26.2 miles.

We did it.

December 1st, 2008

I'm sitting in a coffee shop in Seattle called Chocolati. My husband Anton is on my left, and my brother-in-law Carl's on the right. We're all working on our laptops, and suddenly Anton turns to me and says, "Guess what?"

I guess: "You just ran 26.2 miles."

"You just ran 26.2 miles."

"Oh, that's why it hurts so bad."

"Together, we ran 50 miles. Well, 52.4. That's like from home to Santa Cruz."

"We should've brought bikes. That would have been a lot faster."

"Yeah. We're so stupid."

On Saturday night, Team in Training hosted a pasta party, an inspirational carbo-loading pre-marathon event. One of the honoree speakers, a leukemia survivor, who had just found out that morning that one of her friends has been hospitalized for Hodgkin disease, told us, "Remember tomorrow, around mile 20, when you're really hurting, that you insane people chose to do this. Some people don't get a choice."

She laughed, and so did we, but it was the serious kind of laugher that I've heard quite a bit since joining TNT. We have so much fun with our training, our send-offs, celebrations before and after the events, but it's all a thoughtful, meaningful kind of fun. With the honorees' pictures on our hats, their names on our shirts, I don't think any of us can ever really forget why we got involved in the first place. For me, the training itself was a constant reminder. Sometimes, when I was feeling good, it felt like something I was doing for her, even with her. Sometimes, when I was feeling bad, I just kept thinking about all the pain she suffered through, with multiple surgeries and all the time in the hospital, and I remembered C.S. Lewis, writing in A Grief Observed:

What is grief compared with physical pain? Whatever fools may say, the body can suffer twenty times more than the mind. The mind has always some power of evasion. At worst, the unbearable thought comes back and back, but the physical pain can be absolutely continuous . . . What sort of lover am I to think so much about my affliction and so much less about hers? Even the insane call, "Come back," is all for my own sake.

It was, in fact, around mile 20, which began the longest run we'd ever attempted (20 miles was our longest training run) that I began to experience some of the most continuous pain of my life. But I'm getting ahead of myself here; why start with the most awful part? Let's go back to that pasta party.

There were about 150 of us TNT folk at the Seattle Marathon, full and half marathon runners and walkers with all of our amazing support--mentors and captains and coaches, friends and family. We were split between the Washington/Alaska chapter (one woman came down from Alaska, having trained all season in 20 degrees in the dark) and the Silicon Valley/Monterey Bay chapter. The Washington people spent all weekend thanking us California folk for the nice weather. Apparently it snowed during the 2006 Seattle Marathon, but this year it really seemed as though we'd packed the Monterey weather in our luggage: temperature in the fifties, no rain, but a nice thick fog all day to protect us from the sun.

There were only three runners from the Ducks (the Monterey Team): Anton, myself, and a wonderful young woman named Yvonne. But all of the TNT folk from Silicon Valley and Washington were our instant friends and supporters. We all traded shouts (and later, whimpers) of "Go Team!" right from the very start of the race. Every purple jersey (participants) and green t-shirt (coaches) was an instant morale boost. And, by God, we needed it.

The first 13 miles were solid. We ran through downtown Seattle, across the floating bridge to Mercer Island, in Lake Washington, back to the mainland, and along the lakeside to Seward Park. Anton's parents, who had seen us off at the start, were waiting for us at the entrance to the park with huge loving smiles on their faces. Anton's mum was so excited she actually started jumping up and down.

At this point we were feeling pretty good. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't painless, but we were in charted territory. And the scenery was really something else--ducks and geese bobbing in the lake, fall colors on the trees and blanketing the ground, and everything wrapped in a misty blanket. Anton's beard was decorated with water droplets. Smiling volunteers held back traffic, offered water and Gatorade, and cheerfully cleaned up the cups and wrappers we dropped in our wake. Spectators clapped, hollered, and madly rang cowbells. We passed a couple of girls waving fallen leaves and telling us how sexy we were, and a young man who asked Anton for his name, then screamed at the top of his lungs, "GO ANTON! GO!"

Attracting additional attention every step of the way were our distinctive Monterey Duck headgear. In order to help our coaches spot us along the way, they had fashioned lightweight pins with long, upright purple and green streamers to attach to our hats. I was infinitely grateful for these identifiers. Not only did they elicit amused enthusiasm from spectators, they brought our wonderful coach, Topher, to run alongside us several times during the race. His company was most invaluable during miles 21-24, when every step was excruciating and Anton and I didn't have much to say to each other that wasn't some kind of complaint. I don't really remember what Topher talked to us about--inane comments about the weather, probably--but it helped get me out of my own little world of pain just enough to keep going.

For much of the second half of the race, I had been overwhelmed with a desire to see Mom, so much so that I was choked up and crying, on and off. When I told Topher, he said, "Use the emotion, let it carry you." And it worked. Concentrating on that feeling somehow helped me keep running.

And then, of course, there's my amazing husband. We stayed together for every mile, no matter who was hurting more (and it went back and forth). Even when we didn't talk, we were secure in the knowledge that we were together. At mile 24, Topher turned around to look for Yvonne, and we staggered on. The most wretched part of these last two miles were the hills, which the course designers had thoughtfully saved for the very end. Uphill is bad, but downhill, with legs already in agony, is real torture.

Then we saw the 26 mile marker. And somehow, somewhere, we found the oomph to sprint the last 0.2 miles. Crying and holding hands, we crossed the finish line.

What else is there to say? I can hardly express in words how wonderful our families were and are: Anton's family, cheering us on, meeting us at the end, hugging us, feeding us, driving us back to the hotel where we collapsed into ice baths; my family, so loving and supportive that it didn't matter how far away they were, I still felt them with us every step of the way; and our TNT family, offering advice, understanding, and, of course, pasta.

To our infinite delight, there was pasta again at the victory party on Sunday night. And after the pasta, dancing! Yes, it sounds ridiculous to have a dance party with a bunch of people who have just run or walked a marathon, but that turns out not to be a significant impediment. I suppose that you could tone down your dancing to a sort of post-marathon shuffle, perhaps waving your arms around with minimal lower body movement, but I'm not capable of toned-down dancing. If they play "Go, Daddy-O!" then I have to do the Charleston.

Overall, I think the dancing stretched out those tired, aching muscles and did good, but I might have been a little too enthusiastic for my right knee and hip, which are rather cranky with me today. I'm sure it's a quarrel that can be mended with sufficient application of ice and rest.

Tomorrow, we'll get home to Monterey, to our kittens and our jobs and the rest of our lives. Today is for rest, recovery, and a tremendous thanksgiving to every single one of you, for all the love and support.

Thank you.

November 2nd, 2008

Check out that fundraising thermometer. Thanks to the incredible generosity of every single donor, we've exceeded my original goal!

But that doesn't mean you can't donate anymore! Every additional dollar that's donated will make a difference.

Yesterday we completed our longest training run: 20 miles. Now we're tapering, giving our bodies a chance to rest before we push them to cover 26.2 miles for the marathon itself. If you're interested in details of the Seattle Marathon, here's the website:

http://www.seattlemarathon.org

My next and final update will assure you that we lived to tell the tale. Meanwhile, have a wonderful month and Happy Thanksgiving!

Why was my goal $3000?

Team in Training came up with this number by calculating how much it will cost them to pay for my training, marathon registration, flight to Seattle, etc. ($750), and multiplying that number by 4. This would mean that 75% of donations go directly to the cause. Anton and I realized we'd rather cover our own expenses as much as possible, so we decided we'd each donate $500 to our own cause. If you think of that money as funding my participation, it means that over 90% of what you donate goes directly to battling blood cancers. Hooray!

October 18th, 2008

Eight miles? Did I think that was a lot? Friends and family, this morning I ran eighteen miles with my amazing husband by my side. It took us just under four hours (we never claimed to be setting speed records). With rest, ibuprofen, ice, rest, food, water, salt, and more rest, we seem to be recovering, and I have high hopes that tomorrow we'll be able to walk around the house like normal people.

Today's picture comes from a team picnic that we had after our 14-mile run several weeks ago. Someone brought these enormous cookies that were almost exactly the same size as my head, and our team photographer insisted on taking a picture.

So, everything is going well. We've been able to keep up with the training, and we're having a lot of fun with the team. Thanks to the incredible generosity of friends and family, Anton has reached his fundraising goal and I'm just over $100 shy. And I'm feeling closer to the cause than ever, finding that this is an emotional challenge as well as a mental and physical one. One of our new team honorees is a lovely girl named Ellen, with whom I used to take dance classes! She's struggling with chemo right now, but hoping to be able to return to dance sometime early in 2009--and I can't wait to see her in the studio again.

September 1st, 2008

The first month of training has been fantastic! Every Saturday I'm breaking my own record for the longest distance I've ever run. The super-dorky picture on top is of me being very excited after 7 miles. And now I'm up to 8! No serious injuries, and although my shins have been hurting, icing them after each run seems to do the trick. Sometimes if I'm close to the ocean, I just go wading in the frigid water!

And so many people have been so generous with both emotional and financial support. Thanks, everyone!

August 2008: It begins . . .

I'm training to run the Seattle Marathon as a member of The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society's (LLS) Team In Training. While we prepare ourselves for this endurance event, we're also raising money for basic and clinical research and support services for cancer patients and their families.

My mother was diagnosed with Hodgkin lymphoma when she was my age. The cancer was treated with radiation and never recurred, allowing her to live for 30 more very healthy years, happily raising her two children. However, the treatment had damaged her heart tissue, and in 2005 she passed away after a lengthy hospitalization. In that same year, my boyfriend's sister (now my sister-in-law!) was also diagnosed with Hodgkin lymphoma. After radiation, chemotherapy, and a stem cell transplant, she conquered the disease, and now she is leading a full and active life.

Having witnessed firsthand the successes and limitations of existing cancer treatments, and the urgent need of patients and their families for information and support, I am very happy to be raising money for LLS.

Please make a donation to help advance LLS's mission: to cure leukemia, lymphoma, Hodgkin disease and myeloma, and improve the quality of life of patients and their families.

And come back to check this page--I'll be updating it with running photos and news. Thanks for your support!