Rebekah Speaks

Nearly 300 runners gathered by the small lake, ready to begin the fifty-mile journey ahead. With headlamps casting beacons of light into the darkness, the mass of adventurers ventured off at the appointed time. They sauntered around the lake, up the hill, and onto the country road that would lead them to the trailhead. I was part of that crowd, seeking to complete my 19th official journey along the entirety of the course. I was chatting with a group of friends that complete this race as a social event. Each could run much faster than they do, but they enjoy the simple pleasure of getting from point A to point B with smiles on their faces and not much impact to their bodies. Andrew Thompson was one of the gang, a former record holder on the Appalachian Trail. He, too, was en route to his 19th passage of the Mountain Masochist 50 Mile Run through the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. We moved down the road spread from shoulder to shoulder. I was on the left most edge of the road wh...

I interrupted my desk work by heading out the door into the sunshine of a clear fall day. Running shoes laced, I decided a tour of the ever-changing landscape of Liberty University would be a good step in the right direction. With multiple construction projects happening simultaneously, it's hard to keep up with all the changes. The constant beep-beep-beep of trucks backing up make harmony with the explosion of nail guns. Steel workers prance atop the makings of the expansive domed roof of the new indoor football field, seemingly oblivious to the height and treacherous slope. Cranes, like monstrous prehistoric creatures, loom overhead, steel beams dangling as they are coaxed into place. Backhoes dig as bulldozers push. It's quite the sight and even a bit distracting to the runner afoot. Enjoying the entertainment the construction world was providing, I came upon two workers on either side of the road. Each sat atop an over-turned five-gallon bucket. Both had been assign...

Good gracious. Is this what it means to get old? Am I on the fast train to senior citizenship? Geezerhood? Is this the beginning of the end? I'm out of bed and writing at 1:45 a.m. and have no idea where this story is going. That can't be good. Maybe it's because I am in the post Muddy Muck Madness phase of life. The mud and obstacle run is the sole event each year that serves to put much needed resources into my self-funded FCA ministry . I love this race, this frolic (or more like a wallow) through the bogs that steal both dignity and shoes, across fields, through tunnels and creeks, along wooded trails, and across precarious floating bridges that stretch across the lake. And this year, the task of preparation escalated exponentially with the construction of a true-blue 120' water slide. Lots of people showed up this past Saturday, the air horn sounded, and mud flew. Then as quickly as the race began, the muck-laced racers drove away, leaving me with the daunting...

I didn't get much sleep last night. I was enjoying a quiet evening in my room. It was the calm before 150 girls would storm the Blue Ridge Assembly property for Girls Black Mountain Sports Camp. I sat propped up in bed, thin mint Oreos by my side (which I must say are fabulous), computer screen glowing with various race-link tabs set to follow the progress of runners at the Western States 100 Mile Endurance Run. Life was good living vicariously through the internet connection. When a lull in reporting occurred, I decided to check in with my dear mother. I cheerfully greeted her when she answered the phone. Her response was anything but. It was, well, dull, nearly silent. Mother with newborn Addyson in better times "I don't feel good, Rebekah. I don't know what to do." Her voice was wistful and faltering, perhaps even fearful. I could tell she was in a bad way. Attentive to her concerns, I finally convinced her to reach out to the retirement community's...

A week ago this time, I was half-way through the Promise Land 50K, striding along forested trails, and along creeks running more swiftly than me. The misty, damp conditions, bright green tunnels of foliage, and the sweet siren songs of the birds produced a level of tranquility not often experienced in this fast-paced world. I embraced being there. I eagerly accepted the challenges. But I could not help but remember that this race was in reality a box needing to be checked off. Today, I am sitting on my bed with six inches of stitches and staples in my face, along with a swollen jaw line. Some may even mistake me to be Herman Munster's second cousin. I've been told the importance of laying-low, doing nothing, in order to guarantee an acceptable aesthetic result. And all this because of a little bump. When I nonchalantly asked my family physician about a round, hard lump along my jawline back in January, she waved it off as nothing but a cyst. Still, in the interest of safe...

For days before the race, I dreamed about an epic performance. With surgery looming in a few days to have a tumor removed, I wanted to battle the challenging course with all I had as it led me up, over, around, and down the mountains. I wanted to collapse across the line totally spent, exhausted, hauled away from the finish line fray by concerned onlookers. Then, I wanted my legs to be so trashed from the extreme effort that it would force me to limp my way into the hospital, embracing a great anesthesia-induced sleep. It just seemed to be the right approach under the circumstances. Perhaps a bit melodramatic, but the way it should be. Pre-race fun So why was I smiling when I crossed the line? Why was I not hurting badly on the final four-mile descent, despite a respectable pace? And now, why am I able to stand from a seated position without difficulty or use of my hands? Why am I able to do stairs without grimacing? Why, oh, why? One possible answer to the question is that I w...

What is there about a campfire? Is it the smoke floating into the sky, twisting and turning along with the breeze? Or is it the snap, crackle, pop as the wood combusts before creating a smoldering layer of coals just perfect for marshmallow roasting? Perhaps it's the laughter and light-hearted conversation of those who gather around. But on Friday night, I think it was all of that--and more. It was the evening before the first rendition of the Dam 50K in Sandy Level, VA. After several years of bartering with Home Land Security and Appalachian Electric Power, permission was granted the YMCA race directors to begin and end the race at Smith Mountain Lake Dam. That's all David Horton, the experienced RD, needed to design a unique 50K curse. . . I mean course. None of us knew quite what to expect except to know the whole event would be "interesting." And it was. From the hotdogs cooked over an open fire, to s'mores made with flaming Peeps and huge chocolate...

Source: Liberty University Website I was glued to the screen, my heart beating as furiously as it does in a tight, long race. "Yes. . . Noooo. . .Don't be dead, Sid. Open your eyes, get up. Show me you're okay. . .Come on. . . Grab it. . . Go in, go in. . . Rebound!" I didn't want to miss a second of the action as I watched the saga unfold. Back and forth went the lead in this championship game. It seemed that the destiny of the world was riding on whether or not a round, orange ball dropped through an 18 inch diameter rim perched 120 inches off the hardwood floor. Now rewind. I've competitively played a lot of different sports throughout my high school, college, and adult athletic careers, but basketball was never one of them. I think I could have been a decent player but alas, gymnastics was held the same season. I tumbled, leaped, and flew through the air rather than dribbling and passing around the court. Nevertheless, it is basketball that now hol...

OK, class. Use the word "passion" in a sentence. Take a second to think about it. If you watch American Idol or Shark Tank, contestants will make tearful claims of being so passionate that failure is not an option. Parents tell their children, "Follow your passion." Couples lock lips when filled with "passion," a hormone-driven physiologic sensation. But I bet you never equated passion with suffering. Neither did I until I saw a friend's Facebook post. “Passion has little to do with euphoria and everything to do with patience. It is not about feeling good. It is about endurance. Like patience, passion comes from the same Latin root: pati. It does not mean to flow with exuberance. It means to suffer.” ― Mark Z. Danielewski I don't know this Danielewski character. Therefore, I Googled him. He's an author of books I have never read. Looks to be fairly successful in terms of his marketability. But was his quote about passion correct? Di...

Being a parent of an athlete can be hard. We want to walk that infinitesimally thin line between commitment and obsession. We want them to excel and achieve. We want them to feel empowered by their fitness and recognize the true gift they have been given. But what about injury? What about burnout? Is there such a thing as too much, too early? Should they be multi-sport or stick with one activity? I was recently interviewed on WSET's Living in the Heart of Virginia, talking about an upcoming program to discuss these topics. Check it out! Sports in America 2-17-16Are sports right for your child and how do you protect against injuries and burnout. These are many of the questions that will be answered in an upcoming talk at LC. Posted by Living in the <3 of Virginia (LHOV) on Wednesday, February 17, 2016

I am a couple weeks away from my 59th birthday. I've been running the long stuff for more than two decades. I used to finish at or near the front. Now, I run much more slowly and methodically. Occasionally, the pressure of making cut-offs  digs deep into my soul and keeps a fire burning that carries me to the finish. But even so, sometimes I don't even walk away with the "Grand Masters" title because another "old lady" completed the course before me. Since my slippery slide down the record book columns, untold numbers of young people have joined the ultra parade. They didn't know me "back when." In fact, they probably don't know me - period. So, here's the million dollar question: Why would a great company with growing market share ask me to be an ambassador for their products? I've been an UltrAspire ambassador for several years, and with an overflowing bucket of gratitude signed a contract for another twelve months just thi...