Race Recap: The Mohican 50 Edition

Originally posted on June 19, 2017

***

A year and a half ago, I finished my first 50k. I knew then that that race was just the beginning of my jump into the ultrarunning world. I decided after completing my second 50k last summer that I wanted more. I decided to run the Bigfoot 50k in December and then, if all went well, I'd shoot for the Mohican 50 miler this year. Except Bigfoot didn't go as planned. I finished only 10.5 miles of the 31 mile course and I left with my spirit crushed. My first DNF-it wasn't a good feeling. I decided to take a step away from ultras and just get back to enjoying running. And in January, I did that. Except there was this little voice in my head whispering, "Mohican." By March, I couldn't make that voice be quiet. I decided to go for it. I found a 50 mile training plan and fit some races into the lineup. I paced the Ann Arbor Marathon in March, ran the Rock & Roll Nashville Marathon in April, and then ran the Bayshore Marathon in May. In early June, the schedule had a 50k planned as a Saturday long run. I couldn't find a local 50k and didn't have the time to travel, so I opted for a self-supported point-to-point 50k solo. And it was so much fun. I knew if I could go 31 miles alone, I at least had a shot at completing 50 miles with support. The course would be a tough one, but I felt up for the challenge.

 Finally it was time to head to Ohio. I had completed all of my training, gathered everything I would need for a full day in the woods, and now I just had to do it. I arrived Friday afternoon in Loudonville, OH and made my way to packet pickup. It was a light-hearted atmosphere filled with old friends and making new ones, and of course, beer. Filip was there, who I had paced with in Ann Arbor, as well as Scott and Tom who were also ultra veterans.

 I headed back to the hotel where I assembled my drop bag, loaded my vest with supplies and fuel, and laid out my clothing. And then it was time: One more sleep until the BIG day. Except, I didn't sleep-I never sleep the night before a race. So, I tossed and turned for six hours and was already awake when my alarm went off at 4am. After chugging some coffee and downing a protein bar (which I do every single day) I got ready to go. I made it to the Start Line, where runners were slowly congregating. The 100 mile runners had already taken off and soon it would be our turn. I placed my drop bag filled with extra shoes and socks and anything I thought might sound good after 27 miles of running in the designated area and headed in search of a bathroom. A pre-race poop is a good omen for me, and this day did not disappoint! Whew! One less thing to worry about out on the trails. After that, I scoured the start area and found Leanne. This was her second 50 miler-a stepping stone to her goal race of 100 miles in July at Burning River. We had discussed running some miles together at this race and I was excited to have a companion at the start.

 I always find the start of ultras a little funny. There is no big fanfare, no gun fired, no big to-do. Everyone just kind of gathers near the start, someone says"GO" and we go! At the start of the race it was already 70 degrees and the humidity was so high you could feel it on your skin. With temperatures predicted to reach near 90 degrees, everyone had hydration on their minds. We started out at a comfortably slow pace and talked about races and fueling strategies and how lucky we were to get to spend an entire day in that beautiful forest. It seemed like we had just begun, but there stood our first aid station. I wasn't hungry, and I still had plenty of fluids, but there was watermelon and I couldn't resist. I quickly ate a piece and took off again, following Leanne. The next aid station had a little bit more distance to it, but we chatted and laughed and shared stories and at the top of a small climb, we made it to our second aid station-Fire Tower. I again had some watermelon and a few orange slices and the volunteers filled my pack with water. We didn't stick around long and then we were off and running again. I was excited for the next part of the course because I knew what was coming-a descent into an amazing canyon with a waterfall. The route took us right through the bottom of it and it was breathtaking. Leanne and I each took turns taking pictures for each other and I have to admit, I was pretty sad that I'd only get to see that spot once during the race.

 The next aid station was Covered Bridge and boy, was I happy to see those tents appear. By this time, I was drenched with sweat and the temperature was rising. A volunteer took my pack and filled it with ice and water. As I grazed on watermelon and pb&j squares, a tall man who was volunteering approached. When I asked him if he ran and he said, "a little", I knew that meant a lot. I asked him what his next race was and he said Western States! If you don't know, Western States is to ultra runners what Boston is to marathoners. He told us to hydrate well because the next portion of the race would be the most difficult and it would be seven miles until the next aid station.

 Let me tell you right here, that guy was NOT joking. As soon as we left the road and headed back onto the trail, we were faced with endless steep climbs and switchbacks. We took it slow and steady and were thankful for any portions that leveled off or gave us any kind of downhill. The trails were very narrow and filled with roots and taking your eye off the trail for even a moment could trip you. I found this out personally around Mile 16. I lost focus for just a second and CRASHED. I hopped back up quickly and shook myself off and kept running. Leanne and I had discussed earlier that if one of us had to back off or speed up, then so be it. When she started to pull away from me around Mile 17, I let her. I could tell she was feeling great and I was happy to see her go.

 I came up to the Hickory Ridge aid station and realized this was my last aid station before I was back to the start. They took my pack from me and filled it and I snacked on more watermelon and a cookie and hit the road. On this portion of the trail, I met up with and older man with a thick accent. He was so positive and talkative and I was thankful to be following him. He talked of races he had run all over the country and asked about my family and I swear he talked me all the way in to the Start Line aid station.


 When I got to the Start Line after 27 miles, I was starting to feel it. My feet had begun to hurt and I was HOT. Filip and Tom were both there and while Filip helped me get my pack off and filled, Tom told us how he had already fallen four times and had a pretty good gash on his leg. I knew that this stop would be the hardest for me. All I had to do was get myself going again. I was feeling nauseous from the heat and didn't want to eat anything. I wanted to change my shoes, but Filip advised me to keep the shoes and change my socks. He was so full of energy and I most definitely was NOT. He pulled off my socks and I put the new ones on and then he tied my shoes for me while I sat there and panicked. I told him I was going to go to the bathroom and I'd wait for Tom and him by the start of the second loop, but he told me to just take off. He must've somehow known that had I stood around much longer, it would be doomsday for me.


After about five miles, I came to the next aid station-Gorge Overlook. I was at a low point, and I asked the volunteers if I could just sit for a minute. I took one look at all of the food and decided I wanted none of it. I pretty much collapsed into a chair, and this angel woman appeared and asked if I would like some overnight oats with chia and agave. HELL YES I DID. She pulled a magical container from nowhere and gave me a full cup of deliciousness. I think I sat there twenty minutes savoring that treat, but it was totally worth it. I thanked her and told her I loved her and took off down the trail once more.

 This is where I entered uncharted waters. I had never ran more than 31 miles before. I had never been on my feet running for more than seven hours. I was now entering hour nine. I could feel the ache from my feet slowly moving up my legs as the time moved on. I was walking along the trail when I was passed by a smiling 100 mile woman and another couple running the 50. They called to me to join their "train" and I did. They were not moving fast, but they were slowly running and chatting and it definitely raised my spirits. At the next aid station, those of us running the 50 had a right turn, and we wished good luck to our 100 mile leader as she continued on her journey. I stuck with the couple for a few more miles and then they stopped for a break and I didn't see them again.

 The next few miles were long for me and I started doing the math in my head. I was traveling about four miles per hour; I wanted to finish by 9pm; I wanted to finish before it was dark. At that rate I'd be done around 7:00 or 7:30. And then I got even slower. The pain had reached my knees and downhills were no longer appealing. I was alone in the woods and WHERE IN THE HELL WAS THE COVERED BRIDGE AID STATION?! I had expected to see it by Mile 37, but there was no sign of it. Was I even on the right trail? When was the last time I saw another runner? When was the last time I saw an orange flag? And then, of course, I saw an orange flag. And then I saw the sign indicating I was approaching the Covered Bridge aid station. As I got closer, I saw the same tall man I had talked to during my first stop. I stared at him in disbelief and he said, "We've been waiting for you!" Me?! For real? Was a dreaming? He followed me into the aid station and my pack was quickly filled with the last ice they had to offer. I had a sandwich and wanted to sit down, but knew I didn't have much time. I went over and thanked him for his encouragement and wished him luck at Western States and promised to follow his race, and I was off. Somewhere along my way, I turned around and spotted these guys just watching us all pass by!

 I had a little over seven miles to the next aid station and I was all alone. I slowly started climbing through the steep terrain and realized my bug spray had long ago worn off. There were black flies constantly swarming me. I expended WAY too much energy fighting off those beasts. I was moving slowly-only about three miles per hour at this point. But I only had 12 miles to the finish! Just 12! HOW WAS I GOING TO GO TWELVE MORE MILES?! My legs were really starting to hate me and my shoulders were throbbing from carrying my pack for so long. I just wanted to be done. Around Mile 39, I caught a glimpse of white behind me. Filip. Who was this guy?! He seemed to have endless energy as he came upon runners and offered advice and skipped and told stories. He finally caught up to me and encouraged me to shuffle run when I could and to fast walk the uphills. Easy for him to say. I tried to follow him, but soon enough he was too far ahead to see. I guess I started to space out, when suddenly something was coming AT me on the trail. I let out a yell and stopped in my tracks. There, in front of me was a groundhog. What the hell? It looked like it was going to charge at me. My first thought was to pick up a rock and chuck it at him, but I decided to take out my camera instead. If that thing was going to attack me, I at least wanted it documented! As I snapped a photo, it decided to turn and take off up the hill. Adios, dude. On my way.

 At the final aid station, I ran into Filip once again. He tried to get me to eat, but I was really angry at this point. Everything hurt. Badly. He waited for me to gather myself and we set off to the finish together. It was only about five miles away, but I knew that meant two more hours on the trails. TWO MORE HOURS! No turning back now. I might not have been moving very fast but I wasn't standing still! As we hiked and walked and shuffled, I mentioned that I had had a confrontation with a groundhog. Filip told me I was probably just hallucinating. I promptly gave him the middle finger and told him I was super happy I had taken a picture! Those last two hours were excruciating and even though Filip tried to cheer me up, I was nothing but an angry beast. Everything in my body wanted me to stop. My quads were toast, I could feel random chafing everywhere, I was SO dirty and hot, and I was saying really unpleasant things to Filip, despite his best efforts to urge me on.


 The last three miles of the race were spent winding in and out of the campground. As we passed campers and volunteers and other runners, Filip kept yelling out, "THIS IS HER FIRST 50! ISN'T SHE DOING GREAT?!" That of course, would get cheers and congratulations from everyone and I couldn't help but smile. I crossed the finish line at 8:51pm, nearly 15 hours after I had begun that morning. I was so elated that I had made it. I was so elated that it was over! I JUST RAN 50 MILES!

 As I headed to find a place to sit down, I spotted the man with the accent I had run with earlier in the day and collapsed into a heap at his table. He congratulated me and said he knew he'd see me crossing that finish line. I think it took until that moment to realize that it was actually over. That I had actually done it. And when I was sitting there ugly crying and that man said, "Hey, mom of five, those better be happy tears", he took my phone and snapped a picture.

 Ultrarunning is about more than just running. It is a community. The people that I have met are the most genuine souls. Many of the volunteers are runners themselves, and they know just what you need and just what to say. I could not have completed this race alone. So many people helped me along the way. The runners I encountered, the volunteers, the fans, they all helped me succeed. And when I was finished? I had a few people waiting to hear the good news as well.

 

         


 I told my husband on the phone that night that I was pretty sure I had gotten this ultrarunning thing out of my system, but I think I'm going to have to take that back. It's been two days since my first 50 and I still can't go down one single step without flinching, but I'm already dreaming about when I can get back out there. Afterall, who could give up all this?

Race Recap: The Bayshore Marathon Edition

Originally posted on May 29, 2017

***

The Location: The race is an out and back course on Old Mission Peninsula, along the coast of East Grand Traverse Bay, in the northwest corner of Michigan's Lower Peninsula.

 The Traffic: If you have never been to Traverse City, put it on your list. From wineries and breweries to breathtaking views, it's definitely a city worth visiting. If you have been to Traverse City, when I say the word "traffic", you know what I mean. On any given weekend, tourists from Michigan and beyond flock to this northern town in Michigan. Summer for us here begins Memorial Weekend, and the traffic is always an issue. Add in 6,000+ runners and their friends and families and traffic becomes a spectacle. Plan to get there early, and plan on not being in a hurry to get out of town after the race. There aren't many routes to access the start/finish of this race, and I can only imagine the melee it would appear to be from an aerial view.

 The Weather: I had spent the previous week at our family cabin, which is located about an hour from Traverse City, and had seen the sunshine for about 70 minutes total that entire week. Race day Saturday had promised great weather, and it did not disappoint. The start of the race began with clear blue skies, temps in the upper 50's and calm waters. It gradually warmed up throughout the race, to temps in the low 70's, but with much of the course shaded, heat was not an issue.

 The Half Marathoners: In addition to a marathon, Bayshore also offers a 10k race and a very popular half marathon race. The half marathoners are bused out to their start and then they have a one-way run to their finish. I knew several people running the half, and I was looking forward to passing them on my way out to the 13.1 mile turnaround. Just before Mile 7, the leaders of the half were headed toward me. Soon I saw Nick barreling at me. And then Justin. And then Matt. And then Jessica. And then the girl with the fancy pants from the restroom line earlier that morning. It was definitely a highlight of my race to see all of those runners in action and to exchange some high-fives with many of them.

 The Oranges: Until about a month ago, I didn't venture out from my race fueling plan of water/gatorade/gels during races, but the heat of Rock and Roll Nashville this year changed my mind. In that race I ate every cold and refreshing thing that was offered to me, in hopes of cooling my body down. During Bayshore, when I came upon an aid station somewhere around Mile 8 and saw that they were offering orange slices to runners, I was elated. In fact, several aid stations on the marathon route offered oranges, and I partook of ALL of them. Oranges can be quite a mood lifter, especially in those later miles when you need a pick-me-up!

 The Leaders of the Pack: After all of the half marathoners had passed me, the next thing I had to look forward to would be the leader of the marathon. It's always exciting to see that first runner heading toward the finish at a much higher rate of speed than I am. Around Mile 10, I saw the bicyclists clearing the way for the leader. But there wasn't one leader-there was a pack. There was a tightly knit group of men leading the way, with serious faces and their eyes on the prize. And if I was at Mile 10, that meant that they were already at Mile 16, and that was pretty damn impressive!

 The Bloody Nipples: As I got closer to the turnaround, more and more marathoners were coming toward me, and I got to check them out as they passed. Some were smiling and some looked miserable. Some were walking and some were offering motivational words as we passed. Now I've seen bloody nipples before on men, but never, I mean ever, have I seen so many blood-stained shirts as I did in this race. This is a mystery to me. Men, is this unpredictable? Or is it something expected and you just deal with it? Why is it not preventable? If someone can offer me some answers regarding bloody nipples, I'm all ears.

 The Disgruntled Runner: After I made the turnaround at 13.1, I started looking for other runners I knew who were running the full. First I saw Brian. And then Brandy and Anna. And then Kari. I yelled at all of them and continued on-I was feeling pretty good! I checked my watch and saw that I was at Mile 15. Already?! I turned to the man next to me and said, "We are already at 15-just 11 more miles to go!" The look he gave me was not a pretty one. In fact, I think he would have loved to slap me right in that moment. Sorry, dude. Just keep running. 

The Poop: This is where shit got real. Literally. Moments after I had my awkward exchange with the disgruntled runner, I saw it. And I couldn't look away. There, in front of me, was a petite woman wearing black spandex shorts and yes, there was poop. Not only could I see the poop in her shorts, it was also running about halfway down her inner thighs on both legs. Really? I have never seen this before. I mean, I've heard of elite athletes doing this in a fight to the finish, but not a mid-packer. And definitely not on a course that had designated bathrooms every mile. She never stopped, and I eventually passed by, far to her right. I wish that was the end of the poop,but it is not. Around Mile 17, I noticed some poop in the road-a few spots here, a few spots there. And then I realized it was a trail. A trail of poop. Are you kidding me? I kept running, careful not to step in it, and then I saw her: A blonde girl running, with her legs almost completely covered in poop. I'm sorry, but I DO NOT COMPREHEND. She had not only chosen to poop while running for over a mile, but was continuing on her race with this literal shit show. A four hour marathon is impressive and all, but it's nothing to shit your pants over.

 The Volunteers: In addition to running races, I also know what it's like to be a volunteer at a race. There is a TON of work that goes on behind the scenes to make race day run smoothly. The number of volunteers at this race was unbelievable. There were aid stations just about every mile along the course offering Gatorade and water and oranges and gels. During the first few miles of the race, I was happy to receive some water and a smile and carry on. But during those last few miles, I longed to see the sea of green shirts that indicated I was approaching an aid station. From start to finish, the volunteers at this race were exceptional. It's easy to lose focus as a volunteer when the half marathoners have passed and many of the faster marathoners have passed, but there was no sign of any of the volunteers wavering as the time wore on. The organizers of Bayshore are to be commended for all of their preparation and effort.

 The Wanting to Die: There comes a time for me in every race where this happens to me. Whether it's a 5K or an ultramarathon, there is always a point where I feel like I can't go on. In this race, that happened to me at Mile 22. My pace had been gradually slowing, but not at an alarming rate, and I was okay with that. At Mile 22, though, I just wanted to be done. Or dead. Your choice. JUST MAKE IT STOP.

 The Chafing: I pulled my head out of my butt shortly after my Mile 22 meltdown, and picked up my pace. Right about then, my shorts had other plans. For some reason, all of a sudden, something started to poke out of my right shortleg into my left inner thigh. Perfect! When I realized that pulling the legs down or raising them up didn't change the poking feeling, I was forced to just deal with it for the rest of the race. Whatever. (eye roll) I had been feeling some chafing along my bra line on my back for miles, so at least this chafing was keeping my mind off of that chafing.

 The Track: During the last mile of this race, there are several turns before you get to the finish. Races like this always mess with my head. I always have a time goal in mind, and as I make those final turns, I am always wondering which turn will be the last turn and when I'll actually be able to see the finish line. The last turn for Bayshore is onto the track at Northwestern Michigan College-a quick turn to the left onto the track and then partway around to get to the finish. As I hit the track, the fans were there in full-force cheering me on in my final steps.

 The Finish: As I headed down the track, on that final straightaway, the announcer called my name over the loudspeaker and I sprinted over the finish line, knowing that I made it in under four hours, which was my goal. With tears in my eyes, I accepted my finisher's medal from a boy about 13 years old, and I wondered if he "gets" it. If not, I hope he does someday.

 The Chocolate Milk and Ice Cream: I am not much for post-race food. The bananas and water and pretzels and bagels and pizza are overrated in my book. But there's one thing I LOVE: chocolate milk. The thought of cold chocolate milk at the finish line fuels me the last ten miles of every marathon. It is completely amazing. At Bayshore, they also offer award-winning Moomers Ice Cream at the finish. I opted for Cookies and Cream, and I sat on a bench in the shade and devoured it.

 The Puke and PR: I knew many people running this race, and I couldn't wait to hear their stories. For some, this was their very first marathon. For others, it was a chance to run with friends. And for others, it was a chance to PR. Two people I know earned personal best times in the half marathon after stopping to throw up on the course. That is the ultimate "puke and rally", right?!

 The Sitting on the Toilet: With all of my recent ultra training, I've been slacking on my speed work, but I still had a goal of finishing in under four hours. I knew it would be tough and I knew it would hurt. When you're at a race that offers both a full and half marathon, you can always tell which runners ran the full by their walk. My whole body hurts after a marathon-my feet, my legs, my shoulders, even my skin. By the next day, most of those pains go away, but one always remains: my quads. Going up the stairs is fine, but do NOT ask me to go down them. And going to the bathroom? I'll bet when you've got to go, the thought of how your quads are helping you sit down and stand up from the toilet never crosses your mind. But on the day after a marathon, sitting down on the toilet is an EVENT. Once I get there I'm good, but then, at some point, I've got to get back up. One of these days I'm going to pull that towel bar right off the wall.

 The Conclusion: It was exciting, it was tough, and it took everything that I had to achieve my goal. My seventh marathon did not disappoint, and I can't wait to run another one.

Completely Amazing

Originally posted on June 4, 2016

***

I think about a lot of things when I'm running.  Most thoughts pop into my head and then pop back out just as fast. Sometimes, I manage to remember all the things I put on my virtual shopping list, or that one of the kids needs something extra for school that week.  On rare occasions, I think in-depth about a certain subject for longer than five minutes.  Last week, as I was working my way through a twenty mile training run for my upcoming marathon, a thought struck me: marathon training is a lot like pregnancy.

I'm not claiming to be an expert on pregnancy and birth, but hey, I have birthed five babies.  And I'm definitely no expert on running, but I'm quickly approaching the completion of my fourth marathon training program.  Whether you're having a baby or running a marathon, both have profound impacts on your life.

Pre-conception and the casual runner
Pre-conception is that time before you're pregnant, when you eat healthy, take your vitamins, exercise and basically get your body in optimal condition for conception to occur.  Likewise, as a runner, you eat healthy, take your vitamins, and run a few miles every week and maybe even a half marathon or two in preparation for a bigger goal.  You have a feeling this is going to be completely amazing.

Two pink lines and commitment 
It's official!  You're going to have a baby!  You're going to run a marathon!  Your mind is racing!  "I have to tell the world!  Or should I wait, and just savor this moment?  Must. Tell. Everyone. Even strangers!"  THIS IS GOING TO BE COMPLETELY AMAZING!

The first trimester and the running routine
Now that this is happening, what next?  What's going to happen to your body?  What should you be eating?  HOW much should you be eating?  You have great days and completely horrible days and your hormones are all over the place, but THIS IS COMPLETELY AMAZING!

The second trimester and the love of the sport
You're finally getting the hang of things and finding your groove!  You're eating healthy and getting plenty of sleep.  People are starting to notice something new about you-you're glowing!  THIS IS COMPLETELY AMAZING!

The gender reveal and marathon selection
This is it!  You finally know if it's a boy or a girl!  Blue or pink?  Baseballs or ballet slippers?  And you've chosen your marathon-THE marathon that will change your life!  Somehow, things just got a little more real, and you know exactly where you're headed.  You have a specific goal and you're making preparations so when the big day arrives, you'll be ready.  THIS IS COMPLETELY AMAZING!

The third trimester and the looooooong runs
It won't be long now!  The end is almost in sight, but you're so tired!  And where is the food?!  You haven't eaten in two hours and if you don't eat NOW you will surely die of starvation!  But wait.  Your doctor told you you shouldn't gain any more weight?  You have to run HOW many miles on Saturday?  You're exhausted but you can't sleep.  Your mind races.  "What if things don't go as planned?  What if I can't do it?"  But despite your fears, you are so ready to get to the main event.  THIS IS COMPLETELY AMAZING!

Labor and marathon week
Your due date is here, and your contractions are playing tricks on you-they're here for an hour and then gone for four.  You search the internet and scour your pregnancy books and make phone calls to the doctor, but they all say the same thing-enjoy these last days of pregnancy!  Rest!  Eat well!  Stay hydrated!  Marathon week is no different.  You've trained for months, and the final day is approaching.  Fuel your body and drink plenty of water.  You've come so far and all you can think is, THIS IS COMPLETELY AMAZING!

Delivery and race day
The big day is finally here!  Lace up your shoes, and aim to execute your plan.  Be prepared for anything-your plan A can sometimes become an impossibility, so have a plan B.  And, just to be safe, have a plan C, too.  Be determined, but flexible.  You start out excited, but remind yourself to breathe and take it all in.  As the time goes by, the excitement and anxiety build.  Can you really do this?  At some point, you might run out of gas.  Much like a stalled labor, hitting the wall in a marathon can really mess with your head-and your plans.  Then, from somewhere deep inside, you hear a voice-a voice that says, "This is it!  I'm ready!  My body can do this!  My legs are not giving out!  This is the final push!"  And there, finally within sight, is the finish line.  THIS IS COMPLETELY AMAZING!

A mother doesn't ever forget the moment when her newborn baby is first thrust into her arms after birth, and a marathoner never forgets all it takes to cross that finish line.  There is joy, and there are tears, and there is a sense of accomplishment that no one can take away.  THIS IS COMPLETELY AMAZING.

Post-partum and recovery
After a having a baby, as well as after completing a marathon, you're a little bit of everything.  You're elated and tired and proud and sore and just completely filled with wonder. "Wow, I wasn't expecting my body to feel like this!  Who knew I could laugh and cry simultaneously?!  I can't believe I did that!  Wait.  Yes I can.  I am amazing!  I am a mother.  I am a marathoner.  My life is completely changed.  When can I do it again?"  THAT WAS COMPLETELY AMAZING.

Jim at the Gym

Originally posted on March 9, 2016

 ***

 When I moved back to Michigan, I rejoined my old gym. Not much had changed in the three years I was gone, and there were quite a few of the same people. While many of the faces were familiar, aside from a quick "Good morning", I hadn't really spoken to more than a handful of them.

Every day, while I'm running on the treadmill, I watch an elderly man walk down the long corridor in his driving cap and leather gloves and head to the locker room. Every day, he walks one mile on the treadmill next to me. Every day, we say our hellos and then he asks for the television remote, because everyone knows that this man prefers FOX News over any of those worthless morning talk shows!  And I never argue because I'm not coordinated enough to run AND watch television.

Then last fall, he started talking to me.  He'd finish his one mile and then come and stand directly in front of me while I ran and talk.  At first it started with running.  "How far today?"  "What are you training for?"  "That's a great pace-twice as fast as I can walk a mile!"  On occasion, he'd say a bit more: where he had worked, places he had visited, how he loved race cars.  One day, he told me that he walks because his doctor said he needed to walk a mile every day if he wanted to keep on living, but no MORE than a mile, if he wanted to keep on living.  So, he walks one mile every day-no more, no less.

Recently, he's been talking quite a bit-for as long as two or three miles of my runs.  I mostly listen, and he talks and talks.  Lately, I've learned that his wife is in a neck brace because she fell (out of her own pride to not accept assistance walking up the front steps, I'm told) and fractured a vertebrae in her neck.  So he's been taking her all over town for doctor appointments and beauty shop appointments.  And last week when I questioned him about why he wasn't there one morning, he told me he had opted to snow-blow all of the neighbors' driveways and sidewalks after the snowstorm.  Please note: When I referred to this man as elderly, I meant that he's at LEAST in his late 80's.  Yes, I reassured him, that definitely counted as his workout for the day.

Yesterday, he told me that since we were becoming friends, he'd like to introduce himself, noting that he's terrible with names but never forgets a face.  I was relieved to hear this because most of the time when someone tells me their name, I forget it by the time I finish saying, "Nice to meet you."  But this introduction was easy.  He said, "My name is Jim.  You can remember it because we're at the gym."  And by the time I finished telling him my name was Amie, he was already starting a story about the nut rolls he was making for a yearly fundraiser for an organization he belongs to, and the rest of my run flew by.

Today, just like clockwork, he finished his walk and came to talk with me.  He said that the nut rolls were finished and were ready to be sold and mentioned they'd be selling them at the fish fry on Friday night.  When I asked if it was through a church organization, he said yes and told me which church.  Wouldn't you know it's the same church Grandma Lois was a member of?  I asked him if he knew her-of course he did!  And there was an outpouring of good memories about her.  He told me what a kind and friendly person she was and how she always had gone out of her way to come over and speak with him at church.  He mentioned how she managed to travel all over the world-even in her 90's and that he had traveled everywhere, too.  My heart warmed to know that this man had also known our sweet Grandma Lo.

And then, Jim said something even more incredible.  He said, "We traveled all over with good friends.  Our friends at the block company..."  WAIT.  The block company?  I know who owns the block company.  "Jackie? Are you talking about Jackie?!  I know Jackie," I said.  I explain that Jackie was the best friend of the woman whose house we had recently bought.  And then he said, "You live in Betty Ann's house?  I knew Betty Ann for more than 50 years.  My wife was friends with her.  They had this club, called the Presidents' Club."  And then he told me their story...

The Presidents' Club was started a loooooooong time ago by a group of farm wives who all desperately needed a night off.  Once a month they would meet, taking turns hosting the group at their homes.  If a farmer protested to his wife leaving for a night, she'd say, "I have to go, I'm the PRESIDENT!"  And so it began.  At first they were young mothers, meeting to talk about babies and to make baby clothes and blankets. Then they met to talk about their kids in school and teachers and school functions. And then they would meet to plan graduation parties and discuss college aspirations.  And then they would meet to plan weddings and to sew precious things for their daughters who would soon be brides.  And then it was grandchildren.  And then it was great-grandchildren. And now?  Now there are just a few remaining members, the last ones standing who carried this club on for decades, with more stories than you could ever count.  Isn't that amazing?  And the fact that this story was about the lady who lived in my house and hosted this group of women is something to always be treasured.

Needless to say, today's miles flew by.  And then, just when I thought he was finished talking for the day, Jim said one more thing.  "You know those internet dating sites?  You can't really tell who those people are.  The best way to get to know someone is to sit face to face and talk for an hour.  You'll know within that hour whether you're interested in their life.  You have nothing to worry about though, Amie.  I'm keeping you around."

Love the Game

Originally posted on February 22, 2016

***

Love comes and goes, doesn't it?  You don't always love the things you once did, but if it's true and deep-rooted, it stays a part of you.

I started playing basketball in fourth grade-I was eight.  I wasn't good.  I didn't even know what I was doing.  But my friends were playing and I wanted to play, too.  And then I played again in fifth grade, and sixth.  I can't tell you who my coaches were, or if I even scored a basket.  I pretty much only remember one girl from an opposing team who, when she had the ball, ensured her team was victorious.  

In seventh grade, we had to try-out for the basketball team.  We were faced with the fact that not everyone would play on the team.  There were a couple weeks of tryouts and then the team was announced.  I, at the height of 5'0" tall, and with an awkward two-handed, chest-pass-looking free throw did not make the team.  I was heartbroken and embarrassed.  I had come to play.  When asked, I reluctantly agreed to be the team manager.  I fetched water bottles for players and recorded shots during the game.  It was a tough pill to swallow, but being a part of the team as a manager was better than not being a part of it at all.  

In eighth grade, I tried again.  I'm not sure I had improved since the previous year, but I had grown nine inches.  That's right-I was 5'9" tall by the time tryouts were held, and I made the team. I remember sitting on the bench.  A lot.  And I remember being taken out of games because I couldn't make lay-ups and I didn't rebound.  But I was on the team.

During the summer between junior high school and high school, I played basketball in my driveway; I played HORSE with my dad and I'd play one-on-one with anyone who came by. By this time I had nearly perfected my two-handed, chest-pass-looking free throw.  

When it came to tryout for the freshman basketball team, I showed up...with seven other players.  Where was everyone?  It seemed that in junior high school, basketball was the only Fall girls' sport offered, so everyone wanted to play. By ninth grade, girls could play tennis or run cross country, along with many more options for after school activities.  So there we were-a freshman girls' basketball team of eight.  There wasn't a lot of time on the bench that year for me, or anyone else.  I had no choice but to improve, and I did.  I was told that if I was serious about wanting to be a better player, I should consider attending a shooting camp that summer to be taught the correct way to shoot. I jumped at the chance, and convinced my parents to pay for my week away from home.  That week probably changed the path of my life.  I was in the gym practicing for hours and hours and in my free time, I hunted down my favorite coaches and asked them to give me a little extra help.  I learned the correct way to shoot and wanted to be good.  When I came home from camp, I continued to practice.  I'd even practice in the dark, until my mom yelled at me that I had to come in for the night because the neighbors were surely sick of hearing that damn ball bounce. 

After a successful tenth grade year on the junior varsity team, I was asked to move up to the varsity team for the playoffs.  I didn't really expect to play, but I was honored just to share the bench with some of the girls I looked up to.  Then, somehow, in a playoff game, against a team that had five players heading off to play college hoops, I was called to go in.  It was only for a couple of minutes but I'll never forget it.  And I knew I wanted more.

I continued to improve throughout my junior year on the varsity team.  Every day after practice, my dad would stay and work on post moves with me or rebound for me until the coach would kick us out.  I'd go home for dinner and then head to the YMCA to play full court with the men who played there.  At school, I'd skip lunch and head to the gym to shoot free throws until I could make ten in a row consistently.  I was pretty good, but I wasn't good.  I had made the All-conference team that year and I joined a travel team with many of the best players in the area.  I couldn't get enough.

The summer between my junior and senior years, I went to a couple of camps, hoping to be recruited to play in college.  Surely with my consistent 12 or so points per game and my left-handed hook shot, someone would want me to play for them, right?  Well, it didn't happen.  I had a great senior year, once again earning All-conference honors, but without the offer of a basketball scholarship, I applied for college at Michigan State University and got in.  

Every year, the varsity players were assigned to coach and referee those fourth, fifth and sixth grade teams I had played on when I was younger.  The girls were uncoordinated and unfocused and was I this terrible when I was their age?  But then I told myself, that just like me, they wanted to play.  Everyone has to start somewhere, right?  We, as seniors, were there to teach them, to encourage them, and to convey our passion to these little girls.  And I had a blast.

Then, one day as I was shooting in the gym, I noticed a man watching me.  I figured if he wanted to watch me, I'd put on a show.  I think I made 20 three-pointers in a row before I missed one, and he wanted to talk to me.  What's your name? Why don't I know you?  Where are you playing next year?  I introduced myself and explained that shooting three pointers was not my role on this team and that I wasn't playing next year-just heading off to college.  And then he said, "No, you're not.  You're coming to play for me."  And I did.  

It was a scholarship to our local junior college, but I didn't care.  I knew many of the girls from high school teams in the area, and I was excited to be given this opportunity.  Two more years of basketball?  With free college attached?  SOLD.  Even though I was one of the tallest women on the team, my role wasn't being a post player like in high school; I was given the green light to shoot three-pointers.  In fact, much of our offense was centered around getting me an open shot.  It seemed that all those years of practice were finally paying off.  My second year of junior college was even more successful.  Aside from our team having a really great season, I had made 144 three point baskets, and was voted onto the All-Conference, All-Regional and Junior College All-American teams.  Even with all of my success, I hadn't received any offers to play at a higher level after my second year of college.  

But then, there was a small glimmer of hope.  My coach had attended the NCAA Women's Basketball tournament and through his connections, he met a Division II coach who needed a three point shooter.  Ding, ding, ding!  Turns out, he had just what she was looking for.  My parents, grandma and I planned our trip.  A long trip to West Virginia, down winding roads with sharp drop-offs on either side.  A trip where several times along these roads I was asked if I was sure I wanted to live so far away.  I urged them to not get carried away and to see how things would go once we got to the college.  When we arrived, I was introduced to the team and shown around campus and then we headed to the gym.  You would think that after sitting in a car for eight hours, I'd be exhausted, but I had come to play.  It's safe to say that I rose to the occasion on that afternoon.  I played very well and I couldn't miss any shot I took.  After the game, the coach asked if I could stay for a night and get to know the girls a little bit better, but I told her that since we had driven this far, we had another college to go check out.  This one was in Maryland, and happened to be in the same conference as this West Virginia school.  Upon hearing this, the coach offered me a full scholarship on the spot. I was flattered, but wasn't sure about the whole West Virginia thing, so we said our goodbyes and I promised to be in touch and we drove East.  The Maryland college, it turns out, was, in my eyes, cold and loud and unwelcoming, and I couldn't wait to get out of there.  When I called the coach from West Virginia and told her I was going to accept her offer, I think she was a little surprised but excited.  I told my reluctant parents that I had made my decision and we made plans for me to move to West Virginia.  

In contrast to my junior college team, where everyone was starting from the same point, when I came onto the team in West Virginia, most of the girls had already played on the team for two years together.  I had to earn my place, and I intended to.  My junior year was successful for me personally-I had earned Second Team All-Conference honors-and our team had made it into the Division II National Tournament.  My fourth and final year of basketball went by in a flash.  It seemed just as I was getting comfortable on the team, my college playing days were over.  West Virginia was amazing and I met some incredible people.

Shortly after graduation, I met Jason through mutual friends.  I had my degree but I couldn't really find a job in my field, so his mom set me up substitute teaching in the district where she worked. I actually loved the job and got to know all of the students in a short amount of time.  The following year, the Junior Varsity Girls' Basketball position opened up, as well as a long-term substitute teaching position at the high school.  I applied for both of them and was hired.  My team was comprised of mostly ninth graders, with a few tenth graders.  As it turned out, most of those girls had never been given a solid base to build up from.  I had expected to jump right in with plays and defenses and full court presses, but we had to back up a few steps and start at the beginning.  It was a huge learning experience for me as well as the team that year, but I loved everything about it.  I would sing them silly songs to make the time pass faster while they did wall sits , and I'd braid their hair before games, but they knew when it was time to work, and they WORKED.  I showed them that even if you can't be the best shooting team and score a ton of points, you can always work your butt off and everyone can play defense.  It's all about heart and how badly you want it.  

After that, basketball was put on the back burner for awhile.  I got married and started having babies and before I knew it, years had passed.  And then my kids started playing sports.  I volunteered to coach whenever I could.  A lot of parents don't have the time or the knowledge or the desire, but when I wasn't coaching, I always wished I was.  I have coached boys' basketball, and girls' basketball, and even cheerleading.  

This year, when I took Owen to his first basketball practice, where the boys were separated into teams, I hadn't intended on coaching.  But when the hour of practice was over and still no dad from his team had offered to coach, I walked up and asked if they allowed moms to coach at this level.  I'm sure many 4th, 5th, and 6th grade boys don't really think it's cool to have their moms coaching their teams, but Owen said he was okay with it.  And that was that.  I had eleven boys staring at me as their coach, wondering what, exactly, I had to offer them.  I quickly assured them that I wouldn't be there as a MOM.  I was there to teach them not only how to play the game, but about sportsmanship and respect and determination.  Sunday was our last game.  I had been given seven weeks with these boys.  Eleven boys who were there because they had come to play.  And on Sunday, they showed me they could.  They boxed out and rebounded and threw bounce passes and ran full court fast breaks and hit crucial three-pointers when we needed them.  On Sunday, they rose to the occasion.  And I might have been on the sidelines as their coach, but I was cheering every single one of them on as a proud parent, because when I coach, those kids become MY kids. I don't know a better way to teach someone to love a sport, than to show them how much I love it, too.

What do you love?

The Burning Question

Originally posted on February 17, 2016

***


 Three weeks ago, I was offered the opportunity to guest post on a friend's blog.  This was new territory for me, but I was up for the challenge.  I was asked to write about why I run.  And not only why I run, but how I find the time to run.  That would be easy.  When people ask me why I run, my most common answer is, "Why don't YOU run?"

I remember a twenty mile race I ran a couple of years ago.  I got to mile 17, right as we were running back into town and I saw a woman standing alone on the side of the road, watching us pass by.   At first I couldn't hear her, but I could see that she was cheering us on.  She was eating a very large donut and drinking an even larger pop, and she was obese.  When I passed by her, do you know what I heard?  "You're almost there!" and "Keep running!" and "I COULD NEVER DO THAT!" I wanted to stop and talk to her.  I wanted to tell her that exactly a year ago I couldn't do it either.  I couldn't run ONE mile, let alone twenty.  I wanted to tell her that one good choice would lead to more good choices and little by little you can change yourself.  Everyone has to start at the beginning, no matter where your beginning is.

"What seems impossible today will one day be your warm-up."

Why do I run?  Why don't YOU run?

You can read my guest post over at www.sweatflexshine.com by clicking this link: AMIE'S GUEST POST

Sending a special thank you to Mrs. Allison Hardy for giving me this awesome opportunity!  And if you'd like daily inspiration, go follow her on Instagram @sweat.flex.shine along with me at @amieontherun.

Get Sweaty

It's not every day that I get the opportunity to blog on someone else's page, but today I have the honor of being a guest blogger on Allison Hardy's page at Sweat Flex Shine. She asked me to give a little insight into my daily life and how, exactly, I find the time to run. Well, the answer is simple:I don't find time, I make time. I encourage you to head on over and read what I have to say, in detail! Here's the link: (click it!)http://www.sweatflexshine.com Happy Reading! Now go get sweaty!