pulled over. Smiling and clueless, he got out of his car to greet us and the officers. A trip to the Bedford Walmart to get gas for his motorcycle ended in an all-day drive. "But I was just following the yellow lines home," he reasoned. We hid his keys (and ours) from then on.

Wanting to give him an outlet for his decreasing mobility and balance, we got Dad a Kubota RTV to drive around the farm. Along with that, we ordered five extra keys. Grandpa got into the habit of slipping the keys into a pocket or selecting a hiding spot. He
Jack's Kubota
was proud and protective of his new go-anywhere vehicle (which we hoped would NOT include public roads and a return trip to Walmart). One problem though; he kept forgetting what he did with his keys. Our stash of keys became golden.

In his younger years, Jack used to be--well, opinionated. Conspiracy theories, doctor ineptness, and politician antics were topics to avoid when he was around. But now, as the growing dementia smoothed out the jagged edges of criticism, his demeanor became kinder and gentler, gracious and thankful. And his humor? Oh, how he liked to laugh!

Ever see the Dominoes commercial where the guy pulls into his icy driveway, a tree falls onto his car, and then, pizza in hand, he goes topsy-turvey into the air, the pizza splattering across the snow? Dad belly laughed each and every time the commercial came on. We laughed at him laughing, grateful that his dwindling memory made even the most repetitive things funny and new.

Or how about the oft-played Alka-Seltzer Plus commercial? This one shows a woman driving along, miserable with a terrible cold. The camera pans out to show she had left her bag of groceries on the roof of her car. Of course, the bag tumbles onto the road, contents sprawling everywhere. One day, Grandpa's commentary to his care-taker and companion was this: "That woman is so stupid! She does that several times a day!" How could we not laugh at that?

Circa '44. Jack flew, but not at Pearl Harbor
Dad could tell some stories as well, some of which got more and more intriguing the further along he got in his illness. After watching a documentary with Gary, Dad somehow inserted himself into the action at Pearl Harbor. With each telling, the story became more fully developed. Now mind you, he was 16 years old and in high school at the time of the attack. But regardless, the last edition was just about two weeks ago when he reported that after swooping down from 30,000 feet in his fighter jet, he pulled along side a Japanese Zero. Wingtip to wingtip, he described the terror on the enemy's face, tempted to pull the handgun from his holster to end the other's life. Deciding to let him live, he demonstrated how he repeatedly stroked across the extended pointer finger of one hand as if to say, "Shame on you!!!" That was a new ending. We tried hard to repress our giggles.

Of course, there were a million other entertaining stories, proclamations that he owned our house and all the motorcycles, nighttime forages for food, and the rapid decline in reasoning. It was hard to be patient and loving at times, frustrated with this extra adult in the house who required such help and understanding. Every aspect of our lives revolved around him, making change after change as required. I would be a liar to say it was easy.

Hunting at age 85
And then he entered the pain cave. We had no choice but to follow him into that dark and dank cavern. At times it seemed deep and bottomless. Advancing cancer ferociously attacked his spine and lungs. A monster blood clot blocked blood flow into his legs. He rapidly transitioned from ambulation, to wheelchair, to confined to the bed. Medication levels rose quickly to track the crescendoing pain. He writhed and grimaced and called out as we scrambled to get him relief. 39 discs of the Andy Griffith shows were meant as a distraction in his more lucid moments. We hired in overnight help so we could sleep a few hours, before weaving together a tapestry of student nurses and others to help when they could. But even in the midst of the chaos, Grandpa was grateful, kind, sweet, and gentle. Without exception, everyone said so. It was so true.

1993 road trip, Jack and Gary
Medically, there were desperate times. But in those last days, Grandpa rested comfortably, unaware his body was growing weary and worn. Loud, rhythmic breathing became the constant white noise in our home. But something changed yesterday. His breathing, once rapid but steady and deep, began to slow. I sat by his bed, his fevered hand in mine. From thirty-two breaths a minute to ten, and then five. The time was near. Without strain, his previously furrowed brow relaxed, he drew in a breath, closed his mouth as if to smile, and gently exhaled. This man who was a son, a husband, a father, a grandfather, a great-grandfather, and a great-great grandfather had stepped across heaven's threshold into the presence of the Father.

Well done, good and faithful servant. You followed the yellow lines home to the streets of gold.

Jack Harold Trittipoe  June 22. 1925 to April 24, 2018

Saturday, March 17, 2018

How's it going?

"Challenge accepted," I typed without thinking. Oops. Now I was morally bound to follow through.

What had I done? Early this morning, before the day's preparations of the Lady Flames Basketball team for their first game in the NCAA Division 1 tourney, I hastily jotted a Facebook note to Jenna, a friend and talented writer celebrating another birthday. I typed, "Sure hoping your day is special in many ways. Write a blog post!"

Wouldn't you know it? She did, and then promptly wrote back. "Your turn. Enjoy the first round of the tournament!" including one of those winking smiley faces for added pressure. Hence, I am sitting in the hotel lobby at 10:30 pm pecking away on the keyboard.

But there's a problem. What moves me to write is usually a significant event; a race, adventure, or major life occurrence. Tonight it's hard to pinpoint what is appropriate e-scribble subject matter. So I'll begin, but I have no earthly idea where (or when or how) this will end.

This is my first trip with a team where I am not the coach. I serve as the chaplain for this college
basketball team, and that role is quite different from what I'm used to. Great, but different. My goal is to challenge and motivate, be faithful to the Truth, and live life along side these women. Sometimes it feels "right," like when you get in a grove on the court and everything works. But there are those other moments that make you feel more like parsley on a plate; not good for much except adornment. Don't get me wrong. I am thrilled and privileged to be here. It's just hard to remember that I am only called to be obedient in serving; it's God's job to make change.

Then there is the situation at home. Gary's dad came to live with us last August. It's been hard. Really hard. And now he's dying. Yes, we are all technically dying, but he is officially in hospice in our home and declining quickly. He requires 24/7 care with someone sitting close by at all times. His ability to process is almost non-existent. He doesn't sleep through the night, sometimes getting up and banging around four or more times a night. In the last few days, a walker and wheel chair have been added to our houseful of eldercare "stuff."  Tomorrow night will mark the first time we hire in help from 10 p.m. until 6 a.m.. Life is increasingly more difficult for Grandpa. Life is logistically more complicated and exhausting for us.
And what about running? Long jaunts along mountain trails have always been my decompression strategy when the noose tightens to uncomfortable levels. But I am still not able to run. I am in my fifth month since I last raced my 20th Mountain Masochist 50 Mile race. The injury I thought would just go away has persisted. In December, I made a decision to hit Reset, giving myself permission to initiate a temporary moratorium on training after racing the long stuff for nearly 25 years. I can now walk and hike fast, but the running motion is not well-tolerated. I've seen a variety of doctors, each with a different opinion. So I continue to build strength and flexibility for those muscle groups most likely contributing to my ills.

So there you have it. Whah. Whah.Whah. I sound like a whiney-piney little girl; discontented and ego-centric. I don't want to be that way. As much as chronic complainers annoy me, I feel like I am dangerously close to being relegated to that category myself. But here is the dilemma: How do I answer the ubiquitous question: "How's it going?" Those words flow easily from the lips of strangers on the street. Casual acquaintances voice the question as they pass by in the hallways at work. And even our best friends ask absentmindedly, often failing to push the pause button on the conversation to allow a thoughtful response.

Have to be honest. I loathe that question nowadays because I absolutely have no idea how to answer it. If I unload all my present challenges on that stranger, they are certain to run. The acquaintances will spread the word throughout the office to keep a safe distance, and the close friends will simply quit asking.

What to do? Do I paste on a smile and lie through my teeth? "Oh, I'm GREAT!" sounding like good 'ol Tony the Tiger in the Frosted Flakes commercials of old? Or do I go to the other extreme and tell the inquisitor every detail of Grandpa's latest craziness accompanied with a complete anatomical explanation of my injury? Or perhaps there is a middle ground. Sounding rather pious, I could give a little head nod, draw in a calculated breath, and with a smidgen of piousness, offer the t-shirt worthy quip, "Well, life is hard but God is good."

Before I go further, let me say that I have many things for which to be thankful. My granddaughter is an absolute joy. My love for her father and his brother and girlfriend huge. My husband is a remarkable man and my forever guy. Our church is family and a source of encouragement. Ministry on campus is growing at a furious pace. So why is it so hard to answer such a simple question?

I suspect my problem is that the difficult, hard things tend to crowd out the pleasant. It's not an uncommon phenomena. I think back to the middle of some tough races. I am suffering big time with more miles ahead than behind. My stomach churns, my legs are mush, and tears of self-pity stain my cheeks. My weak brain is kidnapped and chained to the misery of the moment. If I allow this to continue, my demise is certain at the next aid station.

Aerial photo of corn maze
Although the pain and suffering is real, to focus on it in a negative sense is suicide. In those darkest times, my only chance of survival is to actually embrace the pain for what it is; an opportunity to explore new limits, the impetus to achieve what seemed so improbable moments prior, and the chance to rise above the fray to see the whole experience from a drone's vantage point. It is a choice to think this way, but takes maturity and discipline.

So, you ask, "How's it going?"

Be patient with me. I'm still working on my answer, but think I'm closer now than I was. (BUT, if you could buy me a little more time before asking me THE question, I sure would appreciate it!)

Tuesday, December 26, 2017


Starting over. Reset. Been there. Done that.

For example: Accidentally hit the "Yes" in response to "Are you sure you want to delete?" Hate it when that happens! Or, in an intense game of Chutes and Ladders(TM), land on the big slide just a few spaces from the winning space, careening back down the twisty-turny slide to the bottom. Bummer.

Or how about this? Finish yet another ultra with no real difficulties, only to realize in the following days that one leg and knee are jacked up for no good reason. Time to start again. Time to reset.

It's been 51 days since I completed my 20th finish at the Mountain Masochist 50 Miler. There were no falls, slips, or stumbles, as I recall. Just tired legs by the time I reached the finish. However, in the following days--and now weeks--there has been ill-defined pain behind and on the medial side my left knee. I can't really decide where it hurts, but it does, sometimes more than others. I keep thinking it will get better. I've gotten help from a chiropractor who discovered problems with L4, L5, and S1. Hamstring involvement is likely. Some aspects of the injury seem to have improved, but I still can't run for any distance, if at all.

On Christmas Eve's eve my leg felt almost normal. With great joy, I clipped on a light and headed out the door to once again test the waters. Though I coughed and sputtered from the pneumonia I recently acquired (no joke, and confirmed with an x-ray), I made my way up our hilly driveway, through the trees, and turned onto the country road. It was warmer than expected, cloudy, with a sliver of moon yielding silvery shadows. Almost no pain! I thanked God before I allowed my mind to race along to thoughts of which hundred milers I wanted to tackle this year. The feeling was glorious.

Then I completed the first mile and the night turned a deeper shade of dark.

The stupid pain that I can't even pinpoint attacked along the country road. By the time I completed the measly 3.6 miles, my previous elation turned to depression. And when the ache kept me from sleeping, and the morning light provided no relief, the feeling was more like despair. It was not the first time this ever-changing cycle of emotion spun out of control.

I've had set-backs before. Nine metatarsal fractures, a femoral neck fracture, surgery on both feet and an ankle, an avulsion fracture of the tibial aponeurosis, and a variety of other twists and sprains all in the first five years of taking to the trails. But in each case, I knew what was wrong. I was not forced to live in the vacuum of uncertainty, left to wonder if my running days had unceremoniously come to an end.

I'll admit it. These weeks have been so hard. I miss the freedom of escaping into the mountains to see the sun rise as the valley mist dissipates. I yearn to feel the wind blow through my hair as the miles click by, accompanied only by the steady metronomic rhythm of each foot plant.

I hate this. I am a runner but I can hardly run. (Or wait, do I cease to be a runner if I do not run? Sad, if that is the case.) Yes, I know intellectually that my worth is not determined by how far or fast I run, but still, I do not like this. Not one teensy-weensy, ittsy-bittsy bit.

It was cold last night, Christmas day, but I had some thinking to do. With coat, hat, and gloves, I took to the same road as the other night. But this time, I walked briskly, hiked even, holding back my natural inclination to run. I was conscious of form, careful to be as biomechanically sound as humanly possible. I felt discomfort just a tad short of PAIN, albeit bearable. My hope was that I could return home and avoid sleep-robbing pain.

Today the air was once again sharp, wind biting. Hat, coat, gloves again. I headed off on a gravel road with focused attention to form and function. At times my leg felt like it had a mind of its own as I made my way down the familiar mountain. Then up, up, up. I hiked with intensity, having to shed the coat with increasing effort. Rising heart rate with the faster pace satisfied something deep inside.

2018 will mark the twenty-fifth anniversary of my love affair with connecting long distances between mountain points A and B and C. From the time David Horton quipped, "Bet you can't run 50 miles," I ferociously chased competition, training relentlessly and despite injury. My thirst for accomplishment was insatiable. So insatiable, in fact, that for a period of time, I lost perspective about what was most important in life. It did not ruin my marriage or traumatize my kids (I hope), but it didn't help either. Adjustments had to be made if I was to survive intact physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

By God's grace, this quarter century of ultrarunning has held a plethora of challenges, memories to make, and stories to tell. There have been countless goals set, trails traversed, and races run. There has been joy and sadness, tears and triumphs. But maybe now a rest is in order.

It is scary to say this in a public forum, for with it comes accountability. Today I concluded that I need to take a temporary break and reset. Go back to the beginning and start over. I need to look in the mirror and say to that person, "It's okay to not race ultras-at least for a period of time. It's okay to be 'normal.'" (I take no pleasure in being normal!) It is imperative to put my ego back in the box rather than feel like I have something to prove to myself and others. I need a change of pace. I need renewal in body, mind, and spirit.

So this is how I see it play out:
1) I will not race throughout the coming spring season, though I will stay involved with the ultra
2) If my leg does not protest too much, I will predominately take long walks, hike rather than run, praying that healing will come with time.
3) I will be intentional with the slower pace of hiking (compared to running), taking advantage of the extra moments of solitude and introspection.
4) I will work on getting stronger all over by cross-training and strength-training so that when the time comes (assuming it does), I can run far into my 60s (and 70s) protected by that strength.
5) I will put to good use the hours not training and focus on being a better wife, mother, and grandmother, putting pen to paper on the two books in progress, fostering relationships, and expanding opportunities for ministry.

There has been a lot of pressure to perform (mostly self-inflicted) over the last twenty-five years. I'm curious how all this will flesh out. In fact, I have no guarantee the injury is temporary, which would require a vastly different strategy. But until I know, a course adjustment is necessary.

In reality, I need to hit the reset button. I need to breath. I need to recover. I need to re-access and re-energize. I need to reform.

Stay tuned.

Sunday, November 5, 2017

What was I thinking?

"I could probably run 9:30 in my sleep." Oh foolish woman. How could I have spawned such an idiotic thought?

Picking up my race number with granddaughter Addyson
It was in 2000 that Kathy Youngren and I crossed the finish line of the Mountain Masochist 50 Mile Run in 9:28:39. We had tied for third place, both of us feeling under-trained and not the happy recipients of races well run. Hence, if I could run 9:28 under those circumstances surely "I could run 9:30 in my sleep." I had, in fact, run under nine hours on one occasion and had a number of finishes between 9 and that 9:28. How hard could it be to continue to run this race in the span of what amounts to a typical work day?

I was 43 when I ran 9:28. Ten years hence at 53, I ran 10:18. Now, at 60, it's almost unfathomable to think I could ever break 11 hours again. My posted time this year was 11:28.

Time is not kind.

The goal was to make this year's race my 20th finish. I did not want to screw it up and have to
attempt a finish with another birthday under my belt. Two years ago I was shocked to have a whisker-thin two-minute buffer from being pulled at mile 41. I made up some time and finished in 11:45ish. Running panicked for the remaining miles was like being chased by the Grim Reaper in a bad nightmare. I had no desire to repeat chasing cutoffs this year.

Photo by Jay Proffitt
With course changes over the last couple years, the course had become harder and slower. I was ecstatic that race director Clark Zealand, in an effort to give the older set a fighting chance, initiated an optional two-hour head start for 60+ folks. The option was in place last year, and I looked forward to using it this year. However, my goal was still a "real" finish in under 12 hours. I just preferred not to have the pressure of running from the back of the pack.

There were four of us at the 4:30 a.m. start. Clark sent us into the night with a whispered "go." By the time we left the hard surface road to turn onto trail, I had left my fellow sexagenarians. Over the river and through the woods I ran. On two occasions I roused small herds of deer. I felt free and unencumbered. It was effortless. Pure bliss. The woods were mine and mine alone.

Though my finish time might refute, I ran with an illusion of speed. I hiked with purpose and power. As I approached the aid station at Dancing Creek after about a dozen miles, the little oasis with nary a spectator applauded my arrival. I was the first to partake from the tables and could have anything I wanted! The workers sent me along the trail wishing me the best. I ran back into solitude, caressed by the darkness and embraced by the silent forest.

My arrival at subsequent aid stations produced interesting reactions. I'm pretty sure they never got the memo that old people had been released early. Therefore, I often repeated, "Don't be too impressed. I had a two-hour head start."

Refueling at mile 38ish
As time rolled as I ran, I figured the lead male runners might catch me about halfway in. After all, they would likely beat me by 3.5 - 4 hours! Sure enough, my watch registered 5:01 run time when the #1 runner passed by. It was about mile 25. # 2 and 3 passed me around 27, with the next few catching me further up the Buck Mountain climb. Each were encouraging, for which I was grateful. Still, I braced myself for the emotional impact that might come as the lead women (and anyone who ended up running about 9:30 or better) passed me.

I started seeing women in the loop at approximately 36 miles. My legs could run flats and downs, but my engine lost power on any climbs. Though somewhat embarrassed to be caught at my weakest, I made sure that each knew they had nothing to fear from me. They were a whole two hours ahead! But goodness, the top five were separated by mere minutes. I recalled how stressful it used to be running scared to stay ahead, or pursuing relentlessly from behind. I did not envy them. Running under duress was never something I particularly enjoyed.

I tried hard to practice the lessons I teach the younger women athletes I work with: Embrace the pain. Enjoy the journey. Suffering is necessary for growth. Make God smile with attitudes and action. The magic of the first five hours vanished. Perfect temps and brilliantly leaf-colored vistas disappeared into the thick fog, heavy downpours, and falling temperatures. The race turned tough and hard, and I had decisions to make on how to proceed.

Finished in 11:38
It was necessary to have multiple discussions with myself about not giving up, not settling for a so-so finish. I needed to run when I could run. Hike when I needed to hike. Yes. I was tired. Yes. Going up steep grades was punishing. But there was really nothing wrong with me other than fatigue. I could
still run and run I must. It was a conscious decision to make my heart rule the body.

As I approached the finish line, which was set up under the protection of a huge circus tent, I was happy to be completing the course through the mountains. I was even happier to stop running.

I accomplished the task. No, the time I ran was a far cry from what I used to do. I'll never be in the top ten again no matter how hard I wish it to be. Time is not a friend to speed and endurance. But, it is only time that can offer perspective; perspective on reality, perspective on what's important, perspective on training, and family, and resources, perspective that nothing stays the same, and perspective that NOT staying the same is a very good thing.

I am blessed.

Monday, October 30, 2017

Time marches on

Photo by Seth Trittipoe (614 Studio)
There he was. Sitting amidst his belongings accumulated over a life time, apparently unfazed by the chaos around him.

On this day he was insistent on returning to his home after moving into ours. We were concerned it would be too difficult since the goal was to empty his house and sell what we could. Some of us arrived on Friday and began the lengthy process of sorting, moving, organizing, but mostly discarding. Nevertheless, on Saturday morning he got in the car with my husband, Gary, and made four hour trip. Upon arrival, a kind neighbor escorted him to his house across the street, offering ice cream and car shows on TV as motivation to visit. But after some time, my father-in-law tootled back across the street, anxious to see what was going on.

We watched anxiously as he made his way to the already-packed dumpster to view the contents. Would he pull that old, stained coat back out? Would he fuss about the broken-up bookshelf that had to be trashed? Though he said nothing, he silently perused the pile of discarded items before moving to the box spring positioned in the middle of the front lawn. He unceremoniously took a seat. There, surrounded by furniture, dishware, appliances and pictures, he flipped through the colorful pages of one particularly interesting book out of the 1000's he had accumulated.

My husband and son, Seth, huddled together by the truck. "Come here," they requested. "Look at this." Before glancing down at Seth's camera, I noticed the guys both had misty eyes. I wondered why, but not for long. Peering at the recorded images, the significance of the moment was captured. There was Dad, now in 90's, surrounded by a yard-ful of "stuff," and absolutely none of it mattered. Now I cried.

This transition has probably been harder for us than for Dad. He often has difficulty remembering from one minute to the next. He searches for words that never come. Even the simplest, repetitive tasks can seem like insurmountable challenges. He does seem to appreciate the items we saved to fill his room, most of which have special meaning: pictures of his now-deceased wife, a record-breaking turkey mount he shot years ago when hunting with Gary, and memories of his time in the Army Air Corp back in the 1940's.

On a good day, he can enter into brief conversation, especially if it concerns something far in his past. He is never mean or cantankerous, but mostly sits in silence, nodding off from time to time. Bring him a cup of coffee and he is sure to say, "Thank you, dear. Thank you" in all sincerity. Dad is kind and sweet, even if unaware and detached most of the time.

He does many odd things that cause us to either shake our head in disbelief or try to suppress a chuckle. Some of the stories he comes up with make us laugh, like when he told us last night that he and some of his boyhood friends got on their bicycles and pedaled to Alaska. (He lived in Illinois.) The search for the thirty pound white rabbit that he swears he has seen for years has reached near-epic tale status.

Great PopPop sits with Addy in his car
Dad needs help with nearly everything. Thankfully, he no longer drives, after an intended five-mile trip to the local Walmart turned into a 300 plus-mile adventure when he could not find his way home. He forgets how to make his oatmeal, requires assistance in showering, and needs his clothes laid out. Though we prepare healthy meals, he merely nibbles, preferring to eat gallons of ice cream throughout the days. We never know what we will find in (or out) of the refrigerator or freezer.

Sometimes Dad will get up and start wandering around. Yesterday we watched him open the front door, bowl of dry Cocoa Puffs in hand, and make his way down to the barn despite the wind, cold, and rain. We have no idea what he did or why he went. Countless other times, he ends up in the kitchen opening cupboard doors, unable to articulate what he is looking for. We've noticed he starts humming when he is clueless. He hums a lot these days. We'll watch as he picks up a mug, adds at least a quarter cup of brown sugar, fills it halfway with water, all before microwaving his "coffee." There is neither rhyme nor reason for 98.7% of what he does.

I don't think he processes very well. During a World Series game, I asked him who was winning. He said, "This pitcher is doing great. He just struck out this guy." In actuality, the hitter just put one over the fence as the crowd went wild. He seldom knows what day it is, and gets very confused if one of us is late in coming home. When our cat decides to change her hang-out spot, Dad is sure that kitty has been lost forever. He loves to watch car shows but when asked, is unable to describe what is happening. (He will, however, belly-laugh at many of the commercials.)

Having Dad in the home has changed our dynamic. It is difficult and sometimes frustrating. We have to give special attention in making sure he is not home alone for too long. Plans we had to get away have been abandoned since he is unable to stay by himself. He does crazy stuff that can be so bothersome and annoying. And yet, having him here is giving us (make that "I") opportunity to develop patience and graciousness, to extend mercy and understanding, and to be loving and kind despite the circumstances.

We can learn from Addy. Addy loves her Great PopPop unconditionally, even though she told him last night he was too old to race
Sweet times between a 2 yr old and a 92 yr old
motorcycles. She lays her little head onto his lap and tells him "I love you." She gives nighttime smooches without hesitation.

Dad laughs out loud when Addy uses the couch as a trampoline, dumps out her toys and books, or adamantly exclaims, "I don't like vegetables." He beams when the Little Princess takes the house by storm on her scooter.

See, I guess Dad knows that all the "stuff" he no longer has wasn't really that important in the first place. He doesn't like his forgetfulness or declining mobility. But he values a grown son who will bath, dress him, and cut his gnarly toenails, a grandson who will drive him to appointments, and a great granddaughter who brings much joy to his life.

Not long ago, I was particularly frustrated. Dad just seemed to occupy every spot I needed to be in while preparing dinner. He had made a mess of the kitchen, there was brown sugar everywhere, and I found--once again-- his dirty dishes back in the drawers with the clean ones. Not life or death, but aggravating all the same.

Later on that evening and in a hurry, I was rushing to his room to put away laundry. I stopped short of the door. Dad was in there praying out loud (and in the Kings James vernacular, I must add.) "Oh mighty God, we thank thee for all thy blessings. . ."

Dead in my tracks, I halted--and then cried. It must be hard to get old. But Dad is doing it with as much grace as possible. He holds onto love. He holds onto hope. He holds onto His Father.

"Father God, help me be more patient and kind. Help me love well even when it's inconvenient. Rid me of my selfishness that comes on all too easily. Let me learn from this man while he is in our home. Help me always hold him in highest esteem, and honor him as a man of God, the father of my husband, grandfather to my sons, and great-grandfather to our precious Addyson Leona. Amen."

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Encouragement for all former coaches

I used to be a coach.

I loved being a coach.

My life revolved around the responsibilities of being a coach. The plan started broadly but narrowed. Seasons broke down into months, months into weeks, weeks into days. Many factors came into play: schedules, goals, age and talent of kids, weather, facilities, conditions.

I was a hands-on coach. I never asked the kids to do anything I would not do. If I asked them to suffer, I suffered as well. It was them and me that always become a "we"; for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, we did it, so help us God.

Coaching was not easy, nor was it always fun. But then again, most things of worth are not without difficulty and challenge. Sometimes it was a grind, especially if I was already dead-tired after a long day. There were occasional behavioral issues and conflicts that required extra energy. It was impossible to please every athlete (or parent) with decisions and plans. A utopia it was not.

Coaching was an opportunity to teach not only athletic skills and process, but model the deeper things in life; perseverance, excellence, duty, responsibility, teamwork and selflessness. See one, do one, teach one.

I struggled with discouragement as a coach. Was there anything I did or said that merited remembering? Was there any positive impact from spending time with me? There were many days I concluded the answer was "no."

And then came Sarah, Micah, Abby, Rebecca, Caroline, Kendal, and Nicole, to mention but a few.

With one exception, each of these girls are now college grads. One is a teacher in Mexico and soon to be married. Two are headed for medical school come August. Two are beginning their careers as critical care nurses. Another is teaching Spanish while working on a graduate degree. The other? She is a college senior and is on a sure path to medical school as well. All are highly motivated and proficient in their chosen fields. All tell me they are building off of what they learned from me as a coach and now a friend. That makes my heart smile.

Micah has had a stellar career at the University of Virginia as a top 800 meter runner. The other six are charter Shindigglers. Together we have covered miles and miles of mountain trails. We have shared life and love, pain and struggle, challenges and breakthroughs. These kids were a joy to coach as high school students and continue to encourage me through tough times of self doubt. I suspect, however, they have no idea what they have meant and now mean to me.

These young women give me hope that maybe what we experienced as coach and athlete had some lasting impact. They still write me notes that I will cherish 'til I die. Micah recently asked if she could share a letter I penned before her last run as a high school student. She read it to the UVA track team before the ACC championships, saying it opened the tear gates. It was hard to believe she had kept it over the years. It was even more amazing that it meant something to her.

I miss the relationship-building opportunities I had as a coach. I long to see young athletes develop from season to season. To not have a team to call my own leaves me feeling empty. But while that role as coach may be in the past, I draw strength that for at least a few, I may have served a purpose.

Coaches, be encouraged. Sometimes what we do actually matters in the long run.

The race I did not run

It was the third Saturday in October 1994. As I stood in the dark pondering the day, I was a jumbled mess of nerves gone wild. "Fift...