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I think every young elementary school kid had that assignment that asked, “what do you want to be when you grow up?”

Although only six or seven at the time, I clearly remember the seemingly simple assignment and the ease at which I provided my answer.

“A Poet,” I wrote simply.

Influenced by the antique poetry books of James Whitcomb Riley and other lyrical ghosts that my aunt Judy would often send to me, I wanted to evoke the same metre and rhyme that danced from my precious pages.

Looking back, I imagine my teacher must have had a good chuckle at my response. Most of the other kids my age likely answered more predictably and realistically with responses like “Dr,” “Teacher,” “Lawyer” or “Father/Mother.” There was no practicality in wanting to be a poet. But then, was there any practicality in asking a six year old kid what they wanted to be when they grew up?

I had not thought much about that assignment or my answer until recently. Events that had transpired over the last year and another impending birthday had resurrected the question and caused it to roam aimlessly through my head like a novice game of Pac-Man.

In no mood to answer, I tried to muffle the increasing volume at which the questions of “what do you want to be when you grow up” and “are you who you wanted to be when you grew up” were sounding through my head. But if I had been successful at quieting the annoying chatter before, the questions began to blare with a deafening pitch following Christmas.

As a Christmas gift to my parents, my sister had converted our old home VHS tapes into DVDs. We excitedly rushed into the living room with the prospect of watching our younger selves at dance recitals, sporting matches, school events and other big and small life happenings.  And as the younger versions of our selves suddenly flashed across the screens, we squealed with delight. We laughed often throughout the viewing as we teased each other about bad haircuts, embarrassing outfits, and overall silly behavior.

Mostly, though, we marveled at the passing of time.

“It seems like yesterday.”

“I remember that day so vividly.”

“I can’t believe how long ago that was.”   

The most memorable video would become a scene from a past Christmas. At first glance, there was nothing out of the ordinary. My siblings and I appeared to be fairly young and there was the typical and excited chaos that accompanied every childhood Christmas. A shot of my brother as a newborn, the youngest of the four of us, revealed that he had been born just barely a month before the video was taken.

Eventually, the camera panned to and settled on my father. Amidst the chaos of wrapping paper and four squealing kids, he sat, laser-focused, while playing with our new Nintendo console. He looked like a kid himself as he frantically pushed the buttons on his controller.

“Always such a kid,” I laughed as we watched him desperately trying to beat Super Mario Brothers.

As I muttered those words, I suddenly wondered exactly how old my father was during this particular Christmas. I darted my focus to the small time seal on the bottom portion of the screen. After struggling and straining my eyes for a moment, the lettering slowly came into focus: December 25, 1988.

Quickly, I did my own math.  I was seven; an aspiring poet.

Next, my father.

Subtract the difference in years. How old was my dad again now? Subtract the difference from that number…

“THIRTY-FOUR!” I gasped.

“Huh?” my father looked at me quizzically.

“You were thirty-four in this video, the age I will be in just over a month!”

Even as I said it aloud, it didn’t seem right. Sure he looked young, but the man in the home movie was a FATHER; he had FOUR kids. He couldn’t be the same age as the “about to be 34 year-old, un-married, no-kids” me that was presently watching.

After blurting out my realization, my father and I glanced at each other silently. Typically someone who could read my father in a single look, I couldn’t translate what lie hidden behind his unfamiliar expression. I hardly know what I was feeling, for that matter.

But as I watched my seven-year-old-poet-aspiring self dance around my thirty-four year old father, I couldn’t help but wonder about the person I had become. I couldn’t help but ask myself if I was who I had imagined I would be.

Aside from wanting to be a “Poet,” I am not sure what else I would have imagined “thirty-four” to be if you had asked me during this very Christmas video.  I probably would have assumed it to look much like my father’s life.

 Professional.

Wife.

Parent.

 Given those simplistic terms and convenient definitions, I certainly was not living up to my thirty-four year-old potential as I was at best today, only one of those.  But of course, I have realized life is far more complicated than that and we are far more than simply “what we want to be when we grow up.”

What my father was at thirty-four was more than simply a lawyer, husband and father as well. He was a sports nut, a prankster, a friend, an athlete, a dreamer, and many other aspirations that probably lived quietly and with hopefulness in his soul.  And though he was an adult by all definitions and a father of four, he was still a kid at his core. Amidst the chaos of professionalism, marriage, children and all the responsibilities that those entail, he was still a young guy, probably asking himself if this is what he imagined thirty-four would look like.

Just two kids...

As I ponder further about “who” I am today and what my “thirty-four” holds, I can’t help but be grateful for this journey and content with where it has taken me. While my profession is not a “poet” per se, I don’t think my seven-year old self had it all wrong. Life in all its madness, love, suffering, joy, unpredictability, humor and mystery IS poetry, and I am the poet of my own story; a story that I am still penning. It isn’t always pretty and it is not always what I imagine and hope it will be, but it is mine.  And so, as I enter “thirty-four,” I borrow the thoughts of my old friend, James Whitcomb Riley, and with intention "and with dreams my own, I wander as it leads."

The Pebbles In Your Shoes

“It’s not the mountain ahead to climb that wears you down, it’s the pebble in your shoe”

Muhammad Ali

Last August, the day following the 2013 Angeles Crest 100 mile race, I put my name in the hat for the 2014 race. I was scared, but I had unfinished business with this behemoth.

It was in 2009 that I had first signed up for the Angeles Crest 100 mile endurance run. I was a relatively new “ultra runner” at the time, and admittedly a bit naïve for taking on such a large challenge. The course boasts upwards of 21k feet of both climbing and descent with the highest peak reaching approximately 9,300 feet at mile seventeen atop Baden Powell.  If the steep climbs and descents aren’t enough to intimidate, there is also the technical terrain and scorching temperatures that make this hundred miler a daunting prospect.  

Looks easy, right?

Armed with ignorance, a false confidence, and head-strong determination, I trained the best that I knew how and prepared to toe the line for the 2009 start. In retrospect, my training probably was not close to enough to deliver me to my first finish, but I would not find out as the Station Fire sadly caused the race to be cancelled.

Station Fire of 2009

In 2010, I was granted a free entry due to the cancellation, but had not trained to race.  I was a little worn out on the idea of running a hundred miler and had frankly become intimidated by the challenge. Just as the beautiful landscape of the forest had burned in the Station Fire of '09, so had my naivety that often hurls me blindly into "unrealistic" feats. Clearly, I had not respected the course the way I should have going into 2009 and I was no where close to ready in 2010, mentally or physically.

Still, never one to walk away from a free opportunity to run and perhaps grasping on to a piece of "what if...", a friend and I decided to start and treat the day like a fun "training run." The day proved to be just that and the faint "what ifs" that had followed us to the start line went dead silent as we decided to pull the plug at mile forty-two. As my wrist band was cut to signify the end of my day, I wondered if I would ever come back and finish my business in the Angeles Crest Forest. Running the first forty-two miles had caused the race to grow even more exponentially in my head until it had become a near impossible feat. Furthermore, and beyond just this particular race, the one hundred mile distance now seemed like too much to take on. 

I did not realize it at the time, but the distance had become a pebble in my shoe.

Following 2010, I took some time away from racing. I wasn't enjoying it the way I used to and I needed time to reflect. I also succumbed to a few injuries that required nursing; most significantly a stress fracture that sidelined me for close to a year. 

Slowly but surely, though, I found my way back to running, and, eventually, I regained my joy and confidence. Upon successfully completing a few fifty milers, I decided it was time to revisit the hundred mile distance. After a few snafus (see "Lost in the Sun" blog), my first hundred miler was to be Pine to Palm in September of 2013. 

Removing the first pebble

Armed now with a sense of realism, increased confidence and better training,  I crossed the finish line at P2P. And as I finished,  I noticed something; there was a feeling of lightness. It was as if a small, aggravating weight had been removed. Quickly, I realized that it had never been the hundred mile distance that was holding me back; it had been doubt. 

Doubt had been a pebble that I had placed in my own shoe.

With the hundred mile pebble removed, I decided it was time to go back to AC. This time would be different, I vowed. I was confident in the distance and maybe even ready to approach it with bigger time goals. I couldn't wait to dig in and start training.

But, as March of this year approached, and the time to start focused training for AC was on the horizon, I started to experience significant pain in my right foot in the diagnosis of plantar fasciitis. Suddenly, running wasn't fun anymore and even simple short runs were causing me to limp for the remainder of the day.

I tried to maintain optimism as I experimented with all the tried and true solves for PF, including rest. Nothing seemed to work, though, and my confidence in my ability to train and finish AC dwindled rapidly. Suddenly, March and April had passed, and while I was running some, the quality and duration of my runs were not up to the par with what I believed was needed to attempt this monster of a race.

I contemplated bowing out. I seriously contemplated bowing out. I couldn't see any other option. I was limping through short runs, so how could I expect to complete 100 mountain miles?

Or could I?

Nothing was broken. I wasn't broken. 

"F it, I am doing it!"

This was simply going to be another pebble in my shoe that I would consciously remove. It might not be a perfect path to getting to the start line, but I wasn't going to let this detour stop me . Of course, I would be careful, and there would be adjustments, but I had consulted with experts and there wasn't real danger in moving forward; it simply didn't feel good. And I could power through discomfort once I decided to stop letting it interfere with my confidence.

And, perhaps, there had been a part of me that had wanted a small excuse to not have to revisit my behemoth. Perhaps, I had been scared. The pain was legitimate, but it didn't need to be a game ender.

Moving forward, I decided there would be no more excuses or pebbles in my training. There was no guarantee I would finish the race, of course, but excuses would not hold me back from getting to the start line with the best preparation my body could handle.

Because running wasn't feeling great, I decided to do everything I could to make the training moving forward as fun as possible. I employed great friends to meet me on runs. I included bucket list items into my training like climbing Baldy and traversing the full sixty-eight miles of the Backbone trail. And, of course, I built in excursions to the Angeles Crest Forest for training runs on the course with other entrants and friends who wanted to join along. The pain still lingered, but I was putting in significant miles and some of that old confidence was slowly returning.

Climbing Baldy with awesome people; Photo Credit: Random Hiker

Celebrating America atop Baden Powell; Photo Credit: Rachel Bailin

As race week finally approached,  I still had some concerns, of course, but I was starting to recognize my pebbles and I quickly tried to pull them out. The "doubt" pebble, the "foot" pebble, the "heat concerns" pebble, the "have I trained enough?" pebble; I slowly removed them one by one. A hundred miles is a long way and surely there would be sediment, dirt and small pebbles that would make their way into my shoes, but I wanted to walk to the start line with confidence that I had removed the ones I had created myself.

And so I did at 5am on August 2nd. As the the horn sounded, and I shed my race nerves along with my morning jacket, I began my journey that had been in the making for close to five years. Whatever the day should hold, I was proud of the work I had done and for seeing my training through.

The early and latter part of the day progressed mostly smoothly. I felt steady and even managed to enjoy a lot of it. I enjoyed conversations with other runners, chats with supporters and my crew, seeing my father at aid stations, and breathtaking views. My foot was even cooperating and the high temperatures that usually accompany this race, were strangely absent. Aside from a close call with a rattle snake, the day was going remarkably well!

Look, I am smiling! (Mile 42);  Photo Credit: Tiffany Guerrera

I cruised into mile fifty-two to pick up my pacer, Steven, relatively unscathed. I knew there was plenty of course left, but I was ahead of cut-offs and was confident I could hike out sections as needed. I wasn't moving quickly, but we steadily approached mile sixty in time for an epic Sunset and some quick aid before dropping into the canyon.

Epic Sunset and still smiling(ish); Photo Credit: Chandra Farnham

As the night closed in, I could feel myself becoming more lethargic, but I continued to move forward in good spirits. Steven and I enjoyed funny banter and I marveled as I was able to still run through some of the early part of a rainy night.

I experienced some stomach nausea at sixty-eight, but was successfully able to quiet it through nutrition (re: Mountain Dew) and a short period of rest at the Newcomb's aid station. We continued on at what I jokingly referred to as my "truffle shuffle" pace and eventually made it into Chantry Flats. (Mile 75)

Chantry Flats emerges as a sea of lights and nervous excitement at the base of Mt. Wilson. It is a chaotic scene of crew members helping their runners, supporters anxiously awaiting their participants, and both downtrodden and high-spirited runners anticipating the final quarter of the race. It is an aid station that sees a lot of drops as the next twenty-five miles of the course are especially daunting. The final section features two significant climbs with the first being the climb up Mt Wilson and the second up to Sam Merrill. It also features significant technical downhill, especially in the final ten miles. Not an easy order for being seventy-five miles into a tough race.

Luckily, I was not destroyed in either the physical or mental sense. I was still in relatively high spirits and ready to tackle the final section with my next pacer, Brian. After filling up on more food and Mt. Dew, we started our trek up Wilson.

I was becoming more and more fatigued, but we powered up the mountain. As climbing is my strong suit, I fought to continue up at a decent stride, determined to reach the peak as painlessly and quickly as possible. My pace was no where close to my earlier climbs in the day, but we made it to the top with minimal pausing, and I was able to catch up to a few runners along the way.

But upon reaching the top and closing in on the final twenty,  I found my spirits starting to drop for the first time all day. Overcome with sleepiness and an overwhelming realization that there were still many tough miles ahead, I grew sluggish and struggled to respond to Brian's patient attempts at conversation. I was simply ready for the day to be OVER.

Silently, I tried to encourage myself with thoughts of the finish, but my attempt at a "truffle shuffle" into the aid station at mile eighty-three was heavier on the truffle than the shuffle. Still, I made it, and I managed to exchange some tired smiles and hugs with some of my friends who were manning the station. I stocked up on more Mountain Dew which had now become my go-to drink/calories/caffeine of choice, and headed out with a sense of dread again for the impending and final climb.

Aid at 83; Photo Credit: Anton Smith

The final climb commenced around 4am and I struggled to navigate and maintain balance through the narrow and rocky switchbacks. My heart accelerated with every quickening of pace and my responses to Brian had become mere one word whispers. Grumpily, I cursed some of the steeper ascents and rocks that cut my path while clumsily trying to juggle my hand held water bottles and headlamp that I was carrying for better lighting accuracy. Though shorter than the climb up Wilson, the winding mountain seemed to last forever. I contemplated stopping on a rock and sleeping for a short time, but my desire to be finished with the climb won over my desire to sleep.

Finally, as the first light of morning painted the sky, we closed in on the aid station at mile ninety. While the prospect of a beautiful sunrise, aid from friendly volunteers, and having only ten miles left to the finish line should have been met with relief and joy, I couldn't shake the negativity that had started to chill me through the night. Hoping that some calories and caffeine might change my disposition, I requested another cup of Mt. Dew while trying desperately to stand upright and appear together. Silently, I wondered if I could request an IV drip of my precious Mt Dew for the remaining miles.

With some coaxing from Brian, we marched out of the aid station and started our journey to the finish. The remaining miles would be mostly technical downhill, a reality that filled me with further dread. Technical downhill has not been my strength and I was reminded of the final section of Pine to Palm 100. I had done significant work on the climbs only to be passed by multiple runners on the final downhill section.

"Here we go again," I thought to myself.

But, what could I do? I wasn't a good downhill runner and I was tired. My calves felt destroyed from the final climb and I was barely staying awake.

"Do you want to try running?" Brian asked.

"I am NOT running another step!" I adamantly replied.

Convinced that I could only hike the remaining miles, I quietly consoled myself that I was OK with simply finishing.

About a mile into our descent, though, my rationalizations were interrupted by the sound of two women chatting. A few moments later, a runner and her pacer passed by in a steady shuffle, and slowly moved down the descent. As they disappeared from view, I at first felt acceptance. Acceptance quickly turned into admiration, though, as I quietly wished I could run too.

But, why couldn't I run? Was I hurt? Was I sick?

No, I wasn't.

Tired, yes. Sore, yes. Incapable?

NO.

Then it happened; I started to shuffle down the mountain. And as I shuffled down the mountain, admiration turned into determination and I started to jog down the mountain. And as I jogged down the mountain, determination turned into fight and I started to RUN down the mountain! Before I knew it, we were running down the mountain quicker and with more precision than I had ever run down the section on fresh legs.

I marveled at how quickly we were moving through the final single track and laughed with joy and surprise as we pushed our way to the finish. My joy was momentarily paused, though, as I came to a realization that I had failed to remove one last pebble.

Perhaps downhill running wasn't my greatest strength, but it didn't need to be a crutch. I was far more capable than I had given myself credit for and it was time to stop hiding behind weaknesses.

I crossed the finish line at 8:32 am after 27 hours and 32 minutes. Upon crossing underneath the historic finishing sign in Altadena, I was covered in the sweat and dirt that accompanies one hundred miles of hard mountain miles.

My shoes, however, were pebble free.

One hundred miles is a long journey; you might as well empty your shoes before you begin.

Cruising through the finish line

Can't believe it is done!

Dirty, but pebble free

"And never miss a party if you can help it"

Like an unexpected house guest, my birthday seemed to show up this January without warning or permission, for that matter.  

I simply was not prepared.

As a kid, I remember the painfully long anticipation and excitement that would accompany my birthdays. Religiously, I would check the calendar for what seemed like an eternity as I counted down the hours, minutes and seconds to my big day. The final countdown moments the night before would be acted out in a spastic dance that culminated in an explosion of pure joy, adrenaline and sugar-crash exhaustion when my birthday FINALLY arrived.

 It was awesome, and I never wanted the calendar to leave January 22nd.

But this year, my birthday felt more like an inconvenient line item on my check list; one that I was all too eager to cross off as completed. I was a far cry from my younger self and I wondered what had changed.

For one, I suppose, it was simply the weight of growing older. I am not sure of the exact moment, but at some point time had started to pass at an alarmingly quick pace. The holidays and birthdays of my youth that used to take their precious time arriving, were suddenly knocking me out with rapid fire intensity. Adulthood had become a strange and ironic tug of war between wanting time to both speed up and slow down. I was losing on both fronts.

I was also still reeling from the Holidays. Like a one night stand, the Holidays had slipped away almost as quickly as they had arrived, and I found myself wondering if they had actually happened. How could I begin to process a birthday when I was still searching for the "thanks for a good night" note from the Holidays so that I didn't feel quite so used?

Finally, I  reasoned that the lack of fervor toward my impending birthday could be attributed to my "busy" schedule. I had work stuff, run stuff, and all kinds of other self-imposed stuff  littered across my calendar. There simply wasn't room for another event or to-do item.

Given how incredibly "busy" I was, there was definitely zero time to coordinate our traditional family birthday get together. We had always made it a point as a family to meet for dinner to celebrate all birthdays, but this year seemed far too stressful and challenging to arrange. In my defense, I wasn't the only "busy" family member. My mom was working most weekends, my dad was in the midst of multiple trials and my sister Kylie was busy planning her wedding. I didn't want to put anyone out with another calendar item. And as January quickly turned into February, I figured this year would simply have to move on without the family get together. 

February 3rd, however,  told me otherwise. 

First a call.

"We have a problem," my mom's voice warned from the other line.

"What?" I said as I tried to conceal my worry.

"Well," she began, "we tried to change the calendar to February and Jess wouldn't allow us."

Before I continue, you must understand that the turning of the calendar is a big deal in my parents household. There is typically a grand announcement as the calendar flips from one month to the next while Jess stands by in gleeful anticipation of all the events that will be transpiring in the coming month. 

You should also know that Jess is my awesome sister with Down Syndrome and that she LOVES birthdays, especially her own.

And so it was, that as my mom tried to move the calendar to February, Jess indignantly protested and demanded, "What happened to Kelley?!" 

As I hung up the phone, I chuckled at the vision of Jess stubbornly preventing the transition to February.

Shortly after hanging up the phone, I received a text from my sister.

Again, I chuckled, and realized we now had no choice but to rectify the situation. And so it was, in a unified effort to make sure that Jess could find peace and the world was able to move safely into February, that my family decided to make plans for dinner. 

On February 8th, 17 days after my actual birthday, I made my way to the valley to finally celebrate. Dinner was the typical mix of laughter, teasing, and stories, and as I sat there enjoying the company of the people who matter most to me in this world, I wondered what had kept me so "busy" that I had almost missed this moment of celebration. I wondered why I had needed a firm reminder from my sister that opportunities to see the people you love should never be overlooked. While I had laughed at her actions before, I was now overwhelmingly moved by her refusal to let another day or month pass until my birthday had been properly celebrated. 

How had I almost missed out on partying with these two goofs?

During dinner, my dad aptly brought up a documentary he had recently watched entitled , "Life according to Sam." The documentary follows a young man by the name of Sam Berns who was born with a rare disease call Progeria. In the documentary he outlines his philosophy for leading a happy life. His final guideline, which had stood out to my father and which seemed all too fitting for this gathering, was simply to "never miss a party if you can help it." 

I think Jess would agree.

When we returned home from dinner, we gathered around the counter, dimmed the lights, and Jess counted down to a round of "Happy Birthday" as she has for every birthday that I can remember.  And as I made a wish and blew out the candles, I saw the relief exhale from her body. 

We could now move on to February.

Blowing out the candles. My dad is still getting the hang of his new iPhone :)

What had started out as a way to appease my sister, had turned into a lesson. As usual and in her own way, Jess was gently reminding me about what is truly important when she refused to let January pass. Calendars shouldn't simply be viewed as giant to-do lists; they should be centered around people, experiences, and celebrations. Of course there will be the mundane tasks and tough moments that find their way on our agenda, but they shouldn't prevent us from focusing on what matters. 

I hope that I can try to look at each day and month with a fraction of the youthful excitement that I once did. I hope I don't let the passing of time or a busy schedule always prevent me from enjoying the moment. Finally, I hope I can stand in front of the calendar and celebrate the coming of a day or month with some of the same joy my sister does, knowing that there are always people and events to be celebrated.

I hope I try to "never miss a party." 

At least, "not if I can help it."


(Sam Berns also has a Tedx Talk where he talks about his philosophy for a happy life. I highly recommend the 12 minutes. He has since passed, but his influence has certainly left a mark on me)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36m1o-tM05g

Lost in the Sun

Success is never final, failure is never fatal. It's courage that counts – John Wooden

My father keeps an article on his desk at work about a championship baseball game from his senior year of high school. In the article, it mentions my father as having missed the final catch due to losing the ball in the sun, and thus, losing the game. It has always saddened me that he has kept this article in view for forty some years. Perhaps, he believes it to be a motivator. Whatever the reason, it is crazy for him to believe that this solitary moment of perceived failure matters or in any way defines him.

My dad has had so many successes in his life beyond a failed catch in a baseball game.  He worked his ass off from humble beginnings to put himself through law school. He made the frightening decision to go out on his own and build a law firm when no one believed he could.  He’s worked long days and weekends every day since to make that risk work and support his family. I wish my dad would give himself more credit for these successes. But mostly, I wish he would recognize that the moments that have really made him who he is today are the moments that have fallen before and after his perceived failures and successes.

Instead of that article, I wish my father would keep a list on his desk outlining his moments of dedication and courage leading up to and after his peaks and valleys. The list should include the moment he and my mother found out that their second child had Down Syndrome and would undoubtedly face multiple obstacles in her life. More specifically, it should include the moment after when he courageously told my mom it would be “OK” and fought together with her every day after to make sure it was.

Recently, I have also fallen into the trap of defining myself by my successes and failures. Specifically, I have been running from my perceived failures on an exhaustive mission to turn them into successes. The year has brought its share of tough circumstances and I have been fueling my journey with fear. Unfortunately, fear is not a sustainable fuel, and I have stalled along the road on more than one occasion. 

No doubt, my journey to finish 100 miles this year has also at times been driven by a fear of failure. A DNF and multiple DNS’s due to injuries tended to blind my purpose and weighed on my mind like a metaphorical article chronicling my own “lost in the sun” moments. My reason for finishing became just that, to finish.  A buckle at the finish line would mean success and failure simply wasn’t an option.

I prepared tirelessly for the upcoming challenge of reaching my coveted 100 mile finish line. I logged heavy mileage weeks, sometimes running three times a day with weekly mileage reaching upwards of 120 miles.  I exhausted myself with more challenging runs than I had ever attempted before which were often accompanied by brutal heat and never ending climbs. When I was injured and unable to run, I logged mind numbing hours at the gym doing what my body would allow so that I would not lose my fitness.  I spent time visualizing the race and what the success of a finish line would look like. But despite all my preparation, I had doubts about my ability to finish. I had failed in my attempt before, so I could conceivably fail again. I talked myself in circles, teetering between forced confidence and fear.

I was a mess.

Race week quickly arrived. I walked around with a pit of worry in the middle of my stomach, unable to focus on anything but my fears about finishing. Not helping were the weather reports that were predicting highs of 97 for the weekend. I manically refreshed the weather page over and over again as if that might change the circumstances and bring better forecasts.

In another bid to exercise some control over the circumstances of my race, I began to uncharacteristically study the elevation profile and map details as if I was cramming for some kind of final. Typically someone who prefers to “meet the challenges as they come,” I became consumed with worry as I reviewed every nasty climb, descent and in- between over and over again.

Then a phone call...

My mother called during my mid-week-meltdown to fill me in on a conference she had attended regarding my beautiful sister with Down Syndrome that I mentioned above. There had been recent research that found that the gene for Alzheimer’s was located on the 23^rd chromosome where Down Syndrome occurs, and that it was not a question of if, but when my sister would start to show the symptoms. Adding to the troubling news was that fact that Alzheimer’s in persons with Down Syndrome typically occurred much earlier than in the average person; sometimes as early as 30.

My sister is 30.

I felt anger. Anger at the fact that someone who had already dealt with so much was being presented with yet another obstacle! And anger with mom for being so calm and forthright as she delivered such tough news. Didn’t she understand how upsetting this was to ME?! Couldn’t she have waited another week to tell ME when the madness of this race had finished?!

I called my father to vent.  He listened empathetically, and then responded with the kind of head checking response that I so desperately needed.

“It stinks,” he said, “but we can’t change the reality of our circumstances. What we can do, is provide your sister with the best life possible and deal with the challenges as they come.” “And,” he added, “we are lucky to have your mom, who is courageous enough to meet these challenges head on, instead of avoiding them out of fear.”

He was right. We can’t always change our circumstances, but we can always choose to meet our challenges with courage. My mom had always been courageous in fighting for my sister; never cowering from an obstacle and never complaining about the circumstances. My dad had always been courageous in working through every challenge with my mom and keeping paramount the goal of making my sister happy in the moment. And, of course, my sister had always been the picture of courage; meeting every road block with grace and the kind of joy that comes in knowing that life is about more than wins and losses.

It was time for me to start being courageous.

Armed with a new attitude, I tried to let go of my fears of failure and walked to the start line of my 100 mile journey. Of course, there were still the typical nerves you experience when meeting your goliath, but I felt a renewed sense of hopeful confidence in my ability to navigate the challenging terrain ahead by staying true to myself and channeling the courage exhibited by my sister, mother and father.

The horn sounded and the race I had been preparing for since early January, finally commenced. The first ten miles with five thousand feet of climbing were expectedly tough, but with fresh legs and the decision to start slowly, they were manageable. The next eighteen miles of downhill helped me coast into the first major aid station at twenty eight relatively unscathed.

The race until this point had been fairly smooth, but I found myself feeling somewhat irritable and I wasn’t sure why.  Maybe I wasn’t fueling enough, but, more likely, I had not completely abandoned some of my worries about failure. While I didn’t realize it at the time, doubt was starting to circle my mind like the wasp that had quietly hunted me in the first 10 miles, waiting for a vulnerable moment to implant its painful stinger.

The next ten miles were much tougher than I imagined. A heavy dose of climbing paired with a heavy dose of heat slowly beat me down until I was both physically and emotionally nauseous. About five miles into the climb and as I ran out of water, I was stung with a major case of doubt. As I battled the urge to throw up, I questioned whether I could finish the race. It was still so early, and I was already feeling terrible so how could I possibly continue? I entertained the idea of pulling the plug at mile thirty nine and abandoning this crazy dream of running a hundred miles through a blazing hot forest. I comforted myself by reasoning that I would simply drag myself the remaining miles to thirty nine and be done with this madness. With four miles to go to my quitting location, I did what I could to calm my stomach issues. I took a ginger pill and was able to finally replenish my water. Slowly the desire to throw up the last thirty seven miles of cliff blocks and waffle stingers subsided, and as I cruised into mile thirty nine, hope reemerged.

I was feeling better as I met my crew at thirty nine, and after ingesting three bottles of coconut water, I started to feel better than better; I started to feel GOOD. I was shocked at my own turnaround, and cautiously departed the aid station, fearful that this feeling could turn again at any moment. But mile after mile, I continued to feel stronger, and slowly I began to realize what I should have never doubted. 

I was capable of finishing this race.  

It was ironic that as the light of day melted into darkness, I found renewed clarity, my purpose no longer “lost in the sun.” I had survived an unforeseen rough patch, and while I knew that there could be more ahead, I was not going to allow my head to go back to that dark place of doubt. Moving forward, I would face all challenges with the confidence that comes with courage and, if I did that, I would be OK; finish line or not. And, maybe, I had been stronger and more courageous than I had given myself credit for all along. After all, I had not quit in my attempts to realize this dream after any of my setbacks. I had always dusted myself off and tried again with a renewed intensity.  I had simply lost sight of the “why” at times and worried too much about the repeat possibility of failure.

But failure is only fatal if you let it be.

The rest of the race was free from the heavy chains of worry and doubt as I enjoyed every step of the remaining 60 miles. I shared amazing conversations with friends and strangers, enjoyed stars I had never seen before in the smog of Los Angeles, climbed unafraid in the dark of night completely ALONE for several hours, pushed myself up a steep climb at mile 85 with astonishing energy, and watched the sunrise from seven thousand feet.

At 10:00 a.m., I crossed the finish line.

Like life, 100 miles is a long journey. There are circumstances you can’t control: the grade of the hill, the unexpected injury, or the angle and intensity of the sun.  All you can do is prepare to the best of your ability and meet the challenges head on as they happen along the way. You may succeed or you may fail in reaching the finish line, but the important thing to remember is that neither one is “final” or “fatal,” it’s “courage that counts.”

And, maybe, the real finish line isn’t the one with the medal after all. Maybe the real finish line is the place where you break down, break through, and discover that you are much stronger than you ever realized.

Later that afternoon, I received my buckle and gave it to my father.  I didn’t need it. I had found what I needed along the way, and he had helped me get there.

I let go of my "lost in the sun" moments. I hope my father does too.

I hope he takes down that article.

Maybe he will replace it with the buckle…