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
Obituary

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!)

Reset

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
community.
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.

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.

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."

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.

A perfect opportunity. Not a perfect race.

"Hey," David Horton blurted out. "There are some kids here that want to talk to you."

With that, about six college students approached, all of whom were in Horton's college running class. They were almost giddy when exclaiming to each other, "It's HER!" I had the feeling this was going to get uncomfortable in a hurry.

With the eager students gathered 'round, they wanted to know more details about my race through the Brazilian jungle. They had all read my book about the experience as a part of their running class requirements. Questions about snakes and jaguars morphed into advise for the race in the morning; their first ultramarathon, the Promised Land 50K+ mountain adventure. The banter back and forth was entertaining, but their view of my abilities was way too high. Most would end up beating me to the finish.

Extraordinary runner and friend, Rick Gray.

Fast forward to 5:30 a.m. the next morning. Horton sent us off into the dark once two trumpeters led us in the National Anthem. I certainly felt more energy than two weeks prior when a training run left me discouraged and feeling old. I had already completed three ultras in three months, running much stronger than anticipated given my low mileage training. ("Training" may actually be too generous a word.) But for the last while, my legs felt dead and my breathing labored even on short, easy runs. Getting sick was partially to blame. I still had crackly stuff in my lungs. But in the already warm morning darkness, I felt a little lighter on my feet. Happy times.

Up, up up. Down, down, down. Up, up, up. Down, down, down. That pretty well describes this race. I was running in the middle third of the 330 person field, gladly playing cat and mouse with a number of people throughout the day. The two youngest Shindigglers, Hannah and Makena, got away early before I caught them again. When they pulled away the second time around mile 13, I thought there was still a chance of catching them later on. It had happened before, and with any luck, it would happen again.

But then again, both my calves and a hamstring may have conspired against me.

Maybe it was the near-90s heat and humidity. Maybe it was the low miles I had logged. But for whatever reason, the calves started the quiver routine fairly early, around 18 miles. Of course, I shortened my stride and pounded the fluid and electrolyte intake. Gaining control, I proceeded to make progress, grateful that cramping was my only issue. Nevertheless, the "only issue" turned into a major one. At times, I pulled up suddenly when the muscles decided to lock into place. Ouch! Not nice. Each time, it slowed my already relatively pedestrian pace, and frustrated me when quite a few runners slipped by me from about mile 23 to 28. I felt my hopes of catching Hannah and Makena fade, especially knowing they would be running faster than normal with the two older non-racing Shindigglers running those 15 middle miles with them. Still . . .I had to try.

By the time I started up the three-mile climb counter-current to the bold, rushing, cascading mountain stream, I rehearsed some of what I told the college kids the night before:

• Walk when you're supposed to walk. Run when you're supposed to run.
• You will suffer to some degree. That's ok. That's good. 
• Nothing is accomplished without an element of suffering.
• Embrace the suffering. Love the suffering.
• It doesn't always get worse. Be smart. It can get better.
• No matter how bad it is, be glad you are out there doing it. Most people can't or won't.

Geez. Not wanting to be hypocritical, now I had to practice what I preached. I did the best I could for where I was. I ran when I was supposed to run. I walked when I was supposed to walk. I was purposeful of what I sent to my stomach. My brain politely requested my muscles to relax and cooperate. I pushed on, thankful. It didn't always get worse.

Partly fearful of having another super masters woman catch me and partly out of ego, I topped out at the last aid station better than I had left the previous. There were only 5.5 miles (or so) to go. My legs didn't feel too weary, and my energy reserve was adequate at this point. Now if only my muscles would refrain from those annoying and painful tetanic contractions.

Hannah and Makena cooling off with me

Leaving the last aid station, I upped the prayer game. "Lord, protect me. Keep me from stumbling or tripping. Don't let me wipe out on this rocky trail. Keep my old muscles from curling up into tight little balls. Let me get down this mountain unscathed."

My feet hit the steep gravel road for the final couple miles. I had passed some people higher on the mountain, and again on this section. Some were reduced to walking even on this long downhill. Encouraged, I made myself continue to run, continue to steadily push forward and downward. Whenever my calf muscles began to tighten, I backed off a notch. With one mile to go, I glanced at my watch. I had roughly seven minutes to break eight hours. I remembered telling a friend that I would be happy if I was under eight.

Shoot. I have to admit, I was pretty sure it wasn't going to happen. I found myself on the edge physically with little left from which to draw. 8:01 is what the timers recorded when I crossed the line. It was my slowest finish of the ten times I had completed Promise Land. I was glad to be through but somewhat disappointed nonetheless.

I have to be careful to refrain from comparing myself to my previous, speedier runs over an hour and a half quicker. I need to be cautious in applying value to where I fall in the overall and gender standings. But I also have to be open to learning from the time out on the trail. An old dog can learn new tricks, and this dog happens to think a few more miles prior to the race may go a long way in keeping muscles happy and cooperative.

This was certainly not a perfect race, but is was a perfect opportunity to remind myself how to run.

Running into 60

Makena, Abby, Hannah, Kendal, and Me

The thundering stampede began at 7:00 a.m. sharp, the dawn still working on breaking. 400 runners with their collective 800 feet pounded across the grass, turned onto the hardtop, and shortly thereafter began the assault up the mountain on gravel road leading to the rocky trail. Some were working hard, too hard: the freight-train breathing gave it away. Others laughed as they took those necessary steps toward the goal of reaching the miles-away finish. Me? I ran quietly, amusing myself with deciphering who was a half-marathoner, who was in it for the 50K long haul, who was a newbie, and who had many miles under their belt.

My poison was the 50K version. This race up, down, over and around Terrapin Mountain has become somewhat of a classic, now in its 10th year. I know the course like the back of my hand, often using portions of it for multiple training runs. So when the race director announced right before striking the starting gong that the first aid station was not yet at Camping Gap due to ice, it wasn't hard to believe. Miraculously, everything was set up when I arrived, but the carnage of cars stuck on the icy road below told the story. It was treacherous. Difficult to stand, it was impossible to run. I navigated a slim strip of slippery leaves on the road's edge, choosing the risk of falling off the mountain over the higher risk of a hard fall on the ice.

Abby

The frozen stuff disappeared as we lost altitude. Down, down, down. Then back up, up, up. I was glad that heavy-feeling legs early on had loosened up. Occasionally, I chatted with those around me, wondering all the while where three of my college-aged "Shindigglers" were on the course. I figured they were up ahead somewhere.

Sixteen miles in, we passed by those same cars still parked erratically on the ice. Much had melted as the sun rose higher in the sky, but I presumed their owners were busy tending to runners rather than cars.

I felt pretty good; physically and mentally. My training approach had changed. I no longer desired pounding out a ton of miles, choosing rather to work smarter. Transitioning into my 60's, I was liking this approach. Goals to be a front runner no longer existed. In fact, those days were long gone. But what I desired were steady, happy efforts, and enjoyment in traversing these courses.

Over the next miles, conversations with various runners were light-hearted and refreshing. I was surprised to catch a few friends who I thought were miles ahead. The race turned from pleasant into pure enjoyment, except for a stumble up the steep and rocky backside of Terrapin that brought on a major, painful calf cramp.

What was not fun, however, was the miles-long descent off the mountain. This technical, thin, and rock-strewn trail is normally negotiable and speedy for the adept trail runner. But even the most mountain goat-like athlete would have problems today. The now-melted ice and the overnight rains had turned the trampled trail into a slick slide. It was almost worse than the icy road, impossible to stand at times as indicated by my muddy butt. At one point, a group of us made a bypass off trail and through the woods to give way to the rescuers struggling to stretcher-carry a broken-leg runner down the mountain.

Kendal, Abby, Me

The last aid station provided the final calories and drink I needed to finish the race. The half mile down to the station and then back up to rejoin the trail also provided an opportunity to see runners who were close behind. It was then I saw two of the Shindigglers. They were behind me. "What?!?" I admit it. I smiled at the thought of being in front of kids 42 years my junior.

Still, I didn't rush into kamikaze mode to keep the lead. I simply remained steady, happily sharing miles with Rick, a long-time friend. The bold-stream crossing was refreshing on multiple fronts, as it marked the final two miles of our prescribed journey. When we hit the gravel road and made the turn to hard-surface road, I spotted Martha. Over the years, she and I often battled for the Grand Masters title (50's age group). But now that I had moved into the next age group, I found no real compulsion to chase her down. Still, I noticed she was taking walk breaks. Hum. Soon, I was within fifty yards of her when she turned around and saw me. She apparently felt no compulsion to race either. That was really appreciated! Martha, Rick and I ran the final 200 yards, crossing under the finish banner holding hands.

Makena, Me, Hannah, Kendal

A few minutes later, I greeted two of the Shindigglers, Hannah and Makena, at the line. Shortly thereafter, Kendal joined our happy group. It had been a good day and an even better introduction to 60-something running. Lord willing, there are many races to come.

My new goal? I just hope I can experience ultrarunning at 70.

MMTR 2016: When Grandma (nearly) got run over by a (rein) deer

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 when all of a sudden, I felt someone -- or something --come at me from the side. Busting from the woods at full speed, the buck bolted across the road, his hooves slipping on the hard road surface. His antlers narrowly missed my chest. Then it was a chain reaction, each runner to my right jumping to avoid the deer now sliding across the road. When he hit the far ditch, he fell to his knees before dashing off into the woods.

"What just happened?!?" Whoa. That was a close one, and it gave the pack of us something to talk about for the next few minutes. I wondered if the rest of the day would be so exciting.

Photo credit: Freda Spencer

Once into the woods, across the creek, and starting up the first mountain, I shared some time with an old friend. It was good to catch up. But alas, that was short lived as his pace was quicker than mine. I fell back into my routine of counting steps on the inclines: run 30, hike 30. Run 50, hike 50. I like doing this to keep making forward progress as quickly as possible. Silly, maybe, but it worked for me.

Despite the large number of runners in the race, I was alone for long stretches. Yes, there may have been runners further up the trail or coming around the corner behind me, but for the most part, the day was mine to enjoy in silence. Even when overtaking a runner (or they, me), it was mostly short pleasantries before we both retreated into our private worlds. The woods, playing host to filtered rays and brilliant leaves, thin ribbons of trail, and lazy country gravel roads, offered up the very best of autumn.

I was happy to be running a solid race. The aid station signs indicated I was well within cutoffs, albeit not with as much cushion as in the good times of yesteryear. Still, I was monitoring and managing myself based on the twenty-four years of ultrarunning. There was a certain sense of contentment to draw upon the experience of knowing what and when to eat, how much to drink, when to push a little harder, and when to settle in.

I will admit, however, that when my good friend Martha had passed me about fifteen miles in, my rhythm temporarily changed into the clunk-clunk of a flat tire. You see, though younger than me, Martha is in my age group and has bested me a number of times in the past years. Though not obsessed about it, I couldn't help but think that gaining back the title one last time before morphing into the Super Grand Masters (60+) come February would be fulfilling. So when I saw her come down from Mt. Pleasant as I was going up at about mile 35, I knew she had a good 20 - 25 minutes on me. I had a decision to make. Was I going to bide my time or attempt to run her down?

I was still running strong but not at a pace that was kamikaze. I told myself to stay steady because you never know how the other person is feeling. My legs were fine (other than what I knew to be a large blister on my  big toe) but I was getting tired of breathing. Really. There had been way too much breathing. My weenie upper body strength may have contributed to that feeling. But while I was contemplating my displeasure of doing the inhale/exhale routine countless more times, I suddenly ended up on the ground, which caused a calf to cramp in protest. Though surprised at the tumble on relatively smooth surface, it may have contributed to a later decision.

Miles 42 through 46 are marked by two vicious climbs an twisty-curvy single track. The fallen leaves kept the rocks and roots secret to the runner. Any sudden lurch upon discovering the hidden treasures had the possibility of ushering in a sequence of quivering muscles that could make things very difficult. And, should an ankle roll or wicked fall occur, it could be race ending. At least that's what I told myself.

Truth is, I know I was moving well. I was catching people rather than being caught. Still, I wasn't really suffering like I have in the past. I wasn't hating life. My blister was a bother but other than that, even the months-long nagging ITB issue had been a non-issue all day long. Yes, I was ready to reach the finish line--but at what cost?

Streaking past the last aid station, I remained steady. Not flashy. Just steady. I was playing it safe but ran on. I never gave up but never red-lined. Though I kept thinking I might look up to see Martha, I sort of hoped I didn't. That way, any compulsion to push into the super-suffer-zone could be more easily squelched. Even when the "1 mile to go" sign passed under my feet and a few gleeful runners slid by, I was still content to remain Steady-Eddy all the way through the finish.

Gary and me at the finish

I heard my name called as I ran under the banner, getting my congratulatory hug from race director, Clark Zealand. I was happy and relieved, but not overly emotional. It was just another necessary finish on the way to 20. My husband was there to surprise me. That touched me. A few photos were snapped before Martha approached. "You were only 16 minutes behind. You made up some time. But I have to thank you. I read your story of how you broke 11 hours a few years ago, and it gave me the idea. 'Why not me?' You inspired me to do what I've never been able to do before."

The man who started it all, David Horton

I was delighted for Martha. She is a strong competitor,  and a great friend. I watched her receive the cherished age-group prize later in the evening. It was okay. She faced her fear and grabbed the golden ring. I faced the fear and decided to walk the respectable pathway rather than the spectacular.

As a 41-year old, I ran my best at 8:57. I can remember thinking that I could run sub 9:30 in my sleep. That was dumb. In two months I'll turn 60. Long gone are the dreams of running those kind of times. But what is possible now? Surely, my priorities have changed. Time is not kind. But maybe, just maybe, new dreams can lead to new goals, and new goals can lead to new accomplishments.

Come on 60. I can't wait to see what you have for me.

Bucket-sitting

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 assigned a caution sign and neither one looked particularly enthralled with his duties. But despite the fact that a passing motorist would likely not be cautioned by the sign resting on the ground of the worker on the right, I decided to ask the other fella to explain the work behind him. It looked like a huge basin was being created, earth scooped up and hauled away by massive trucks. But why? I pondered. Were they creating a retention lake, clearing the way for the foundation of yet another building, or addressing an engineering issue? I didn't know. So I asked.

"Hey there. So what's happening behind you? Looks like a big project!"

With a grin widened by the gaps between the missing teeth, the affable man chuckled his response.
"Well, I don't know. I just hold the sign."

"Okay, then. I guess it will remain a mystery. Enjoy your day out here!" I replied.

"Oh, I will!" his tone suggesting he rather enjoyed this brief interruption to his bucket-sitting.

With a final look over my shoulder and a cheery "See ya," I continued along, dodging the warning signs placed smack-dab in the middle of the sidewalk.

My run continued, carrying me past several other construction sites. I noted with interest a number of other idle workers. Outside one tiny shack at the entrance to a work site, sat an elderly man sipping on a drink. It wasn't the first time I had seen him. Day in, day out, he sits in his chair and watches the trucks go by. I wondered if he was as clueless as the my new bucket-sitting friend.

Going through the motions. Oblivious. Why do more? Why know more?

Road sign holders and guard shack guys are not the only guilty parties. Being oblivious sure is a lot easier than being fully engaged.

As my run took me through campus and onward, I inventoried areas of my life that might include bucket-sitting. Am I, as the writer of Ephesians advises, being "very careful then, how you live, not as the unwise, but as the wise"? Or conversely, am I simply going through the motions, brain and thoughtful intentionality placed on the back burner? Am I being disciplined, well-informed, and in constant pursuit of excellence, or do I become lazy, content with past accomplishments?

God bless that dear bucket-sitter. But God help this gal to stay on her feet and keep making forward progress.

Naptime is for. . .

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 task of deconstruction. Had it not been for my husband and two other kind souls, I would still be removing bolts and dragging culvert pieces to their resting place, awaiting next year's action.

Much like the delayed exhaustion after a hard race, it hit me today like a load of bricks. Driving around doing the errand thing nearly lulled me into lala-land. Plans for a long, hard trail run must have figured out the child safety locks and jumped out of the vehicle somewhere along the way. But I managed to make it home safely, put away groceries, and head to the bed for a nap. A nap! At 4:15 in the afternoon! Aren't old people the only ones who take afternoon naps? As I sunk beneath the covers, I mumbled to Gary (whom I had awakened from his afternoon catnap on the couch when I entered the house), "Does this mean we're old?"

OK. So maybe the hour and a half dosey-doze is the reason for my restlessness in the middle of the night. Maybe the ideas whizzing around my cranial spaces akin to the thrill seeking motorcyclists who scream through the spherical cage of doom are keeping me awake. Or maybe it's the prodding I felt after reading a friend's new, and always terrific blog post. For heaven's sake! She has a baby and found the time to scribble in cyber-space. My children are grown and gone. I'm a grandma. I'm supposed to be in the life-contemplation, slow-paced stage of life. Right?

Nah. It's not that easy. Life is still a whirl. Ministry paths are morphing into this living, breathing creature not previously known to mankind. I think maybe today was the calm before I board the ship and sail into the storm. Not that the storm is bad. The coming storm is beautiful in many ways. But the storm is sure to slap some crazy waves against the bow. I will not avoid getting soaked, maybe even tousled about and nearly thrown overboard and drowned. And actually, I'm not quite sure of the ship's final destination. All I know is that this cruise is sure to be an adventure.

Maybe I did need that nap. Maybe I'm not old. Maybe I'm just preparing for a new voyage that reveals itself more later this morning.

With a radiant soul

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 on-call nurse.

"Now, Mother, once she comes to make the assessment, have her call me." Agreed. Within the half hour, my phone jingled awake. It was the nurse.

"Your mother is very anxious. The EMTs are here and will be taking her to the hospital to get checked out."

Mother was suffering more than usual. At 88, she was trying to be a trooper--like always. But she's getting tired. Her shoulder offers nothing but pain and swelling, she feels weak and wobbly when walking, and all her get up and go has got up and gone.

These events precipitated calls to my brothers, one of whom made the short trip to the hospital given he is the only sibling living in the area. Several hours and many texts transmitted into the wee hours brought the news of a GI bleed, resulting anemia, a UTI, and decreased renal function. Still, they released her to David who carried her home and lovingly tucked her in for the night.

Today Mother still sounds tired but better. I doubt any real physiologic improvement magically occurred overnight. So what changed? Though still exhausted from the ordeal, maybe she has a better perspective on her status. Perhaps she has viewed her condition as inevitable; the normal course of events for someone completing nearly nine decades of life. Maybe she has figured out that suffering is better tolerated when you can see beyond the moment. Perhaps she knows, as the old hymn states, "it will be worth it all when we see Jesus." She is facing the difficulties with grace and peace.

But let's switch gears for a minute. The race I had been following all day was still going on. I used down time between medical status checks to see where a certain female given bib number 29 was on the course. Bethany Patterson, a 37-year old friend with three kids had earned a coveted spot among the list of entrants.

I've know her since she was a baby in the sport of ultrarunning; a talented if not somewhat over-confident and cocky (by her own admission) college student. I had no idea who she was the first time she passed me in a race. However, I absolutely knew I didn't particularly enjoy her perky little self prancing up the hill, leaving me to lumber along with labored breathing. Her career was just starting. Mine, on the other had, was struggling to maintain even distant contact with the awards podium.

A lot has happened in the years since. I've had some good stretches, but mostly years with diminishing return. Bethany rose quickly to ultrarunning prominence, got married, birthed twin boys and a sister, and maintained a successful professional career. Though she never left the racing world, it's just been in the last two years that her trajectory has been stratospheric. This I find fascinating, but in the details of the story, I have newfound respect and admiration.

In an interview  the day before the gun sounded, this slightly built but powerhouse of a runner was interviewed. "I'm a different person than I was." I'll say. If you listen carefully, the cause/effect was her new understanding that she "gets" to do this; that she re-found the joy in the journey. Did this mean she would not suffer in the training? That a hundred miles would be easy? That success was assured? No. And a million times no. It simply meant that because she could see the broader picture, she would commit to do whatever it took to get across the finish line.

Credit Jason Griffith and Crozet Running

Bethany took to the start line having prepared very well. She began running at the sound of the gun knowing suffering on some level was non-negotiable. She was prepared to endure. She agreed beforehand to meet up with "Suffering" along the trail and do battle, but in this case was privileged to introduce him to "Fierce" and her sidekick "Relentless." She posted, "What an absolutely magical day. It exceeded all my hopes and expectations for this race." She pushed her way through the ranks, running down all but six competitors and finishing in a time of 20:40. 

Here on the grounds of this camp is a huge rock guarding the founders' graves; Willis and Julia Weatherford. Julie was born in 1889 and died in 1957. I researched her life but found little beyond the epitaph on that rock. ". . .a great sufferer but a radiant soul." Amazing. Most of us have a hard time displaying a "radiant soul" in the best of times. Leaving that kind of legacy meant making the decision to endure with grace over and over and over again.

I suspect my Mother, the now-exhausted Bethany, and the late Mrs. Weatherford share something in common: they know (or knew) how to suffer well. They understand (understood) the importance of perspective. They all learned to allow the suffering to produce something most beautiful and inexplicably wonderful.

Well done, ladies. Well done.