In the dark

"Mother," I said. "I just have to shake out some cobwebs. I'm going for a run. See ya later." With that, I jumped into my running clothes and headed into the night.

Earlier today, Mother and I arrived at the Montrose Writers Conference. The opening session was inspiring with the promise of a strong conference. But still, my travel over the last two days had plucked my last nerve and infringed on my run time. The evening was beautiful, the quaint village streets quiet, the open road begging me to come.

It felt good. Really good. There is something special about night running. It caresses and cradles. It offers a false, but pleasant, sensation of speed. It lures you down the lane, up the next hill, around the curve, soaking in the smell of freshly cut grass, the fragrance of wildflowers, and the crunch of gravel beneath your feet.

But, sometimes it's really dark. Yes, at 10:30 pm one expects darkness. But often, a glimmer of a streetlight or even the moon glow can allow you to see outlines. But tonight, I got to a section of road covered by the heavy drape of tree branches. I couldn't see squat. Not the hidden houses. Not even the edges of the road. I was running blind. Though not a new sensation, it still isn't all that comfortable. I just had to keep moving and trust my feet to feel the way.

It's not unlike our spiritual journey. Sometimes we find ourselves in the dark because we just don't know how the Designer planned out the roads; we don't know the twists and turns. We can't see the caution, yield, or slow down signs. We don't know if there are hairpin turns or roundabout circles. We strain to see anything that would give us some perspective.

I was in a dark place tonight. But as I continued step by step, a strange thing happened. I looked up to see a sliver of light up ahead. I still didn't know where the road was leading but I knew that if I moved to the light, the way would become clear. Soon, I was running free and confident.

Tomorrow, if I run the same road I will better understand where I was tonight. So, let's not fret when we can't see where we are going. Relax. Sometimes God needs us to be content with waiting until tomorrow before we can see where--and why--He has taken us.

It is God who arms me with strength and keeps my way secure. 

(Psalm 18:32)

Grounded and focused

Let's assume you are a "normal" person. You get up around 6:30 or 7, grab a bowl of cereal and savor your favorite joe. Off to work you go. Or, perhaps you have errands to run, kids to cart, and groceries to fetch. Sometime mid-day, you grab something for lunch as the afternoon bids more activity. You might even get in a run. "Ah..." Now, doesn't that make you feel accomplished?

With dinner time approaching, preparations are made, food consumed and as the sun lowers into the horizon, you relax with an after-dinner coffee and some TV or light reading. Soon enough, you glance at the clock and realize that you need to do the going-to-bed dance: wash up, brush teeth and hair (if you have any), put on your jammies. . .all while making mental note about the coming day. In between the covers you slip, clean and content after all the busyness. zzz's come quickly.

Now, pretend you are Jennifer Pharr-Davis. At the young age of 26, you are already an accomplished and well-respected athlete, writer and speaker. You have hiked the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), the Long Trail, the Appalachian Trail (AT)twice-setting the women's world speed record in the process-and many other long, multi-day, multi-week adventures. But now, you decide to go after the overall AT speed record (read that, the men's record). Two years in the planning, you build a clandestine plan, letting few in on the secret. You must cut at least nine days from your previous best. A bodacious goal, if nothing else. But now the time has come.

You stand atop Mt. Katahdin at the northern terminus of the AT. Southward you march, traversing the rocky, rugged peaks and deep valleys. You are on a mission. You have a purpose. Every thing has been planned out and you dare not waste a step or an ounce of energy. To complete your self-assigned task, you cannot falter even for a day or your dream may collapse. Hike. Hike. Hike. You must overcome excruciating pain and overwhelming obstacles. Your world suddenly becomes very small; your steps pre-determined and mind focused.

But what does that really mean? It means that while most "normal" people sip their steaming cup of coffee, you will have already been on the trail, in the dark, alone, for two hours. It means that by the time others arrive at work, you will already have many miles on your feet. Now hike to the next road crossing. Sit. Put your feet up. Eat. Drink. Review the upcoming section. Have your pack filled. Stand up. Start again.

By the time "normal" people eat lunch, you will still be hiking hard with another ten hours to go. But you dare not think in those terms. It must be section to section. Road crossing to road crossing. Ridge to valley and back to ridge. And when it gets tough, it's tree to tree, repeated countless times in a day; every day for 40-some days. There is no option to take a rain delay or a siesta in the shade. You must push on.

When supper rolls around, you revolt at the thought of more food. You have been eating and drinking all day. Having to consume 6000 calories is no fun. Chewing takes too much energy, everything tastes the same. But still, you force feed yourself because motion is impossible without fuel.

There is no evening news or TV for you. You have, as Robert Frost so eloquently stated, "miles to go before I sleep." Instead, as the sun dips below the farthest peak, you have more mountains to conquer. The woods become surreal, the last, lingering rays playing tricks on your eyes. Yet, you hold off pushing the on switch of your headlamp. The noises of the forest escalate. A deer snorts and runs off. You become in tuned with the birds as they sing their evening songs, the crickets as they chirp, the chipmunks and squirrels as they scamper, and yes, as the mama bear growls. The darkness envelopes; it embraces. You are alone in a vast and wooded space. Sometimes you take it all in. Sometimes you shut it out. You move relentlessly forward.

You know what has to be done. The mileage you must obtain does not jive with the convenient road crossings or comfy hotels. Rather, you count on your crew to gather tents, sleeping bags, food, water and clothes. At least you will have company for the night. You tackle a few more miles that will cap the day, many times in excess of fifty miles. In a carefully orchestrated process, you sponge off with baby wipes, the scent of those moist towelettes permanently recorded in your senses. You eat your reconstituted hiker meal-in-a-bag, brush your teeth and crawl into the tent set up for you. The alarm will allow for six hours of sleep. No more. No less. You drift off, glad the day is behind, trying not to think of the day ahead.

Though set, the alarm seldom sounds at 4:45 am. Your body clock knows when it's time. You start eating your processed breakfast, mend your feet and slide them into shoes still damp from sweat and the nighttime dew. Then you stand at 5:00 am and take yet another step that leads you closer to Springer Mountain, GA, the southern terminus. You are well ahead of record pace but know you cannot let down. You must persevere. You must know that your quest requires more inexplicably hard work. More perseverance. But more sweet, sweet satisfaction in continuing.


Your goal, however, is more than a record; a record that astounds the mind and seems unfathomable to mere mortals. The journey is about using God-given talent to bring glory to the Father, being a light in the darkness,  an ambassador of all things wonderful and wild. It is your story to live; your story to tell. So you walk swiftly on. . .and on. . .and on. You are Jennifer Pharr-Davis. No one else could do this.


Post-script: 

This story was inspired by hiking with, aiding, talking and laughing with Jennifer for the last 3.5 days. Jenn, you are an incredible woman who inspires and motivates simply by being. You are grounded in your faith and focused on leading a life pleasing to your God. You are mature beyond your years. I have come to love you and care for you deeply. Thank you for the privilege to serve you in this way.

You can follow Jenn's journey on http://draft.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7411028237459709692#editor/target=post;postID=1108140863421385273 or find her on Facebook.

Ideas for the home: Coming soon

So many of you seem to be interested in projects done around my house; from giant dandelions painted on the wall and carpets painted on the floor, to massive sunroom do-overs and new fishponds. I am hoping to add a section to this blog to share some creativity and ideas for projects on-the-cheap. Stay tuned...it's coming soon.

Statistics

Statistics are interesting tidbits. Some say that you can make statistics say anything you want. That might be true.

I've been interested in a few stats of my own. Thank goodness for software developers who make compiling stats easy for knuckleheads like me. A click of a button on this blog tells me all kinds of things; how many page views, the most popular stories (and which ones were miserable fails), the URL sources that guide readers to the site, and where those readers are from geographically, among other things. Not sure these numbers are life changers but they are interesting.

Within spitting distance of 9000 blog views, it's hard to believe that so many are reading what I have to say. It's humbling to know that. Most of the readers are from the USA. But who could have guessed that the country with the second most views is Russia. Yes, Russia. That seems strange but strange is sometimes true.

I am thankful to those who are faithful readers and commentators. This blog is an outlet for me and one that I hope will convey truth, put a smile on your face, give a reason to pause, and help us continue on in our lives with purpose, faith and hope.

Thanks again. I'll be back soon.

Spider webs

With the rain last night and high humidity, the morning was slow in awakening, holding at bay the summer sun that beats down mercilessly. The misty morning held dew drops in suspended animation while the wet grass relished the moisture. It was a silent, still world. A world that seemed to be quiet and content.

And then I saw them. Spiderwebs. Huge, complex spiderwebs. At least seven of them spread between some trees in the yard. With the wind gently blowing, they looked like ethereal garden ornaments floating in mid-air. I marveled at their strength to hold together despite the breeze. Even more so, I couldn't believe how some of the webs, suspended gracefully between trees perhaps thirty feet apart, were anchored by single strands of filament to key points on the ground or among the branches. "Was one spider responsible for all this work?" I wondered. Each of the webs seemed to be connected, spanning about 150 feet all together. Impressive.

I wish I would have taken a picture early this morning. Now, with the risen sun having burned off the fog, the webs aren't as obvious. Not obvious, that is, until you walk into one, the sticky threads clinging to your face and hands. But they are still effective. I noticed multitudes of tiny insects had been lured into the trap, only to await their certain fate as the spider closes in for an early lunch.

"Oh, what tangled webs we weave." I suppose that is a lesson to be learned. And yet, that's not the lesson I want to focus on today. I just want to marvel at the magnificent engineering skills of those arachnids. How did they learn to do that? Did their moms and dads have to spend years teaching them to hone their web-building skills? Doubtful. (The average life expectancy of a spider, assuming a kid doesn't smooch it, is 1-3 years.)

An orb web, those complex silky structures with concentric circles joined together with "spokes", take only about an hour to build. The spider can be seen repairing the web throughout the day but will most often build a new web each night. The silk threads are stickiest when new; much better for catching its small prey. Simply amazing. An exquisite creation designed by an exquisite Creator.

Thank you, Father, for your marvelous creation. Each creature, each plant, points to your glory and majesty. But thank you even more for caring for me.  Help me never to forget your love and mercy.

“Consider how the wild flowers grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today, and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, how much more will he clothe you—you of little faith!"  Luke12:27-28

Some things never change...

Some things never change...just look at my sidewalks and flower beds.

When I was in the process of writing "Pace Yourself," a daily devotional book spurned from everyday events, there was more than one entry that bemoaned the fact that weeds grew all too easily between the cracks of my sidewalk. I spent countless hours sitting there in the hot sun, needlenose pliers in hand to pull that pesky vegetation out from the roots. It was a tough job that frustrated me to no end. How was it that weeds grew so freely and relentlessly when carefully tended seedlings in the perfect conditions struggled to survive? Not fair.

Then Gary told me about weed killer. Yes. He was right. It was--and still is--easier to pull out dead weeds than ones that are thriving. But there's one little problem. The herbicide he gave me takes about two weeks to work. The only good thing about that is that I get to procrastinate a little bit longer in ridding the sidewalk and beds of the ugliness. There's no sense in working harder to pull those weeds now, is there?

This got me thinking. Those weeds I sprayed yesterday are in the process of dying...I just can't see it. They still look okay. In fact, they appear to be thriving. No brown leaves or wilting stems. In fact, if I didn't know the weeds had been treated, I would assume there was nothing wrong. But, I know that the poison I sprayed onto their leaves is slowly being sucked into the plant and carried to the roots. Though the process is slow, the result is quite predictable: death.

Admittedly, I tend to do this at times. I look pretty good on the outside despite the fact that I have poisoned myself, killing off righteous living one cell at a time. The old adage, "If you play with fire, you're gonna get burned," is all too true. The deadly poison or destructive flames licking away at our souls might be jealousy, envy, subjecting ourselves to inappropriate music or movies, or engaging in frivolous speech or unkind words. Though we may be able to fool some of the people some of the time, there is no fooling God. He knows the thoughts and intents of our mind. We dare not let sin eat away at our insides no matter how good we appear on the outside.

And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.

Philippians 4:7,8 

To read more on weeds and the spiritual analogies, consult the June 5, 6, and 12 entries in Pace Yourself: 366 Devotions from the Daily Grind. Free shipping is available on http://rebekahtrittipoe.com

Costa Rica Recap

I'm not sure where to start. How can I possibly begin to describe the Costa Rican mission trip experience? In fact, it is almost surreal now that I am back in the States and beginning to slide into a normal routine. And yet, I never want to forget what transpired during those ten days abroad.

Our missionary hosts, Lamar and Joanna Salley, along with their three children, were skeptical about the wisdom of housing 14 women and one man, Hands of Compassion Int'l president, Chris Tolley, under their roof. Surely, the predominately teenage group would be entangled in squabbles and drama, right? Wrong. I can honestly report that not one bit of discontent or personal conflict reared its ugly head during our trip. No one fussed about who was going to take a shower when and in what order. No one complained about crowded (but comfortable) rooming arrangements. No one hogged the last pancake or selfishly snagged the pile of mango on the breakfast table. It is clearly a testimony of the Spirit working in the heart and lives of the group.

But what about our work? It was exhausting, to say the least. Often, our roll out of bed was at 5:30 or 6:00 am, only to return home between 8:30 and 11:30 pm. In between, we participated in volleyball clinics in the schools, played in mini-soccer tournaments, taught English in high school classrooms, performed the mime (wordless skit) in public parks and schools, engaged in great fun and frolic at an overnight camp for young professionals (age 18-25), and shared testimonies and the Gospel of Jesus Christ in all those venues. The children of the dump town, Carpio, clamored for love and attention, sucking out all the energy we had left.  We ate on the run, consuming more rice and beans, chicken, hamburgers and french fries than we could ever have imagined. But none of us would trade a second of it for all the creature comforts and lazy, hazy days in the world.

The interesting thing about short-term mission trips is that God seems to use them to recreate His workers. Only eternity will reveal heart changes in the Costa Rican people. But I can assure you that God did amazing things in the hearts of this mission team.

I know that "campfire" experiences, common with these kind of trips, usually fade with the morning light. It's easy to be fired up and an enthusiastic follower of Christ when everyone around you is also in the same mode. But all too often, claims of commitment fall short when life settles back into normal routine. Will that happen this time? For some, maybe that desire will become a distant memory. For most, I don't think so.

As a group, we talked a lot about NOT  being lukewarm in our Christian walk, for God hates that with a passion. But what is a "hot" walk to look like? I think I Thessalonians 1:3 describes just that. The Apostle Paul is writing to the church at Thessaloniki and affectionately tells them, "We remember before our God and Father your work produced by faith, your labor prompted by love, and your endurance inspired by hope in our Lord Jesus Christ."

Consider this: We produce work as a result of faith, we labor out of love, and we can endure because we have hope. All three life characteristics, work, labor, and endurance, are direct results of faith, love and hope. It really is a simple concept. Unfortunately, our propensity for sin stands in the way. So, what to do? As Ephesians 5:15 and 16 a says, "Be very careful, then, how you live—not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity. . ."

The girls are eager to pursue righteousness, desiring mentoring and accountability relationships. They desire to pour themselves into others. Ideas of how they can practically minister to others are rampant. I look forward to continuing to meet with them on a routine basis so that we might together reflect Christ in our lives and mature in our faith.

Thank you, girls, for being such an encouragement to me.

For more pictures of our trip, please visit my Facebook album at http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.2169531393358.2134015.1098909215&ref=pd

A day at the dump

A typical Carpio home

The young children of Carpio

Literally. Today  we got to feel what it would be like to live and work in and around the city dump. A modern day Samaria, many Costa Ricans would never think of stepping into the town known as Carpio. Occupied by Nicaraguan immigrants, they came to improve their positions in life. And, believe it or not, living in the squalor of the dump is a step up.

Waiting to enter the school

Driving into the area, we were all impressed by the houses, the tiny sidewalk shops on each street corner, the filth, but most of all the children roaming the streets. Even little ones, perhaps three and four years old, played alone in the narrow passageways crowded by cars and speeding dump trucks. It seemed to be an accident waiting to happen.

The school we were allowed to enter was protected by huge bars on every window and intimidating iron gates. I wondered if it was to keep the children in or evil out.

Our job was to teach two different classrooms of children a little bit of English. Crowded, dirty and ill-equipped rooms could not prevent the explosion of excitement at the sight of gringas entering the classroom. But it was no easy task. Many students were unruly and few knew even a syllable of English.

When the girls pulled out the photo albums they brought, the children clamored to keep the photos. In moments, each photo and every newly acquired bracelet and anklet purchased during yesterday's souvenir shopping excursion was relinquished to the kids. By the time we left, my girls had voluntarily been stripped. However, more important than the physical possessions left behind were the beaming faces of the kids with their newly acquired treasures.

The church is the building with the blue sliding doors

Then it was off to play with the many of the children at the "church" around the corner. An indoor playground turned into a chaotic frenzy when the school children, dismissed after just three hours, poured through the doors. Inside that humble building with it's unfinished and uneven concrete floors, marginal toilets, and areas still under construction, swings, climbing, face painting, volleyball clinics, hugs, kisses, and yes, a few bullies who took advantage, kept us occupied throughout the day.

The final Kid's Carnival culminated in games and dispensing treats and a new toy to each eager child. But as the toy was handed to them, we necessarily had to say adios and push them out the door. Many tried to enter again, claiming they never received their gift, some even trying to steal from the box. It was odd to close the heavy metal doors behind them, only to hear them clamor and pound to enter once again before conceding their special day had come to an end. Yet others, climbed the windows, grasped the metal bars, their heads forward and peering in. It had a sad, zoo-like aura as we watched them yearn for more time and attention.

Indoor playground

 
It is good to be reminded of how fortunate we are to have clean facilities, nice homes, and intact sewer systems, plenty of food to eat and people to love. And yet, despite the daily challenges that the people of Carpio face, children still smiled, waving feverishly at the bus as we passed on our way out. Though we were anxious to shower away the filth of the day, may we never rid ourselves of the lessons learned.

Another day in not-so-sunny Costa Rica: A short update

Well, the girls on this team continue to amaze. We are watching them grow in so many ways. They are becoming more bold and confident each day as they interact with the kids and freely share their faith and the wonderful gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ.

Today was a lesson in flexibility. It seemed that the plan changed no less than every seven minutes. And yet, they never missed a beat, never complained, and rose to each occasion.

After a time of devotion in the morning, we traveled to our destination for a soccer tournament, only to find it cancelled. So, back on the bus, we took a thirty minute shopping trip followed by a stop at a busy downtown park. The kids performed their dramatic mime, causing many on the busy streets to stop and watch the eight minute presentation. Then it was time to pass out gospel tracts, finding few who refused the offering.

The afternoon was filled with an English teaching session in a large high school. However, prior to entering the classroom, the girls were like magnets, drawing many of the kids into conversation and impromptu games. The session in the school was well received and helped the soccer games that followed to be contested in a friendly manner. Then, it was back to do another lesson at the school for adult ESL students. Again, the students engaged freely with our girls and watched intently as the mime was once again offered.

Finally, after another 12 hour day, we returned home only to be encouraged with our own team time. What a continued privilege to watch God working in all our hearts.

Tomorrow we will be taking about 25 Costa Rican young people (age 18-25) to a rustic camp for a couple of days. We will have no web access but I hope to be able to report again (with some pictures!) later Saturday night.

Stay tuned...

Two days down

Up at 6 am. Breakfast. Leave by 7 or 8 am. Volleyball clinics in elementary schools. Indoor soccer 5-on-5 tournaments, dramas in parks and testimonies shared. English classes taught in high schools. Dodge deafening downpours while running for cover under tin roofs. Return home by 11:30 pm.

Our sports-centered mission team hit the ground running. Not literally. San Jose, the bustling capital city of Costa Rica is anything but runner friendly. Narrow, winding streets, all without name or numbers, make running the streets and staying alive simultaneously nearly impossible. But we are not left wanting for physical activity. Working with SCORE missionaries, we have done four volleyball clinics for elementary school kids. The children, with their big, beautiful brown eyes are eager participants and just as eager to give hugs and smiles.

The soccer tournaments, two so far, are played on turf fields under the protection of metal roofs. Two hours running, the play is fast and furious...or at least for those who know what they are doing. The teams played last night were made up of very skilled young women, perhaps in their late teens or early twenties. You could tell they had been playing for a very long time. The team we played tonight was not as experienced, allowing us gringas to play unencumbered by intimidation.

However, beyond our athletic endeavors, the team of athletes have been performing dramas in the schools, after athletic contests, and even in public parks. To watch their transformation from timid to bold presenters of both the drama and their personal testimonies has been a privilege.

Today, they added teaching English in a large public hospital. Assuming all responsibility to use games and conversation to teach English, they stepped outside their comfort zones and did a great job.

I am most impressed by the maturity of these girls accepting the challenge of these busy days. They are not along for the ride. They are, in fact, the ride. What an experience for them and for us who observe. We'll see what tomorrow brings.

10 hours and counting

My head is spinning. Actually, it's been spinning a bit off it's axis for the last couple of months. Coaching, unexpected teaching responsibilities, and challenging home improvement activities have cast me into my private little orbit in far out space. Good thing I was tethered to the mothership. If not, I would still be drifting  in the deep and distant darkness.

But, I do have one more mission before coming in for a splash-down. I will be getting on a plane tomorrow with a dozen female athletes, traveling to Costa Rica. Over a period of ten days, we will be jumping, running, playing games and kicking soccer balls with our Costa Rican counterparts. But why?

Let me explain. A frequent question asked of me over the years as been, "Why do you run?"

My standard quip was usually "Because I can." But that's not really it. The last several years I have been impacted by the thought that my athletic ability was not an accident or a handy skill sculpted and honed by coaches. No. I am an athlete because God made me that way. And just like the musician, engineer, artist, or doctor, I have a responsibility to use that talent to bring honor to the Father and point toward his love for us. Hence, a mission trip with like-minded athletes to serve young Costa Rican athletes and share our faith.

Our team of athletes has adopted a theme for this trip: "Go with love. Return with honor." Our purpose is to use our love of sport to establish relationships with the athletic high school girls of San Jose. For in relationships, communication is established and trust is forged. It will take setting aside what is familiar and comfortable and an embrace of a different culture and perspective. We will need to see those girls not as an oddity or a refreshing respite from American culture but as people who need to understand the truthful claims of Jesus Christ. If we do not go with love and serve with compassion, we cannot possibly return with honor.

We have been praying that God ordain divine appointments with just the right people at just the right time for just the right purpose. It is our desire to use the platform of athletics to share the hope of an abundant life in Christ. As God brings us to your mind over the next week and a half, please pray for our safety, willing hearts and Spirit-guided minds, and an effective ministry because God is choosing to draw those ticas (Costa Rican girls) to himself.

If technology does not fail us, I hope to be able to post here while we are in country. Also, please check http://www.handsofcompassionintl.org/ or follow us on Facebook for pictures and information about our daily activities.

The perfect race

Decisions. It was all about decisions.

As the bus pulled out of the parking lot, carrying our track team to the state meet, I wanted a few moments to chat with the busload of young and excited athletes. Not just my distance runners but sprinters and field event contestants alike. On the last day of practice, Cody, a team leader, mentioned how motivating it was to have seen the initials "TBD" beside a listing of championships won by various school teams during this year. "To be decided," he explained, "means that we all need to decide right now that we will win the honor." He was right. Now it was my turn to talk about what it meant to decide.

To the exact day and three years prior I had written a piece entitled "Decisions." I scribed, ". . .The point to remember is that we must choose to extend ourselves and then commit to do it even when it is scary, intimidating, or painful. But we must also realize that doing this in our own power will likely fail. Thankfully, God has promised to fully equip us for each task. . . Set goals that will push you beyond your own limits and into God’s limitless realm." (Pace Yourself: 366 Devotions From the Daily Grind, May 20)

As I read the story aloud, the mood was somber, anticipating what may lay ahead. I continued. "You need to embrace the fear. Go deep inside to a place where you have never been, never explored. For it is only there  you will optimize the talent God has given you." I concentrated hard not to cry, nearly overcome at the prospect each of the young athletes faced. Would they go to that place? Would they push the line further, hurt a little harder, feel the pure satisfaction of a 100% commitment? Few athletes really know what that means. Only a handful have experienced that rare encounter with the impossible becoming possible. But I never anticipated what the day would bring.

 

Photo by Gabe LaMartina

One after another, my distance runners stepped onto the track to race and stepped off the track with honor. Personal records fell like rain. "I've never felt that way before," senior Cristen gushed. "It was as if I was watching myself run, lap after lap. I didn't want to stop." I watched them pick off runners in front of them on the back stretch, tucking in before the curve. They ran fast and smart, crossing the line and running into their personal record books while scoring points for the team.

Late in the day and with few races left, Trey took to the start line of the 3200 meter run. This junior, full of potential and an insatiable desire to improve, had his eyes set on breaking the magic ten minute mark, just narrowly eclipsed by three short seconds in prior races. He had practiced well, running ever more smoothly, efficiently and faster with each and every day. I could feel it. Today was his day.

The gun sounded and the pack in this top heat started off. Trey was toward the back as he settled into the quick pace. On each back stretch, a lonely piece of real estate, I coached from behind the fence, encouraging him to pick off another runner. I hit the lap button on my watch each time I saw him pass the start line. After half the distance, he was a full three seconds faster than his race goal which is no easy matter. Lap 5, 6, and 7 saw the young, talented runner move up into fourth place. He had this. My own excitement grew with each fluid stride. He passed by for the 8th and final time, quickly gaining on the runner now in third place. The pace was furious and intense. Every muscle, every cell, was fully engaged, his focus piercing. Now, I ran in the opposite direction on the outside of fenced oval to meet him at the finish. He was running the perfect race. The end was sure to be joyous.

Photo by Gabe LaMartina

A battle ensued down the homestretch of this grueling two-mile run. Neck and neck, shoulder to shoulder, Trey and the third place runner contested the race. Trey pulled ahead, closing in on the finish line. He gained several yards on the other runner, transiently capturing the third spot. But then, he stumbled and my heart went into my throat. Ever so briefly, he straightened, only to have his legs come out from under him. Down he went, hard. The crowd gasped. "Nooooo. . ." I remember yelling to no one in particular. I fought my way through the spectators, trying to get to him. "Out of my way," I screamed. "That's my runner!" Trey struggled to stand but could not. Now, just 10 yards from the finish, he flailed on the track as the runner behind him passed by. Somehow, someway, he found the line as he crawled forward. Then, he collapsed in a molten heap. The time was 10:03. The crowd, watching in suspense, hushed.

Photo by Gabe LaMartina

Arriving in the next moment, Trey was heaving, trying desperately to find his breath. His face was white, lips blue. He writhed on the ground in agony, his eyes seeming wild and scared. "I was so close. So close," he whispered.

A crowd of other coaches gathered as we turned him onto his back, legs elevated. I knelt beside him, now more of a mother than a coach. "Trey, try to slow your breathing," I softly advised. Hyperventilating was not helping his condition. He looked at me, his eyes communicating deeply, and did as I asked. We perfectly understood each other. He had run deep and long. He had gone to that place where few dare venture. I was glad my own eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. I felt them well with tears of joy and respect as I witnessed this runner push to and beyond his limit with courage and honor.

Photo by Gabe LaMartina

It was a slow progression to get Trey upright. Gone were the muscle glycogen stores, gone was any reserve. Slowly, the blue tinge around his lips was replaced with pale color in his face. He looked drained, completely empty. The crowd rose in a thunderous ovation when this runner finally took to his feet. I held onto the young man as he began with faltering steps, making our way back toward our team tent. The lengthy applause continued, and rightly so.

Photo by Gabe LaMartina

Trey is a warrior. A warrior who had entered the battle prepared to act on his decision to achieve a big, bodacious, bold goal. It was his decision to reach deep inside and explore the depths of his soul, the depth of his commitment. He had chosen to ignore the pain, the agony of oxygen-depleted muscles and heaving lungs, to go beyond and into the abyss.

Trey ran a perfect race...including the ending. No other race will be remembered as well, no other athlete respected so fully. On his arm was written a scripture verse but his honor, dignity, and courage clearly confirmed that testimony and strength of will. It was his God who enabled him to venture into the darkness and return to the light.

Thank you, Trey, for an object lesson of enormous magnitude. It will be forever remembered and has sealed my continued commitment and privilege to coach. I wouldn't ever want to miss something like this.

Like a deer. . .

Oh my goodness. It's been nearly a month since I have written anything here. Not because I haven't thought about it, planned or started to. I feel bad. Writing is cathartic and a means to contemplate life. Most of the time, it puts things in perspective for me. I have yearned to peck away at the keys but the speed of life has had me whirling about at dizzying velocity.

Four or five weeks ago, I received a call from a school administrator asking me to sub the next week. Sure. Then he called back. "Could you actually teach Biology, Chemistry, and Geometry for the rest of the year." I nearly fell over as I waited in a check-out line at Wal-Mart. The rest, they say, is history. Now the routine is up at 5 a.m., to school by 6, study, prepare, and teach till 11:15, study more, go to track practice, get home at 6 p.m., make dinner, take care of my 100 online students and prepare more for the next day. Sandwiched in there are weekend track meets, on-going projects to put in a fish pond and finish a big remodel while getting a group of girls ready for a mission trip. I am tired. No. Exhausted. Sleep is not overrated.

However, for weeks, I have been awakened in the night by my thoughts, apparently worming their way to the surface of my restless brain. For example, during the planning period and anticipation of moving the first shovelful of dirt for my pond, I could think of little else. I was so excited! I love doing things like this. The labor, the rocks, the dirt, the mud, the water...all of it. Can't get enough! But, even I was amazed at how pervasive my thoughts about the pond became. I found that I drifted to sleep scheming my attack and upon waking, never missed a second of continued planning. Then, I remembered the deer.

The deer is almost a joke. Another family hated that resin creature. Not sure why. He's really quite cute. Nevertheless, at a swap meet of "stuff," my friend was delighted to let Bambi go home with me. Since then, I've loved the way the little guy is molded to lay there in my garden, so blissfully content. Perhaps it reminds me of the cement deer that my Grandma had in her yard which later came to live at our house. Good memories. Good times.

The deer had found a place of rest near the spot where my pond was going. Obviously, he had to relocate for awhile. I have to admit that I ignored him for some time during the construction process. But as I was putting the final touches on the pond, placing rocks around the perimeter and lining the bottom, I absentmindedly picked him up, setting him down by a big rock bordering the pathway. The gentle sound of flowing water at his side seemed so right. Hum, I thought, he looks content there. Perhaps I'll leave him be.

So he remains. He remains not because he is a charming garden ornament or a conversation starter as guests meander by. No, he has found a new home because every time I come or go from the house, he reminds me how I should live. How my thoughts should be guided. How my priorities should be determined and structured. For as silent as he is, his message speaks loudly, chiding and convicting.

As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, my God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When can I go and meet with God? 

Psalm 42:1.2a

Need I say more?

Bounding in the promise land

I saw her shortly after turning onto the final leg of my journey; a 2.3 mile steep descent on a gravel road. Her unmistakeable black and lime green jersey was the tasty carrot that drew me down that hill and toward the finish line. I was running well after thirty-some miles but I knew from experience that this downhill would hurt. Forcing myself to keep the pressure on, I felt my left calf begin to quiver. My mind screamed out to the offending muscle. "Relax. Relax." Twice I momentarily stopped to stretch it. It helped.

Donna Elder and me racing toward the finish

Still, with 400 yards to go, I caught Donna. My breathing was labored, to say the least. I'm sure she thought it was a freight train coming up behind her. "Oh, hey, Rebekah. Good job," she offered. I did not return the greeting. I couldn't. There was not enough air to both breath and run. My friend did not slow or let me pass. I had mixed feelings about that. It would have been easier had she relented. But it also would have diminished our finish. Her persistence kept me honest.

Onto the final blacktop road and through the mud at the top of the driveway. Now, with 75 yards to do, I wasn't sure if I could hold on. "So what if she gains a few yards on you? Who cares? Just cross the line with a smile. You did good enough," a tiny voice chided. The thought was so appealing. I was red-lined but still moving. But that is not the only voice I heard.

"You tell your runners to give it all they have. To turn it on and leave it all out on the course. You have to see if there is another gear." The dueling conversations lasted for 30 yards. Now with 45 to go, the decision was made. I reached down into the abyss of my will. My speed picked up, legs churning. I was startled by my body's response as I accelerated despite trail-weary legs. Donna and I hurled ourselves toward the cheering crowd, faster and faster. Crossing the line, I was spent. Breathing was difficult. But it was worth it. I would be able to tell my team that I gave it all I had. I had to lead by example even if they weren't there to see it.

I ran smart. I ran hard. I am pleased.

That's how the race ended. But that's not the whole story. With a light rain falling, many runners looked bundled up as we headed up the mountain in the early morning darkness. I pitied them knowing they were destined to carry their long sleeves and jackets for the race's duration. Within a mile, my own arm warmers came off and got stuffed into my pack. My sleeveless tank was all I needed.

Running with Sophie Spiedel

Up, up, up I went, determined to have a good day. My goal was to run smart and strong, not content to just "finish." Some passed me and I passed others on my way to the top. Now down the grassy road I ran, taking in the clouds hanging in the valleys below and a mist hanging in the morning air. Everything was lush and green, birds shouting out their spring pleasure in song. Sooner than expected, I reached the bottom and began to climb again, a common theme on the tough Promise Land course with a reported gain of about 9000 feet. Another couple miles brought me to Sunset Field aid station in the company of some very strong runners. That pleased me.

Down, down, down to the valley floor. Along the creek, into the woods, running strong. The cold stream crossings felt refreshing. Pick up your heels. Don't step forward. Stay calm and relaxed but don't back off. The mental reminders helped, carrying me through several more aid stations. I mostly ran alone though brief greetings were offered as I passed others. I liked it that way. I embraced the solitude, the gentle quiet of the awakening springtime forest. But it didn't stay that way--and that's okay.

Jennifer Nichols is a rising star. With a blazing fast past in high school and college, this once track and road runner is making quite the impression in the ultrarunning world. But battling a recent cold and cough and being a mom to young ones, she wasn't in her finest form. Bad for her. Good for me. Our paces matched on this day as we chatted about this and that, challenges and dreams, failures and goals. At times, we temporarily separated but joined forces again further down the trail. It was a comfortable and unspoken arrangement that carried us up the grueling Apple Orchard ascent.

Jennifer Nichols and I approach Sunset Fields

With just 4.5 miles to go, we left the mountain top aid station together. But soon, as the trail wound it's way downward through the rhododendrons and along a full and rushing stream, we parted company, each to finish the race on her own terms. Hence, I reached the final gravel road alone to finish well what I had started. The whole day had been a choice. It was a choice to run hard. A choice to hurt. A choice to dig deep. But it was also a choice to smile, to be content and happy. It was a choice to not look at my watch. Rather, it was a choice to simply ask and answer the question over and over again: "Am I doing the very best I can do right now?"



Yes. Praise God I can honestly answer "yes."

Law Breaker

A law breaker. That's what I am.

My day yesterday was another filled to the brim with responsibilities and duties, one of which was a trip to Lowes. Still entangled with a big sunroom do-over project, I was appointed to make the trip to buy a truckload of drywall, insulation, and a variety of other things. With list in hand, I grabbed my purse and gave it a quick look-see.  Oops. I had taken out my wallet the day before and locked it in the center console of the car--Gary's car. I called to report my error and inform him that he would have to do it after work. I had a track meet to coach.

With my schedule somewhat tidied, I retreated back into the office. But it wasn't for long. "Hey," Gary said when the phone rang. "I have cash in our hidden spot. You can still go get the drywall." I swear I heard him crack a dastardly grin through the phone. Ugh.

"But my license. I won't have it to drive there," I countered. He probably heard my smirk.

"Too bad, so sad. You have to drive into school to get it from my car before the meet anyway. It will be fine."

Resigned to my criminal destiny, I was particularly careful about my speed en route to the store. I was quite sure that  my brainwaves were transmitting signals that police scanners would intercept. I felt stripped naked without my trusty wallet. If I got stopped, I really couldn't say I was on my way to get it. Hum. Surely, a police officer would understand the importance of a truckload of nasty drywall.

Thankfully, I made it home without incident. My terror at the thought of drywall sliding off the back of the truck as I went up each hill, drawing unwanted attention from the authorities, finally dissipated as I pulled into my spot in front of the house. I had gotten away with my despicable behavior.

Later in the afternoon, I once again got behind the wheel and headed out, this time to actually retrieve my license. I was so relieved when I finally had that wallet in my hot little hand. Whew. Jail time avoided. I resolved to always check for that item before taking the first step to the door.

My resolve was real. My intentions good. Unfortunately, as I got out of the car and headed into Lowes again this morning, I reached into my purse for the sales receipt of an item I was returning. To quote a pop star, "Oops. I've done it again." No wallet. It was still in the bag I took to the track meet. I wanted to scream. But back in the car I went, driving home license-less. Brain transmissions peaked as I scanned the horizon and the rear-view mirror for flashing lights and blaring sirens. However, I once again avoided an encounter with the law. I was grateful.

I broke the law even though I didn't get caught. But the simple fact is that that one transgression, as insignificant as it may seem, labels me as guilty. That reminds me of Romans 5:12, memorized long ago in Awana Club.  Therefore, just as sin entered the world through one man, and death through sin, and in this way death came to all people, because all sinned— Poor Adam. His sin made us all guilty.

But, praise God, it is by one man's death that we are declared righteous. For if the many died by the trespass of the one man, how much more did God’s grace and the gift that came by the grace of the one man, Jesus Christ, overflow to the many! (Romans 5:15b).

In this Easter season, I am reminded that though I transgress, the God-Man, Jesus Christ, assumed my guilt on that Friday long ago when the skies darkened and the earth quaked. There He hung, despised and rejected, in agony, his father's back turned. Into the ground his speared body went, for three long days. But despite that awful Friday, Sunday morning dawned and He was gone. Jesus Christ conquered the death brought on by my sin. And now, I live in Christ because of Christ.

Hallelujah. What a Savior. My very own, personal Savior.

For just as through the disobedience of the one man the many were made sinners, so also through the obedience of the one man the many will be made righteous.

Romans 5:19

Eagles and Vultures

(An excerpt from Pace Yourself: 366 Devotions from the Daily Grind)

“He mounted the cherubim and flew; he soared on the wings of the wind” (Psalm 18:10).

When David penned these words, they were a song sung to the Lord. God Almighty was described as a great defender of the afflicted, figuratively swooping down from His throne to defeat the enemy. I envision a spirit lighting on the winged angel and taking flight together across the sky. Perhaps I’ve seen too many pictures of the mythological Apollo’s chariot. Nevertheless, the picture painted by the Psalmist is one of power and strength.

I was not far into my run today when, glancing to the left, a movement caught my eye. The pasture sloped downward toward a creek and a herd of cows grazed contentedly. The sky was a brilliant blue and the clouds, fluffy and white, floated effortlessly across the sky, a stout breeze coaxing them on their way. And then I saw it; a beautiful demonstration of soaring on the wings of the wind. 

A huge vulture, not generally regarded as handsome, spread his wings and took off. A flap or two made him rise to catch an invisible air current, launching him even higher into the sky. There he glided, adjusting the position of his wings ever so slightly to turn this way or that. He looked so free, so powerful. I wondered what it felt like to experience flight unencumbered by the trappings of an airplane. I was so intrigued by watching this giant bird I nearly ran off the road.

Regaining my bearings, I got to thinking about the inspirational “wings of eagles” verse found in Isaiah 40:31. It’s not hard to imagine a creature as majestic as an eagle soaring on the wind. Eagles are beautiful and commanding, swift and regal. Soaring is what they are supposed to do. But turkey vultures with their big ugly red heads and whose lives consist of eating rotting road kill…Well, it just doesn’t seem right that they could soar just as well as their cousins.

To me, the lesson became clear. Truth is, we may not be an “eagle.” We have imperfections and flaws that some might say disqualify us from flying with the beautiful crowd. And yet, we have been equally equipped to soar high and often.

           

“but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.” (Isaiah 40:31)

Saved from the junk pile

Rottenness abounds

A few weeks ago, I was in the midst of raging a full-out battle against the stinkbugs that had taken up residence in every nook and cranny in our house. Armed with my loaded gun of caulk, I swarmed into each room, laying down ribbons of the gooey stuff with the hope of sealing them in. The sunroom was the worst. Huge panes of glass mounted in, well, nontraditional construction methods, provided a virtual playground for these horrible bugs. As I was attempting to fill the many voids, a curious thing happened. My hand went right through a 4x4 support beam. I took that as a bad sign since I doubted I had developed the ability to reach through walls like a super hero. Anyway, further investigation revealed a totally rotten structure damaged from years of water damage. We had not planned on a big construction project but now we had no choice.

Landfill-destined junk

We hired a friend who does this type of work. Seth is working as his helper. It took a couple days to rip the thing apart and even more to put it back together. In fact, construction is still underway. But in the process, huge piles of see-through lumber, 36 cumbersome sheets of glass and tons of construction carnage decorated our yard. Yesterday and between raindrops, Seth and I spent some time "organizing" the junk. We separated out good wood from the bad, trash from the salvageable. What resulted was a huge pile of aluminum that we'll be able to sell to a recycling company. What once looked worthless and headed to an eternity in the land-fill has been pulled from the rubble and restored with value.

Valuable junk: saved and recycled

I can't help but think of the spiritual analogy. Because of our intrinsic sin, we were in the trash pile. No value. No hope of a productive, purpose-driven life. I realize that such a sentiment is not politically correct but it's true nonetheless. However, when God reaches down with that strong arm of love and plucks us from that mess, His choice to recycle us gives us value; not because of anything we have done but because that divine act bestows value.

I am so thankful that God extended his grace and mercy to me. I would much rather be trash saved from the heap and re-made into His image than live where my sin naturally calls home.

As for you, you were dead in your transgressions and sins...we were by nature deserving of wrath. But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved. And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus. For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do. 

(Ephesians 2:1, 3b-10)

Choosing to suffer

Scotty Curlee 

"I came to realize that I wasn't very good at team sports. Look at me. I'm too small for football or basketball. But I found out that I am really good at suffering. . ."

Those were the words Scotty Curlee delivered to the Liberty Christian Academy track team last week. Every kid in the room was captivated with this professional cyclist and pharmaceutical rep turned actor and movie director. (The Potential Inside)  He continued. "I was the guy who could hold the heart rate and crank it up Apple Orchard Mountain despite the pain, the rain, the cold. . . to race at the Olympic and world-class level, you must choose to sacrifice much. You must choose to suffer."

Jenny Anderson

In recent days, Jenny Anderson chose to suffer along Spain's El Camino de Santiago. Cold rain, freezing temperatures, sleet, snow, shoe-sucking mud and gale-force winds could not keep her from completing the course in record time. She endured bleak darkness, sleep deprivation, physical and emotional pain and loneliness for ten straight days. She chose to suffer.

Rick and Tammy Gray

Rick Gray, an experienced and effervescent ultrarunner, chose to suffer last Saturday. With a goal of sub-20 hours for the miles of the Umstead 100 Miler, he took step after relentless step. But somewhere between the start line and the finish, his stomach turned south, enduring retching and heaving, the kind that reduces a person to mush. The last 25-30 miles was filled with suffering and slow, agonizing progress. And yet, he endured to the end despite missing his target time. He, too, chose to suffer.

Great feats of physical accomplishments provide stellar examples of persevering through adversity. Such stories inspire and motivate. I find that I tend to make new commitments and establish lofty goals in the aftermath of hearing such tales. I make a mental decision to endure and become a disciplined woman because of the pursuit. But alas, I fail more times than not.

Suffering is hard. So very hard. All the prior mental decisions vanish as the lactic acid accumulates, the legs begin to fail, and the lungs cry out for mercy. Being in the think of it distorts the goal. The finish line is lost in the distance, obscured by the rainstorm of pain and agony. It is only the athlete who completely and certifiably understands the significance of the finish that attains the prize of accomplishment.

There is another grand example of suffering. Suffering that surpasses all suffering. No athlete and his endeavors comes close. For this suffering was endured because of the greatest commitment of all. This one suffered because of a conscious decision to those who had no power to endure. In fact, they had no power on their own to even enter the game. They were lost without hope.

This greatest sufferer  "was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain. Like one from whom people hide their faces he was despised, and we held him in low esteem. Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering, yet we considered him punished by God, stricken by him, and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed. Yet it was the LORD’s will to crush him and cause him to suffer, and though the LORD makes his life an offering for sin, he will see his offspring and prolong his days,   and the will of the LORD will prosper in his hand" (Isaiah 53:3-10)

Suffering can only be endured when the goal is compelling and clear. And should we persevere, the reward is great; we will see the light and be satisfied (Isaiah 53:11).

Join with me in suffering, like a good soldier of Christ Jesus. (2 Timothy 2:3)

Before and after

Ya gotta love before and afters. They are so telling. . .most of the time.

Take, for instance, all those home shows. A horrible yard turns into a resort-inspired retreat with the help of a professional crew and some willing homeowners. An ugly, grime-encrusted kitchen morphs into a warm, efficient, and aesthetically pleasing hub of the home. 

As of late, I've been enjoying the guilty pleasure of before and afters. My yearning to release some pent-up creativity and rid my home of bland, boring decor has resulted in the application of numerous paint colors in a variety of patterns. The results have generally been well-received. But the highest cudos come from folks who know how yuk the hallways and rooms looked before the creative crash rushed in and took over. They knew the before and can appreciate the after.

But these aren't the only kind of impressive before and afters. Think about all those print ads and TV commercials touting the benefits of some new fang-dangled weight loss program. The before shots show plump, pudgy, and positively unattractive people. But the after shots? Well, the previously fat and frumpy are now bikini-clad, pumped, and primped.

The same goes for the age-correcting serums. I should know about this one. I've been researching the benefits of this lotion and that potion, all in an effort to slow down the skin sag in my face and the orange-peel skin on these 'ol legs. There are some pretty amazing testimonials and wonderful before and after photos. Ahhh...If only they were all true.

The trouble with many before and afters can be found in the small print: "Results may not be typical." In fact, in weight-loss advertisements, 88% of all ads contain those infamous side-by-side comparisons. The first photo is snap-shot quality with poor lighting, horrible posture and a blank and listless expression. In contrast, the after shot is most often studio quality, the model smiling after a hair and makeup session, standing straight and tall and sucking in everything that could look flabby. Plus, a good photographer with photo-altering skills at his disposal doesn't hurt either. Hence, though the ad promises hope of a magnificent before and after, the truth may be disguised.

Oh dear. What if someone took a picture of my spiritual before and after? I wonder if there would be a sharp contrast between images. And, I have to question if the after image is for real. Have I painted on a facade to give an appearance of a polished, mature Christian when, in fact, it is merely a creative illusion?

"What you see is what you get." Is it really? If we are truly a Believer, the before and after should be obvious and verifiable.

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come. The old has gone, the new is here!  All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation:  that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting people’s sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation. We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us. We implore you on Christ’s behalf: Be reconciled to God.  God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God. 

(2 Corinthians 5:17-21)

Trotting on Terrapin

Photo by Seth Trittipoe

Yowzah! The muscles in both my calves instantaneously drew up into tight rubber-band balls. It brought me to an abrupt stop, grabbing for a nearby tree. The spasm drew both feet in directions not intended for a natural cadence. Using the tree for support, I stretched out both legs and gingerly proceeded on my way. I had been doing so well. But when I spoke to a young runner who had taken a headlong plunge into the woods, I lost my concentration and caught my toe on a relatively smooth portion of trail. I guess I can't talk and run at the same time. If it hadn't hurt so bad, it might have even been funny. Down the hatch went electrolyte drink and capsules and a handful of pretzels in an effort to save the day. It did. . .just at a little slower pace.

The race was Terrapin Mountain 50K. With somewhere between 7500 and 8500 feet of both gain and descent (reports differ), the race is not for the light-hearted. Quad crushing downhills and relentless climbs make an impression on even well-trained and behaving muscles. I had been doing my share of long runs and was consistent in daily training with my track distance runners. But not all those runs were substantial in mileage even if they were done at quicker paces. I didn't how I would fair in this race. And I sure wasn't confident enough in my training to push to the red line and hold it there. I was afraid it would quickly become the dead line.

Upon waking in the inky pre-race darkness of 4:30 a.m., I felt a peculiar calm. The sense of dread so familiar in previous years was absent. Rather, sipping my coffee on the way to the start, I smiled just a bit as I prepared my mind for the task. I just hoped the body would prove equally prepared.

Run when I can. Walk when I must. Drink often, nibble frequently, get in the electrolytes. Repeat over and over again. That's as simple as it gets. Occasionally, I chatted with those around me. Pleasant enough and a welcome distraction at times. But most often, I liked to be alone on the trail, able to set my own pace and mull over my thoughts. Sometimes I prayed for others. Sometimes I prayed for myself. Sometimes my mind wandered to planning projects on the home front, outlining upcoming speeches, or merely taking in the soothing sound of leaves rustling or gravel crunching beneath my feet.

Before the starting gong rang out it's rich tone, someone asked me what my goal was. Hum. I guess it was to be the first grand masters woman to cross the finish line. The problem was, a friend of mine had just recently slipped into this age group, bringing strong legs and many training miles with her. Early in the race she had pulled away from me. But I knew she was never far ahead. I wanted to catch her and with five and a half miles to go, saw her coming at me on an out-and-back section. My heart quickened and my pace wanted to. Unfortunately, the cramping calves incident had happened just moments prior. Plus, I knew our passing would be all the motivation she needed to keep the lead.

Photo by Seth Trittipoe

Still, hope springs eternal. Arriving at the last aid station, I handed off my pack, downed some fluid, popped a few electrolyte capsules and shoved those pretzels in my mouth, all amidst wiping my runny nose on my sleeve. Yes, quite the picture of beauty and grace. Not. Off I went up the mountain, taking tiny steps so as to not wake and annoy the now quiescent calves. I forced myself to concentrate on my footing, knowing that another lurch forward would bring on more spasm. The cold, rushing water of the last creek crossing was greatly anticipated not because it signaled the remaining two miles, but because it might settle the muscles.

Then, with half a mile to go, my left calf cried out. I stopped dead in my tracks. I could hear the noise from the finish line and the pitter-patter of approaching feet from behind. Gosh. I shook my head, briefly stretched my leg and continued on. What else could I do? I failed to meet my goal, finishing about ten or twelve minutes back from the women four years my junior. It happens.  My tenth place finish for the women was good, not great. But the day? More than acceptable. The temperature was about perfect and the rain held off. I was happy, content, and grateful I could be out there. Conversation was good, old friends seen, and new acquaintances made. No blood or lasting injury for me. Post-race movement is decent and determination for future endeavors is growing.

Couldn't ask for more.

Did you run Terrapin 50K or Half-Marathon? Click here to see 850+ professional pictures taken at the creek crossing.