It is done.

I've finished the Marine Corps Marathon.

Statistics - 3:32:18 for 26.2 miles, $8,255 for blood cancer research.

But it is more than numbers. Perhaps this is why it's taken me so long to write this summary. Truth is I've started to write this many times, and hit delete. I wrote longish posts violating my desire to be Nick Adams' concise. I wrote short poetry-like lines thinking William Carlos Williams would come to my rescue.

In the end, all I have left is this.

As I approached mile 22, and the part of the marathon I knew from primitive memory to be the start of the real run, I heard the first few chords of a song. I rounded the corner and the lead singer of the band that had set up to play at this point in the race began the lyrics to the song that is, by far, my favorite song, by my favorite artist.

"Doctor My Eyes have seen the years, and the slow parade of fear..."

That's it. If you've read my previous posts about the importance of Jackson Browne to all of this, then you may understand why I took this as a sign that I'd reached my goal on so many levels.

My religious friends will see one hand at work, those with new age leanings another, the scientists among you will calculate the odds.

For me, it is what it is.

Statistics - 3:32:18 for 26.2 miles, $8,255 for blood cancer research.

Beyond the numbers? Thank you to everyone that donated and shared stories and lent support. The run seemed faster than the time on the clock, thanks to all of you.

Oh, and one more thing...

After 26 years, I've qualified for Boston again. So, I see only one thing I can do. At some point, I'm going to have get up and do it again.

There is pain, and then, there is Pain.

One of the things I think about on runs is the pain I’m experiencing. It might be an Achilles that is flaring I need to watch, a knee joint or IT band that wants some attention, or aches in the small bones of my feet protesting the constant battering.

All this from a body that thought it was through with this pounding and running long distances. It’s a constant battle between a mind that remembers what it was like to run a lot faster in my 20’s and 30’s. A mind that has forgotten about old injuries and pain, that insists a body 25 years older than its prime should be able to, at least, tough out a marathon at a “decent” pace. I feel I’m in a constant negotiation between mind and body to try and find a pace and pain level both can live with.

I must admit my mind is quite capable of the little white lie to my body that “this is the last time I’ll put you through a marathon.” But in the back of my mind is the other tiny voice of a competitor that lives below the surface that says “hey, if you run fast enough you can have another shot at Boston!”

Pain is always a battle between voices. Nerve endings screaming—“enough!” Arguing with the mind, which is trying to calm the neurological storm. Sometimes one nervous bundle wins out over the other.

Mastering the pain I’m dealing with is nothing compared to the Pain Cancer patients must endure. I had a small taste of this when they did several bone marrow aspirations on me back when they thought I had leukemia. I still remember how the pain of the procedure was felt from my sternum or hip (depending on where they dug their core sampler) to the farthest points of my skeleton as they pulled the sample. I remember the time when the technician dropped the sample, “oops!” and had to do a second. I got away easy. I was only turned inside out a few times.

Since I didn’t have leukemia, I was spared the real Pain that would have followed. The seemingly endless treatments, both physical and chemical, that a Cancer patient must face are nothing compared to the tiny suffering in my youth—or the self-inflicted pain of my upcoming marathon. At least in a marathon, you know the pain will stop. With Cancer, it may go on until, if you are a lucky one, you get an all clear. If you are not so lucky, the pain is endless. It’s only muffled with medication. And from what I’ve seen, it does not abate until the final breath.

So part of this marathon is obviously to soothe the Pain I’ve seen by running for Team in Training. Knowing that the money raised will help Blood Cancer research that may spare even one person the Pain and suffering that comes with Cancer is a good feeling. The donations that are sent with notes about “my mother”, “my sister”, or “my …” are sobering. Like the previous post, I realize that It is everywhere. One friend who I thought would readily donate didn’t. I never heard from him until a second call asking if he got my e-mail asking for support. He is one of my closest friends. His reason? He was sick of dealing with Cancer—he just wanted to ignore it. This year had seen an onslaught of friends, relatives, and acquaintances, all sickened or dying from the disease. Enough. I understand why he let my request get buried in his e-mail box. We are both logical and scientific thinkers. It seems impossible that somehow we can't beat this thing. I feel his pain, and I'm humbled by his donation after we talked. He is one of the keystones in my life. Without him, I might be a bit less strong.

As for me, I will have memories of what it looks like to die from Cancer forever. I felt the pain, but not the Pain my mother went through. I was relieved for her when it was over. I haven’t felt bad about this. But, like my friend, I’m sick of It. My mother’s Pain was released, but I’m sure part of my sorting this out through running has to do with the realization that this won’t be my last trip down this dark passage. There has to be a way to beat this.

Money is part of the answer. For me, to suffer a little, to feel a little pain, by running a marathon seems to be the least I can do.

Ten days out…thanks to all who have supported my effort.

I was looking in to buying Charlie Spedding’s book, From Last to First, as I wanted to give it as a gift to someone who had donated to my Team in Training effort. I had forgotten Charlie’s website for the book, so I did a Google search. It turned up some news I hadn’t heard, that Charlie had been diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin's B Cell Lymphoma during 2010.

From his blog:

“I have not written a new post for over a year and that is because most of that time was taken up by illness. I was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin's B Cell Lymphoma during 2010, and I had to have six months of chemotherapy, which made me feel truly awful. However, it made the cancer feel even worse because in March 2011 I was declared 'all clear', and I am now feeling better than I have for a long time. From Last to First has now been republished by Aurum Press, in hardback, with the addition of pictures. It is, as they say, available from all good bookshops.”

Seems like Charlie is ok, but I sent him a note that I’ve added him to my list of people I’m running for in the Marine Corps Marathon. Charlie has always been an inspiration for me. I had the great pleasure of working with him at Nike in the UK, as well as running with him and the Jarrow boys, damn they were fast. I remember his inspirational message that “on the day” you could win if you did the training, persevered, and believed in yourself. I have told his story, of winning his Olympic medal on the day, his day, in Los Angeles to many people young and old.

I want to encourage anyone who wants to read an inspiring story, whether you are a runner or not, to purchase a copy.

To Charlie I say: I’m glad to hear that you have received the “all clear”. I’ll be thinking about you on the day.

So, why the Jackson Browne connection in my Team in training posts? Several people have asked.

Simple. When I was taken out of school in early 70's to go to LA to deal with what the Yuma doctor thought was leukemia, JB had just released his first album many know as Saturate Before Using. As such, there was a lot of airplay on Cali FM radio. In particular, Rock Me On the Water. Jackson was playing some harbor cruise and they kept blasting the song. I had never heard him and immediately identified with his music. Doctor My Eyes seemed to speak to me (yea, I know, adolescent wishful thinking) as I felt old beyond my years thinking about how I might be dying.

On one of our stops on the way we ran in to some Hari Krishnas that tried to get me to see that accepting their faith was a matter of life or death. I remember telling them to "look around them, the signs are everywhere..." even pointed out a seabird above them as evidence that I felt I knew a little more than them about what was life and death to me, given my supposed condition. In hind sight, I have no idea why I said what I said other than it seemed crazy that people who had no idea what was a life or death situation for me would single me out for conversion. I guess I could have taken their interest as a sign, but since they backed away, I must have been right, and I did have all the surety that comes with being a teenager.

Well, as mentioned in an earlier post, I did not have leukemia, and my teenage insights based on what I supposed was Jackson's message directed at me, moved on to a deep appreciation of his music. This appreciation seemed to be attuned to a variety of pseudo-mystical encounters with Jackson and his music through the years. His albums seemed to parallel my life, and I managed to meet him several times. Concerts at Arcosanti, one in which a supposed sniper had the crowd diving for cover. One, maybe the same one or another, where he played Before the Deluge just as the desert sky opened up dropping a deluge and an incredible thunder and lightening show that took out the electricity but did not stop him from playing for those of us close enough to the stage to hear him take his anxiety out on the piano and sing as the road crew tried desperately to pull him from the stage.

I felt that song was just for me as I had just come out of week in the desert after an environmental assessment for a new power plant near Winslow, AZ. Figure it out.

Many years later, I drove him to and from the airport for several Verde Valley fundraisers when I worked there. I got to talk to him and hang out backstage. My kids got to meet him, my wife too, and all of us feel his music is a part of our life to this day.

My last encounter was just before Obama was elected. I got to go backstage at a concert in Phoenix and talk to him a bit more. He never seemed to speak to me as a fan boy, which I appreciated.

So, the tie to my Team in Training effort began when I was a kid in high school, and continued throughout my life to the point when my mom died and Jackson's music helped me get through it and to formulate my plan to run this marathon in her honor. I had this crazy idea that I could get him to play at the Team in Training celebration after the marathon if I could only get through to him. But I knew that was just a fan boy dream. But he will be there in my head, along with all the other voices I hear, pushing me to finish.

No song lyrics to wrap this one up. Just a thank you to Jackson Browne for providing the music I needed to hear, when I needed to hear it.

Since I started this endeavor I’ve been reminded that my dad’s sister died of Leukemia. He also reminded me that his brother, killed in the War, was a marine. So the Marine Corps Marathon and Team in Training is a fitting return to running a marathon on many levels.

I’ve also heard stories from many of those donating about how their lives have been touched by cancer—too often by death. This has only served to instill in me a sense of urgency and, at the same time, serenity on my runs. When a long run gets hard, I think about my mother fighting to live in spite of her condition, or I think of all of those that have shared stories of their loved ones lost.

Running for me is most often a lone endeavor. I like the reflection that it brings. This singularity is only possible when out on the road alone. This is why I very rarely run with music streaming into my head. The music distracts me from pain or tiredness I might be feeling, yes. But it also detracts and distracts from the flow of the road, of memories, and of the focus needed to maintain and sustain the long run. It also keeps from me the voices I hear—the stories of survivors or those lost—urging me to go farther, to understand the hunger that drives one to stick with it when no one is looking, when life is hard, or even when it seems no one cares. When all seems lost.

I’m less than 30 days out from the run. I feel good. I completed a 22 miler last Saturday in around 3 hours. The last hour was a conversation with myself, the ghosts of those that have passed, and an embrace of the hunger that drives me on to see this through. I don’t know if I’ll tackle another of these fundraisers, or even a marathon again. But I know I’m thankful to all of you who have supported me in this challenge—there is no finish line (yea, I still believe that Nike stuff!) but there is a marathon coming up with a start and a finish and I feel ready for it.

It looks like I'll reach at least $7000.00 for Team in Training. All of you who have given me your support, no matter if you contributed or not, have made this road an easier one to run. You’ll be with me every step of the way.

As Jackson Browne said:

"Make it on your own if you think you can

Somewhere later on you'll have to take a stand

Then you're going to need a hand..."

Thanks to everyone who has extended their hand. I'm hoping after I finish the marathon I'll still be able to stand!