Never say die

Caymen on the right

For someone who had run a total of five miles between Nov 2022 and Oct 2023, the petite 29-year-old with dark brown hair looked incredibly calm staring down the 100 miles that stood between her and the finish.  

Maybe it was the fact that her mileage, all on roads, increased to 317 miles from Nov 2023 to Oct 2024. Then between Nov 2024 through Oct 2025 the mileage total doubled to 619 with her first trail 10K race in Feb 2025. But as she stood at the line of No Business 100 in “no where” Tennessee, she had 1217 miles on her feet from Nov 2025 to Oct 2026, much of that on mountain trail.

Caymen and partner, Laura, joined our band of merry trail runners sometime in 2025. They seemed to embrace the concept of spending hours galivanting along forested trail while absorbing the tales of both triumph and woe from the more experienced women. But to be honest, I didn’t spend a lot of time with them as I was either waiting for knee surgery or recovering from the insertion of a pile of titanium into both knees.

Nevertheless, the other women in our group have an uncanny way of convincing newbies to set goals. Dream big. Do what they once thought impossible. Caymen knocked out a tough and rocky 50 miler last month and plunked down the substantial fee for the privilege of running 100 trail miles through rural Tennessee and bits of Kentucky.

Robin and Caymen

The plan was simple. Run with friend and mentor Robin, a 50-something women who completed this very race last year as her first 100. Both women were being crewed by a cadre of our more experienced members, including myself. Each time we met them at crew-access aid stations, both Caymen and Robin seemed happy and content with their steady progress. All was well – until it wasn’t.

After a long and chilly moon-lit night, Robin arrived alone at mile 85, tears welling up as she told us she had lost Caymen. Caught up in a conversation with other runners, Robin had not noticed Caymen falling behind. Distraught, she was fearful that without encouragement, the blister-ravaged feet of the younger runner would lead to a drop from the race given the ominous text to Laura: “IDK if I can do 15 after I see you.”

At our prodding, Robin and her appointed pacer left to conquer the last fifteen miles leading to the finish. Kim, the ultimate encourager in our group, took off running down the gravel road to discover Caymen actually running up the incline. She looked strong despite the constant pain produced by numerous blisters. When they both arrived back at the aid station, I was elected to guide her to the finish given my 36 years of trail racing experience. I worried - really worried - that I would be too old and slow to do her much good, especially being just four months removed from a total knee replacement.

Large portions of this section were incredibly slow and technical: Slimy rocks, fallen trees, slippery mud, constant ups and downs out of and into creek-laden gullies. We chatted some, Caymen politely listening to my stories to pass the time. I led the way. Her decision. We made progress, howbeit slowly.

Caymen somewhere in the last 15

Glancing at my watch, I asked Caymen how many miles her Garmin watch said we had left. “9” was her answer. Hum. We had three hours before the 34 hour cutoff. 3 miles per hour. 20 minute miles. Sounded doable, right? Maybe. The terrain and legs that had so many miles on them already were not going to make this easy, especially since we were currently slower than the newly established benchmark.

I asked Caymen what she was thinking. “Will you be devastated if you miss the 34 hour mark?” knowing she would still earn a buckle even if finishing over the official time limit.

“No. I just want to finish.”

“Okay. But let’s do our very best so we can say we gave it our all. So here’s the deal. I am the carrot dangling in front of you. Your one and only job is to keep the distance between me and you constant. Got it?”

Still smiling

I stayed out front, adjusting my pace as needed but delighted to see the deep down courage and resilience of my young friend. We started dropping a minute or two off our mile times. Still, the math was a challenge. Could we? Would we? Was it possible to go sub 34? There was no way to tell unless we tried hard. Really hard. Unimaginably hard. It would be no rest for the weary.

When we arrived at the last aid station with 4.2 remaining, the aid station captain informed us we were critically close to the cutoff. That said, I was shocked to see that we had 97 minutes left to run those remaining miles. WHAT?!?! How did that happen? Surely, an official finish was possible after all.

We agreed to dig deep. Do all we could. Run up hills. Hike the unrunnable sections with a vengeance, conquering steep and off-camber trails with precipitous drops should one slip off. On and on we pushed, hope exploding with every step.  If I ran, she ran, somehow convincing those beat-up legs to obey the command. Never once did she protest, complain, or falter. I was utterly amazed, overwhelmed so much by the emotion of it all that the tears welling up in my eyes blurred my vision.

After 100 miles

With less than a mile to go, I glanced up to see a string of about eight runners ahead. Whoa! After being passed by only one runner and his pacer in the last fourteen miles, were we really catching this many people? Caymen and I exchanged knowing smiles as we continued to pound out the waning steps of the race, making definitive passes each time. Now, all that remained was a quarter mile. The finish banner came into view. The applause and cheers of our friends and gathered crowd exploded. Caymen crossed the final timing pad as the clock hit 33:36:22. It was over. Caymen’s relentless forward progress rewarded her with a big shiny buckle and her very first 100 mile finish.

Though 40 years separate our ages, I will be forever grateful for the time spent adventuring in the forest with Caymen. Her courage and inner strength were contagious. I felt a new freedom in my own running, buried deep and forgotten in the last two or three years of frustrating effort.

So thank you, Caymen, for reawakening in me a spirit of hope, perseverance, and never say die attitude. I owe you.

Letters

There are hundreds of letters stored away in a non-descript cardboard box. They are faded and yellowed, each stored in their original envelopes.

There was no email in 1948. No internet. Phone calls were even a challenge because the long distance charges were tough on most folks struggling to put food on the table.

But these letters tell a story. A story that my Mom and Dad worked hard to create and maintain.

The letters are written before my parents married. Dad was working as a dentist at a state home for mentally challenged adults and children. My mother was in nursing school many miles away. Each was written with exceptional detail and patience. And each was treasured so much that they the next survived 80 years, protected by that same old cardboard box and now stored away on my bookshelves.

Reading them gives me insight into the souls of this man and woman. How they thought. What they did. Their priorities and values. Their is so much to learn. To appreciate. To emulate.

My mind goes to other letters. The letters from the hand of God. The letters that tells me how He thinks. What He does. What He values and prioritizes. What He appreciates. What he wants us to emulate.

When I read those cardboard box letters, I get to know my Mother and Father. When I read the Holy book, I get to know that Father.

Both are precious. The later is of eternal value.

Grit or quit?

 

There is a 50% difference between the letters in grit and quit. It takes intentionality to choose which 50% you embrace.

And yes, the pic is ancient. 1997 JFK 50 Mile. But I chose grit, not quit, for the win (literally)

Here's the truth: Crossing the line first isn't always guaranteed even with massive amounts of grit. And when you do cross, more times than not it will not give you the top spot on the podium.

But quit? Quit will never get you there no matter what.

Choose carefully.

Frozen?

Frozen in time? World closing in?

What then?

Hang on.

Huddle up.

Might still be cold but it never always gets worse.

Retired?

I'm retired. Sort of. Not really.

It's been nearly 2 years since I showed up at 7:30 AM and left sometime wayyy later. It was good. I really liked the college kids I worked with and it seemed to be mutual. Still, I didn't shed any crocodile tears on my last day.

I had plans. Speak on more platforms. House projects. Home improvement. Landscaping. Continue to work with coaches and athletes. Earn an EMT certification. Serve the community. Hang out with my grandkid. Train hard for very long races. Publish another book.

And now I'm here. Lots of boxes checked. More to come.

But still, I enjoy not setting an alarm (unless I am the school taxi for my granddaughter). There is more time to read. Stay up late. Experiment with breadmaking. Swim at the Y. Hit the reset button after my surgery. Develop more connections without the pressure of "have to."

I like this life. Not too busy but busy enough.
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If you would like a spot on my retired-not retired calendar, let's talk. It is a true privilege when I "get to" work with coaches and athletes, inspire audiences to do big things, and help teams become their best.

Fishpond lessons

 Fishpond lessons.

The hole is closing, getting smaller by the minute.
Opportunities disappearing.
Hope evasive.

Or. . .
Is the hole actually opening up?
Getting larger by the minute.
Opportunities presenting themselves.

It all depends on your perspective.
The hole is what it is, kept open by the continuous fountain.
But it's a singular snapshot of reality.

Is the hole actually getting bigger or smaller?
If temps are warming, the hole is likely getting bigger.
But if the temps are dropping, the hole might be closing. (Too bad for the 🐟 that swim beneath the surface.

So what do we do with this reality?
What do we do when we feel like life is closing in?
What do we do when we feel opportunities slipping away?

Perhaps we should make like the fish. If history repeats itself, they know how to weather the frigid weather. They slow WAYYYY down. Barely moving. Preserving energy. Biding their time. The rest they get saves them for the future.

And then it eventually warms. Activity increases and productivity rises, fueled by the necessary period of rest and dormancy.

For a multitude of reasons, I feel like I am in a period of dormancy. In fact, the hole may get smaller before it gets bigger. But I'm OK with that.

The thaw will come - eventually - and I'll be OK.

Just 5.99.

 5.99. Not 6. Just 5.99.

A few months ago I would never have let this happen.

I would have walked around the house until my watch reported the nice round number of 6.0 because 5.99 would have made me nuts.

Honestly, it's typical among my running friends. 17.3 doesn't cut it. We run the parking lot until the watch says 17.5, an acceptable number. Or if the watch says 21.6, there is a compulsion to run down the road 0.2 miles and back again to force the watch to read 22.0.

Why? Are we better people when we do this? Is it because we are committed to meeting some arbitrary goal that may or may not be critical? Will we fail in the next race if we don't log the extra 0.4 miles? Probably not.

It's silly, although I can understand that cutting corners can be problematic.

Still, I'm trying hard to let go of that which is inconsequential. Those things that bind me. Imprisons me. Holds me captive to something that doesn't really matter.

It goes beyond making my watch read an acceptable number. I can get hung up on the way my husband puts his newly washed clothes in the drawer. Or obsess over a room that is not spic and span every minute of every day. Or get upset when the salad mix goes bad before the expected date.

I want to focus on what is truly important, not that which holds no significant value.

How about you? What is hard to let go of?