Rebekah Speaks

Pulling into the driveway at 0345, Rachel quickly made her way to the car. The prepared bag of extra clothes and snacks went into the back seat as she claimed the shotgun position. A discussion ensued over which of us slept the least despite valiant efforts to invite slumber. Traveling north toward our destination, the aroma of her warmed-up egg, bacon, and cheese bagel filled my Suzuki. It seemed to provide comfort despite the increasing realization of the task at hand. As I steered the car along the winding mountain roads, eventually turning into the open field that served as the day's parking lot, we glanced at each other after the car came to a stop. Though Rachel had no means of comparison, I noted that the normal fervor accompanying the start of a 50 mile mountain race was missing. Rather, the majority of the Port-a-Potty's stood ready but empty. Small groups of people made the 50-yard trip to the electronic start line to be sent off at five or ten minute intervals. After

Here's the abbreviated version. I started the YETI 100 miler, determined to live out the statement by a friend battling cancer: "Don't you want to know what happens if you don't give up?". I never found out what would happen because I gave up--quit--threw in the towel--at mile 64. Let's not sugar-coat it. I failed. Big time. I am not proud of it. Please don't tell me I'm still a winner for having started. Please don't tell me you don't even like to drive that far. Such platitudes are not helpful. Happy at mile 34 The race didn't start off badly. I felt comfortable running the first 13 miles of the slightly downhill old railroad grade of the Virginia Creeper Trail. The chilly air encouraged a consistent pace, crossing over multitudes of old railroad trestles spiffed up for recreation purposes. When the grade became flat, I wisely heeded the advice of friends who had previously done this race. Be sure to take walk breaks. So I did. Progre

It was a duet of years ago when my 5th book hit the market. When the first wave of books hit the doorstep, I had that same giddy feeling that the arrival of other titles produced deep in my soul. Now, nearing summer's end, one new case of new books arrived in early July, a precursor to a final box that will reveal the product of my recent writing efforts. It's not uncommon to entertain questions about why I write. I never offer the answer that it is because the royalties substantially increase the status of my retirements funds--because that would be an untruth. Besides, I give away a lot of books. Do I tell the inquisitor that I write because it ups my name recognition and popularity? Hardly. That's not true either. So why? Why do I put in so much effort to put electronic pen to paper, agonizing over each word, losing sleep over how the reader will interpret my words, and fixating on where and when to place commas around the words and and but? I guess an honest answer woul

It is a curious working of the mind when impending doom is registered in what feels like a nansecond. One minute I was running along on single track trail, and in the next I was flying through the air, outstretched horizontally, much like I image Superman would do it. But my rendition of Superman was short-lived. My mind registered the rock waiting to greet me. I instinctively turned my head to the right and braced for the inevitable impact. I laid on the ground, head and shoulder sending out rapid-fire distress signals. From the resounding crack of my head hitting the rock, I prepared myself for a bloody mess. My head throbbed, my nose and left eye suggesting a poor outcome if pain was any indicator. Simultaneously, my shoulder screamed out in protest from such a brutal and unexpected encounter with terra firma. Tears birthed from the combination of frustration and pain welled up. Glancing back down the trail, I saw a group of runners approaching. A rush of catecholamines permitted me

For all the expectant mothers out there. A few simple words from someone  who has been there, done that--for whatever it is worth. The drive home from the hospital is idyllic. That sweet child is snuggled down into her spic-and-span car seat, nary a crumb yet to be crushed into the fabric or a juice box spilled. She purses her lips, eyes shut, a little coo escaping when she draws in a contented big breath. It is just how you imagined motherhood to be. The world is aglow with magical unicorns and butterflies. You figure you are off to a great start. How hard can this mothering thing be? It’s not like you haven’t read all the books and listened to the myriad of “how to’s” from other moms. In fact, you should probably be receiving your official “Parenting Specialist” certificate in the mail any day now. After all, you are 100% destined to be an expert mother with all the research you have put into it. It’s in the bag. Easy-peasy. No worries.  And then. . . then you enter the house, th