Top 12 Moments in My Racing for a Cure Memories

As I wrote a month or so ago, this blog is going into at least semi-retirement, but I said that I would write one more post.  Here it is.  I could not close this out without a stroll down memory lane, attempting to pick out my 12 best memories from my nine years of racing for a cure.  I could have picked 50 or even 100, so why just 12?  Well, first, no one would read about 50 things!  But the 12 comes from surviving cancer 12 years as of this past April.  So a dozen fantastic memories seemed appropriate.  They are all great, but I have attempted to rank them in reverse order.

12. Purple Hair and Meeting Julie in Person. On June 26, 2010 in Seattle, Washington, I ran the Seattle Half Marathon.  My goal was to beat 2 hours and 30 minutes, which is slow for a strong runner but a great time for me as a run-walk combination.  And I did it, besting that time by a few moments.  More importantly, I exceeded my fund raising goal and dyed my hair purple to celebrate.  It didn't turn out as purple as I hoped, but it was still cool.  And at the end of the race, I met up with Julie from the "Cure Rocks" blog.  That was really cool to meet a fellow cancer survivor who also did TNT races and blogged about her experiences.  Here we are after running 13.1 miles each, showing off our survivor and "Rock Star" shirts:

11. Completing the Arizona Marathon in a Personal Record to Celebrate Five Years in Remission. My time was about 5:57 and was my PR for a marathon - a pretty good time for having walked all but a couple of miles of it. It was so special because my participation was to celebrate my 5 year remission just a month earlier. At the end, I was greeted by teammates Chuck and Suzanne, who waited for me after finishing their races! Chuck was a new marathoner, finishing like a day ahead of my time and just missing qualifying for Boston, and Suzanne just did her first half marathon. Do we look proud and happy?
On the same day, I learned that teammates Robbie, Theresa, and Paul had completed the Disney Marathon, and teammates Joan-E and Rachel completed the Arizona Marathon with me. All were first time marathoners, and it is great to remember them and their achievements, along with Chuck's and Suzanne's, as I write this.

10.  Cheering at the 2010 Shamrock Half Marathon.  I had a number of friends and teammates running and walking in this race, and four of us - three of us cancer survivors - showed up at the race course and cheered our throats out for hours.  It was a blast.

I need to mention the lady of the right, holding the sign.  Her name is Faith Eury, and she had Hodgkin's lymphoma, the same kind that I had.  It is 80% survivable, but not by Faith.  Less than two years after this photo, Faith was gone at age 43.  She was an inspiring lady.  I met her in person the autumn before when she formed a team, Faith's Hope, for Light the Night and raised over $10,000 for LLS.

9. Being There When My Friend Susan Earned Her Triple Crown! What is the Team in Training "Triple Crown?" It means that you have completed at least one of the three different events that TNT offers: a long-distance foot race, a century bike ride, and a triathlon of any length.  In June of 2009, my friend Susan Glass became the recipient of the "TNT Triple Crown" when she completed her first century triathlon near Asheville, NC.  And the cool thing was, I was there!  I surprised her!  From my motel in Asheville, I emailed her: "I have a big surprise for you the next time that I see you!"  I didn't tell her that the surprise was me being there the next morning to cheer for her on the race course.  And she was really surprised, trust me, because the next time she saw me was the very next day at the start of the ride!  It was great to be there to cheer her off to a great start and to cheer on the course as she zipped by!  I wrote this about her accomplishment.

8. "Crawlin' for Ed." Just two and a half years ago, my friend Ed Stone lost his long fight against cancer.  He was 43 and over half his life had been as a cancer survivor.  Ed inspired so many people during his all too short life.  He was a frequent Team in Training and Light the Night participant.  I've lost count of how many marathons, triathlons and century bike rides he did, and how many tens of thousands of dollars he raised.  He was an athlete, a husband, a son, a brother, a friend, an inspiration, and a brave and determined guy.  A few days after his death, I wrote this in memory of Ed.

Last year, I learned that Team in Training would be participating in the Crawlin' Crab Half Marathon in Hampton, VA on Ed's birthday - October 6.  How could I not be a part of that?  Well, I couldn't, so I was!  Ed's widow and two sisters were also in the race.  It was my slowest half marathon of all of my four, but as I say, it is not your time in the race that matters so much as your time at the race.  It was special to run the course and see Ed's family out there cheering for us, and also to see Mary cheering on the race course.  Speaking of Mary....

7. Meeting Mary at the TNT Tent in San Diego. My wife Mary made the trip out with me to San Diego, and we had a great time visiting the World Famous Zoo, the Wild Animal Park, touring downtown San Diego, and trying to learn how to surf. Mary made it out to the TNT finisher tent and it was great to see her after completing my second marathon.


On my visit to San Diego, we also visited the Cancer Survivors Park, which as a four year cancer survivor (at the time) really meant a lot to me.

6. Nashville Mentees and Cheer Leading.  In 2009, after having walked three marathons, I turned to a run-walk combination and took on a half marathon, the Country Music in Nashville, Tennessee.  It was probably my favorite all time event for so many reasons, but especially because we had a team from all over Virginia that just bonded so well.  We had a fabulous coach, Coach Chuck.  I was also a mentor, and three of the people I mentored were in the race, two of them running their very first marathon that day.  Here we are after the race, from left, me, Dave, Kristi, and Nicole.  Dave and Nicole were the first time marathoners, and dyed their hair purple to celebrate.

After each running the race, six of us banded together on the race course near the marathon finish line and cheered for the marathoners for several hours.  It capped a great day and a memorable trip to the Home of Country Music.

5. Crossing my First Marathon Finish Line. Very shortly after memorable moment number four, I became a marathoner, walking 26.2 miles that day at a fast pace. It was perhaps the proudest day of my life – to come back from surviving cancer three years previously and now to complete a marathon.  That whole day, I had to keep pinching myself - I was doing a marathon in Alaska of all places!  When I am 95 and sitting in my rocking chair (or maybe I will be training for a 10k?, or taking a hike) I will still remember that day and smile with joy!



4. The Leukemia Survivor Cheerleader in Alaska. Near mile 25 of the Anchorage Marathon on June 18, 2005, I was soaked, cold, tired. My feet had huge blisters. My legs hurt with each step. Standing in the rain was a lady with a large sign that said “Leukemia Survivor – Thank You.” I will never forget seeing her and what it meant, even as a cancer survivor, to see a fellow survivor out there cheering for us on a cool, rainy day.

3. "60 at 60 for Ann!" - The Komen 3-Day for my Sister, Ann.  Before I had ever gotten involved with Team in Training, I heard a radio commercial for the Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure.  It was a year after my own cancer experience, and I thought how cool it would be to walk 60 miles in three days to raise money for breast cancer research.  I resolved to do it some day.

That day came in 2011.  It was clear that my sister Ann's four year battle with breast cancer would be coming to an end that year, and most likely before I could do the walk in September, just days before her next birthday.  I would turn 60 that July, and I decided that my campaign would be "60 at 60 for Ann!"  I wanted her to know that I would be walking for her that fall.  Here we are, just a few years before that:

Ann died on Memorial Day that year.  I had severe plantar fasciitis and could only walk a couple of miles.  But by August, it had healed enough for me to tolerate some longer walks, and even though I was never able to walk the recommended training schedule, I was able to do complete the 3-Day in Ann's honor in the Washington DC area.  For the third day, I wore a tee shirt with her photo on it.

It was a bittersweet day - I had accomplished a difficult challenge and fulfilled a goal that I had set about eight years before, but my sister was no longer here to celebrate that with me.  Her star shines on in my mind.

2. Raising $5,000 for my First Event in Only Five Weeks. I blogged before about my apprehension about whether I could raise $5,000 for the Anchorage Marathon in 2005. This was the minimum amount I had to raise, and it seemed like a nearly impossible amount. But I decided I had to try it, and signed up for the Summer Team. People were so generous, and I passed this amount in the first five weeks. I doubled my fundraising goal as a result, and passed that as well, ultimately raising over $11,600. Since then, I have always set my fundraising goal high, and whether I meet it or not, I give it a good run for the money.

And what has to be my favorite memory of my Racing for a Cure Career...

1. Seeing the Little Nashville Girl with Leukemia. If you want to learn about this amazing moment in my life, one I will always remember until I die (unless I get dementia someday, which is kind of the same thing), then go here.  Seeing this little girl in Nashville the day before the Country Music Half Marathon in April, 2009 really touched me, and summed up for me why I kept doing Team in Training over the past years of my life.

Well, that is my little stroll down memory lane of my racing for a cure career to date.  The incredible people I met along the way and the memories that I have from getting out there and doing this will always be with me.

Twelve Years!

Where does the time go?  As I struggle about whether or not to keep this blog going - if not posting for more than a month constitutes "keeping it going" - I do have to reflect on this date, April 26, and its meaning to me.  For it was 12 years ago, as a healthy 50 year old, I was told "You have a large mass in the middle of your chest, something that should not be there."  The radiologist had written the word "Lymphoma?" on the edge of the X-ray, and that is just what it turned out to be: Hodgkin's lymphoma. 

It was like a bolt from the blue.  Time stood still as I listened in shock.  Thoughts poured through my brain.  "How is this possible?"  "Will I still be alive by Christmas?" "How will I tell my wife this news?"

That day lead to about a month of all kinds of tests, and then six months of living in a toxic world as I got the four awful drugs that saved my live while ravaging my body.  They may yet have the last laugh, as they themselves are carcinogenic, and two of them cause heart and lung damage.  But so far, so good.

How much I have done in 12 years!  When this posts, I will be off in the wilderness of West Virginia backpacking - a great way to celebrate the day and my return to strength.  I've done hikes all over the place, and seen some dream places - Yellowstone, Grand Tetons, Glacier, and Alaska.  I've heading to Scotland later this year. I held my granddaughter on the day of her birth.  And along the way, I have given back, raising over $60,000 for the cancer fighting cause while doing three marathons, four half marathons, and a sixty mile walk.  Like anyone, the 12 years have had sadness and some heartbreak, but that is all part of life.  My glass is way more than half-full.  And I hope for many more years ahead before I take that last breath on earth, as we all do at some point.

Ann’s Rainbow

My sister Ann passed away from metastasized breast cancer two years ago today - Memorial Day 2011. She is very much missed every day by lots of people. A year ago, I wrote “A New Star Shining Brightly” in her memory. This year, I’m going to talk about her rainbow.

Late in June, 2011, we went up to Mount Tremper, NY for Ann’s memorial service. Our friend Bill came along for support, but with the full house, he elected to stay in a small motel in nearby Phoenicia. In the late afternoon, I gave him a ride over to the motel so that he could check in. After he put his things away in his motel room, we headed the three miles back to Mount Tremper and to Ann’s beloved home.

As we drove along and got part way back, Tremper Mountain loomed over the road and the small town. This mountain was prominent from my sister’s front yard, rising high above Esopus Creek, which flowed 200 feet from her house. Earlier that year, Ann had expressed her wish to see the mountain “turn green” one last time to me. It was visible from the window in her bedroom, where she spent the last few months of her life. And once spring began, I noted that the green was starting, first with a blush at the base of the mountain, and then gradually spreading up the mountain a little more with each visit. By late May, my last time to see her and just a week before her death, Tremper Mountain was entirely green.

From the highway, I glanced up at the top of the mountain as Bill and I drove along.  I was thinking about Ann, and how I wished that she had survived. The weather was a little unsettled, and there were lots of clouds near the top of the mountain. Then suddenly, it happened – a rainbow appeared! It looked as if one end of the rainbow was touching the top of Tremper Mountain. I looked in amazement, pointing it out to Bill. Just as suddenly, the rainbow was gone. It has been visible for less than 30 seconds. If I had not been where I was at that instant in time, I would never have seen it.

Now, I know very well that there are good scientific explanations, using the laws of physics, for why rainbows occur. But I will always believe that, somehow, this was Ann’s rainbow, and that I was meant to be in exactly the spot to see it as it reached over and softly touched the top of her much-loved mountain.

Five Years Ago

I was thinking the other day how five years ago, not quite to the day, I did my third and last marathon.  This one was the PF Changs Arizona Marathon in Phoenix (mostly).  It was my third Team in Training marathon, all as a walker, and I was celebrating five years in remission the month before.  I still remember some of my teammates having a little ceremony that day in training and giving me five purple and green balloons!  It was also the first marathon I did as a grandpa, and the first I did knowing that my sister Ann had breast cancer.  Her name was the first that I wrote on top of my race shirt.  Now, she is gone, coming up on two years, and that is hard still to believe at times.

Also gone is five more years of my life, just like that.  Since that race, I've done two more TNT events, this time as a runner - walker (a "runalker" as I say).  Both of these were half marathons, and I added a third half marathon last year, the Shamrock Half, on my own to celebrate surviving cancer ten years that May.  Even though my left knee has not been normal since then, I don't regret it because I made a statement for my 10 year mark.

But I was reflecting on how our lives just move along.  Five years, gone by just like that!  I wonder sometime if I will do another marathon.  I could maybe do one as a power walker again, and maybe as a runner - walker - but only if I can figure out what is going on with this knee.  It hurts a good bit even after a moderate length walk, or a hike.  Not excruciating pain, but pain that should not be there.  I was doing some one legged squats last night, and my left knee hurt a lot with each one, my right knee not at all.  So something is still not right.  I think I need to go to another doctor and see what they think.  Which reminds me (as my friend Mindy did last night), it is also time for an annual checkup with my oncologist.

A small group of us got together for a beer last night, to toast Ed and what he meant to us.  Most of them are actively involved in training for a TNT event right now.  And it made me realize a little more how much I would like to solve this knee pain and get out there in purple at least one more time before I get too old.  I'd love to think that I have one more marathon in my legs (and knees)!

A Hike Down Memory Lane

Nine and a half years ago, I was preparing to start chemotherapy. The day before starting, I took a little hike to the Black Rocks in Shenandoah National Park. I knew that this would be my last hike for a long time, and even worried a bit about whether it would be my last one ever. A couple of weeks ago, while backpacking in the mountains, I returned to Black Rocks for the first time since that hike. While there, I reflected on that time so many years ago. You can read about that here.

The Joy of a Peach

Did you ever eat a peach that was so sweet, so juicy, so delicious, so pleasurable that you were tempted to smoke a cigarette afterwards (even if you don’t smoke)? I was reminded of such a peach the other week when I bought a peck of peaches from an orchard in scenic Northwestern Virginia. These peaches were really good, and I was sad to see the last one disappear. They were so sweet and so juicy that you almost needed a bath after eating one. And they made me think back nine years….

In the summer of 2002, I was in the early phases of my chemo for Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and feeling pretty ill most of the time. I could stomach some meat but mostly starchy foods – cereal, rice, soup, and so forth. I could not eat fruit or vegetables, despite my normal love of them, most of the time without immediately wanting to hurl. After trying a few times, I just realized that fruits and vegetables were not going to be part of my diet. I wondered if they would ever taste good again.

Then one July day, one I remember so clearly, I had been off chemo an extra week because it had made me so sick I got hospitalized. So my oncologist gave me the additional week to try to regain some strength. And this particular day, I was in the kitchen, and I looked at these peaches that had ripened nicely, and I said to myself, “You know, I am feeling pretty good. I wonder how one of these peaches would taste?” So I decided to find out.

I picked one up, sniffed it, and the smell did not seem sickening to me. I hesitated a second, and then bit into it. The juice ran down my chin. The taste, after such a bland diet for over a month, was incredible – like an explosion of deliciousness in my mouth! I almost felt like weeping with joy! I slowly savored every bite, licking the juice from my fingers, and then I ate another one. It was just as delicious. And it suddenly hit me.

It is the little things in life, whether we remember each of them or not, that make life worth living. The smile of a child as she wraps her hand in yours. A stolen kiss. A memorable meal. A family get-together. A wonderful book that you read. A gorgeous butterfly or bird. A walk in the woods. A beautiful piece of music that you heard. A conversation with a friend. A sweet, ripe, juicy peach.

Now, many of these moments are not going to be remembered in every detail the way I remember that peach of nine years ago, a peach that made me feel normal for a few minutes while I forgot how sick I was and how many hard times were yet to come. But trust me – with a few exceptions, these are the moments that have made your life what it is. They are the moments that make you, you. And you wouldn’t trade them for any amount of money.

Eight Years in Remission

Well, here it is, the eighth anniversary of my remission from Hodgkin Lymphoma. Eight years ago, I was totally worn out, weak, and very hopeful that I was cured and done with all this chemotherapy. A CT scan confirmed that a couple of weeks later. Now, I am still on Planet Earth, surviving and living strong, a multiple marathoner and half marathoner for Team in Training and the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.

On this date, eight years in remission, I thought I would look back on 2010 and write about eight great memories I have for this year racing for a cure. These are not in any particular ranking order. If you want to read about eight great moments in the great outdoors, click here.

1. The half-marathon in Seattle. This was my fifth TNT event, my second half marathon, and my first time in Seattle, Washington. It was amazing. I hit my time goal of under two hours 30 minutes despite a continually painful left foot and two injuries in the preceding month. Every time I do a race for TNT, I am sure it will feel routine at the finish line after so many. But every time, the emotions of running as a survivor are overwhelming at the finish line. It is like no feeling on earth.

2. Fundraising $50,000 for LLS. My fundraising this year for the Seattle race crossed the $50,000 mark over my five events for Team in Training. I also surpassed my fundraising goal for the event, and ran with purple hair to celebrate. I wrote a new fundraising note every couple of weeks. I think my favorites were this one about waiting for the cavalry, and this one about how chemotherapy is tougher than a marathon.

3. Running on the anniversary of my grandfather’s death. My mom’s dad was the only grandparent I ever knew. He died from cancer on June 26, 1959 – just a couple of weeks before my eighth birthday, yet in those few years he was a huge factor in my life, and wonderful memories. The Seattle race was on the anniversary of his death. I hope he would have been proud of me.

4. Writing “The Limits of Cancer.” I really like this poem. To me, it summarizes the triumph of the human spirit over the evils of cancer. I wrote it in honor of my sister and several good friends who are all going through cancer’s horrors right now.

5. Running the Livestrong 5K at the beach. This was my first 5K and my first race where I ran every single step with no walking. It was at Sandbridge in Virginia Beach, and was for the Livestrong organization, and was just a blast. I did not fundraise, but I carried the names of many people, living and dead, who faced down cancer.

6. Training with Lelia. Team in Training is always a great experience, but it is a lot more fun when you have a training buddy. We often have small teams and mix in my run – walk alternating style, and I sometimes have to train alone much of the time. Not this year – my friend Lelia was out with the team, also as a Galloway runner, and we trained together nearly every Saturday. It made the time fly by!

7. Mentoring / mentor captain. Once again, I was a mentor for the summer team, and mentor captain for the spring team. I enjoyed working with the other participants and mentors to help them reach their goals. Because participants tend to be young and female, and I tend to be old and male, I am not always sure I am communicating on the same level. But things generally tend to work out, and I hope that I can enhance the experience of others in this manner.

8. Light the Night. This is a beautiful event with all the lighted white, red, and gold balloons, and a special memory of surviving cancer eight years.

A Letter to My Grandfather

Dear Grandy,

This Saturday, I will be running and walking a half-marathon in Seattle, Washington. That date will be 51 years to the day from your death from lung cancer. I still remember the phone ringing, my mom answering and saying a few words but mostly listening, and then hanging up the phone and starting to cry. It was a sad time for all of us.

I have thought many times what it meant to me to have you in my life for my first seven and nearly eight years of my life. You were my only grandparent still alive at my birth, or even close to it. You were a huge part of my early years in so many ways. One of my favorite childhood memories was you taking me for haircuts (which I didn’t especially like) and then out to lunch afterwards at the Horn and Hardart’s cafeteria. I thought it was so cool that they had all these trays of food and you could just point at what you wanted. It was fun spending time with you, just the two of us, while we were there.

You also used to let me beat you in checkers. Of course at the time as a six year old, I didn’t realize you were letting me win. I just thought I was the butt-kicking checkers king of the world! You would set up the board in such a way that I could jump 2 or 3 of your checkers with one move, then you’d say things like “Wow! That was a great jump! How did you do that?”

You loved working in the vegetable garden, and especially taking care of your beautiful rose garden behind the kitchen. For years afterwards, even though we didn’t take proper care of it, I would think of you when roses would bloom there. You’d walk me to and from school every day my first year, and maybe part of my second. Then you got ill and we watched you get weaker and weaker. My folks moved your bedroom to the first floor of our house, and eventually you had to go to a hospital. It wasn’t long after that when you passed away. It was scary and sad seeing you so ill.

Now you are long gone, but you have never been forgotten by me or by my brothers and sisters. I’m a man now, and I’m a cancer survivor, because things have changed in these 51 years. Cancer is still a dreaded and often deadly disease, but survival is no longer rare. I hope that by racing for a cure again this Saturday in Seattle, I am making one tiny step in the ultimate elimination of incurable cancers. I hope you would be proud of me, were you able to be here. But maybe you would just be thinking “Now why would anyone ruin a perfectly good day by running 13.1 miles if no one was chasing them?”

Thanks for being such a big part of my life. I will be thinking of you this June 26 as I race in Seattle, Washington.

Love,
“Little Art”

P.S. I am a grandpa now, too. I was there at my granddaughter's birth, lucky to still be alive. And you know, someday when she is a bit older, I just might let her think she is the butt-kicking checkers queen of the world!

Tales From Hollywood

Yesterday, we did our team’s Hollywood Cemetery run – always a lot of fun, combining exercise, scenery, history, and (this time of year) the beauty of flowers. Two US Presidents (Monroe and Tyler) and one Confederate President (Jefferson Davis) are buried there. Every time I do the TNT route through the cemetery, I can’t help but remember our 2006 Spring Team’s sojourn through the azaleas and dogwoods.

It was my second TNT season, and my first as a mentor. I mentored several women on the walk team as I trained for the San Diego Marathon. I was the only person training to walk the full marathon, and so did most of my training by myself because of the distances involved. But on the last day of training, I cut it short a bit to train with Allison and Vaunda, my two San Diego Half Marathon mentees. And my mentee Mary Nell, now a veteran of the Country Music Half Marathon the prior month in Nashville, came back out to do a final walk with the team. Three great gals and me walking through the cemetery – what could go wrong? None of the three of them had ever been in there before.

As we entered the cemetery, Vaunda got a little nervous. “This place gives me the creeps! There is no way I’d go in here by myself.” Allison on the other hand, was fascinated and kind of liked it. “If I were homeless,” she said, “I’d come sleep in here. It would be quiet and peaceful, no one to bother you.” Vaunda was horrified. “Sleep in here? No way!” The run team passed us coming down the hill maybe three fourths of a mile ahead of us and we all yelled “Go Team!” Then we headed up the steep hill.

We paused to admire the great river and city views from the chapel along the crest of the hill, talk of living in cemeteries left behind for a bit. But as we moved along, we saw some worms that had come out on the pavement. They were going to bake in the sun, so I picked up a few large ones. Mary Nell looked a little alarmed, and then I tossed them on a grassy area. “I thought you were going to throw them at me, Art,” she said. “No, I have not done anything like that maybe ever, but if so it would have been in grade school. I’m just trying to save them,” I said.

By now, we were a bit lost. It was hard to follow the instructions because they didn’t always mention streets. We could always retrace out route to get out, but were trying to follow the exact route to stick to our training regimen. We fumbled around for a while, looking at the instructions over and over, trying to figure which of the streets we should go down. Finally, we just headed along one of the streets that we thought was right.

Suddenly, like an old ghostly Confederate soldier, this apparition appeared on the rise directly above us. Okay, he was not really an apparition, but a real guy. He had a long unkempt beard, a floppy hat, and some kind of a walking stick. Or was it a club? We all greeted him, but he just stared at us and said not a word as we walked by. He became the latest topic of conversation among the ladies and I. “Boy, he was creepy,” Vaunda said. Allison added “Oh, maybe I wouldn’t really want to hang out here if I were homeless.” Mary Nell said “I’m glad that you were with us to protect us, Art!” I jokingly replied “Protect you? I was thinking the same thing about you three being here to protect me.” We all laughed, but a couple of them glanced over their shoulders now and again. And they all vowed there was no way they would come back in here alone.

Ultimately, we got back on track, went past the big pyramid and the iron dog (see yesterday’s photos), and headed back through the city. But now the three of them were Hollywood veterans, and I always think of these three wonderful women whenever I train in there. And I almost always get a little lost each time as well, maybe for old time’s sake. Hurrah for Hollywood!

What is This, Which Morning Sunlight….

What is this, which morning sunlight
Guilds with golden beams?
‘Tis our Upper Darby High School,
Castle of our dreams.

So goes the first eight bars of the Upper Darby High School Alma Mater. Now I don’t know that my high school was the castle of my dreams, or that of my 650 or so co-graduates of the class of 1969. But we did get a very good education there, and I generally remember it fondly – mostly. But “castle of our fond and a few not so fond memories” is not quite as poetic, is it? In any event, this past weekend, I journeyed to Philadelphia for my 40th reunion, a little trip down memory lane. We had only about 80 people show up, and several people I really wanted to see in particular were not there, but it was still a fun reunion and a fun weekend in the City of Brotherly Love.

It is amazing to look at my yearbook photo from way back when, and realize that most of my life was still ahead of me. Even though things have not always turned out as I would have hoped or planned back in 1969, it has been a full life. And the 40 years seems to have gone by in the blink of an eye. If you are a young 20 or 30 something-year-old, those years will fly by for you as well. Trust me on this one! So remember to live your life fully and to live each day.

In high school, I guess I would have been considered a geek, although we didn’t have that term that I recall. I was a good student, but not an exceptional one. I was a crummy athlete, which is one reason why doing marathons this late in life has been so surprising. I wanted to go to the Naval Academy, although even had my grades been good enough, my poor eyesight doomed any realistic chance of that. But even so, the desire to go to Annapolis, and just the way I was raised, made me a real “straight arrow” in high school. I never got in trouble, didn’t drink or smoke – much less use drugs – and generally minded my own business and treated people politely. The few times I should have gotten in trouble, I had such a spotless reputation that the Dean of Boys let me off the hook.

I’m sure that when I was 18 I thought I knew more than I really did. That is one thing about aging – the more you learn, the more you realize you do not know. At 18, so much of my life was still ahead of me – college, grad school, marriage, fatherhood, career, developing as a person, becoming a grandpa, surviving cancer, becoming a marathoner. So much has happened in the last 40 years, both in my life and in the world. I am not likely to live another 40 years, although 30 seems possible and 20 seems likely. I wonder what those years will bring? At some point though, it will not be morning sunlight, but the evening setting sun that guilds the castle of my dreams.

The Roads Taken

I spoke at the Team in Training informational meeting yesterday to recruit participants for the spring team, which starts training in a few weeks. I spoke in the role of a patient honoree (blood cancer survivor). I was out for a walk early yesterday, trying to think what I would talk about while noting the beautiful fall colors. Reds. Oranges. Yellows. Ah, yellows – “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood…”
Robert Frost’s poem, “The Road Not Taken,” ends thusly:

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”

I thought about the decisions we make every day. Most are simple and of little consequence, like whether to watch TV or read a book tonight. A few are truly momentous and life changing – for me the decision to commit to TNT nearly five years ago is one of these. But that started with a pretty simple decision, that of attending that TNT information meeting in early 2005, just as the people I would be speaking to were doing later that morning. And I thought of how I could relate a couple events in my recent life to this, and maybe encourage a few of them to select the same path.

One was reacting to cancer. We don’t get to pick cancer or not. If we have it, we have it. But we can choose which path to take after that point. We can choose the road of negativity, of “why me”, of giving up, of constant complaining about our misfortune. Or we can choose to be positive, to be strong, be a survivor instead of a victim, and to learn and grow from our bad luck. I know that the latter path was the one that I selected when I was so ill, and that made a huge difference in my life. One thing that struck me when I was dealing with cancer was that this path had been traveled by thousands before me, and that my successful treatment owed a debt to what was learned by their experiences. In the 1950’s and 1960’s, people with Hodgkin lymphoma were much more likely to die – after tremendous suffering - than live, and now the five year survivorship is about 85% - remarkable. And I was determined that when I was well again, I would do something to make a difference for people dealing with cancer, to make their journey on this very difficult road a little less difficult.

The second decision I thought about was how I selected the road less traveled and decided to do Team in Training in 2005. I’ve written before about how I hesitated because of the fundraising and my self-doubts about raising that kind of money. For me, Team in Training was almost the road not taken, and that would have been such a loss for me. Now, maybe I would not know what I would be missing, because the other road – just going on with my life – would have been okay, too. But I would have missed out on so much had I selected that path. So instead, I showed some moxie, decided to believe in myself, and took my first step down a road that led to becoming a multiple-times marathoner, raising $40,000+ for LLS, and meeting so many amazing people. By giving back to others, I gave to myself. By making a difference in the world, I made a difference in my own life. And perhaps my experiences have touched other people and made a difference in their lives as well.

Frost’s poem has a few lines that are really apt:

“Oh, I kept the first (road) for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.”

Team in Training, the road less traveled, the road almost not taken by me, leads one to places in their life where there is absolutely no going back to that starting point where the two roads diverged nearly five years ago. Your life changes, for the better, too much for that. For me, that other road, that road without Team in Training, was the road not taken. And that has made all the difference!

The Ghosts of Augusts Past

Each August – and especially late in August – I get a bit nostalgic about a couple of events that happened in the Augusts of 2002 and 2003. These are related to my fight with cancer and subsequent recovery, and I guess I will call them the “ghosts of Augusts past.”

By late August of 2002, I was two and half months into chemotherapy, and was more or less used to the routine and how I would feel at various points. My brother-in-law was coming down from Boston for a week and we had selected the week after chemotherapy, as I normally had a little more energy and a lot less nausea. I was looking forward to hanging out with him. But as his visit approached, I was feeling worse and worse, and when he arrived that Sunday I ached all over and felt exhausted. Usually by that time in my chemo cycle, I had a pretty good appetite and really enjoyed meals, but I remember the first night Tom was here, I felt awful, barely touched my dinner, and went to bed about 8PM. The next two days were pretty much carbon copies, and I kept apologizing, saying “I don’t understand why I feel so bad.” He kept saying “Don’t apologize! It’s not like I came down here expecting to be entertained!”

That Wednesday about 2:00AM, I awoke with a high fever, soaked in sweat, followed by chills. Fevers are really dangerous for cancer patients, so I went to the ER (where I got the first of my guardian angels) and was admitted to the hospital. I spent the next 5 days there, feeling about as awful as I ever had in my life. My brother-in-law had to go back home hours before I got out of the hospital, so any plans of hanging out together were dashed. None of the medical staff could figure out why I was so ill, and they called it a “fever of unknown origin”, but a bacterial infection was ruled out.

It wasn’t until about a month later that a pulmonary specialist looked at the CT scan images and considered all of the other data, including an abysmal pulmonary function test the week after I got out of the hospital. His conclusion was that I had suffered lung damage from bleomycin and was lucky that it had not killed me, and even better, that the damage appeared to be reversible. I made the decision to stop the bleomycin at that point, but I have always remembered how absolutely awful and weak I was the end of that August. I consider it the “low-water mark” of my fight with lymphoma.

Fast forward a year, and on August 24, 2003 I was standing on top of a mountain in western Maine, quite tired but healthy again, and feeling exhilarated. I have blogged about that story here, and here, and so won’t repeat all of those details, other than to say this was the specific point where I declared total victory over cancer. Of course, one can make the point that maybe that should not have been until I did my first marathon, although I look on that marathon as a huge explanation point!

So each August since, as the days begin to dwindle on the summer’s march towards September, I really like to reflect on the difference a year can make. One August, I was lying in a hospital bed, drifting in and out of sleep, racked with fever and chills, too weak to walk a quarter mile I would guess. A year later, I was standing on a mountaintop looking out over the forests and lakes of Maine – my promise to myself of the previous summer fulfilled, and cancer a memory. Every August since, I specifically try to do something to celebrate strength, good health, and good fortune. I am hoping that my “ghosts of Augusts future” will all be of that nature – strength and good health - for a long time to come.

Reflections on my Fourth TNT Event

Wow, here I am, a year older once again next week. Well, only a week older from right now, but as humans measure age, a year older. It will be my eighth birthday since contracting cancer. It is sobering to contemplate that had effective treatments for Hodgkin’s disease not existed, I would not be writing this, or doing anything else other than pushing up daisies. Nor would I have had a fourth TNT season to reflect back on. I am so grateful to still be on God’s green earth!

I have so many great memories of my participation with TNT this season. It was my first half marathon and my first time to Nashville, and my first time running more of a long distance race than walking. So those things alone made it special for me. I got to train with some old friends: Vicki, Chuck, Kristi, Theresa, Paul, Nicki, Ann, and Sarah for starters. I got to make some new friends: my amazing mentees Dave, Lexi, Leslie, and Nicole, and many other new teammates like Kate, Jen, Cathy, Chopper Guy, Tammy, Jamey, Chad, Nancy, Donna, Gina, Bethany, and Rose. Then were the wonderful teammates that I met in Nashville from other parts of Virginia, including the great time we had together cheering for everyone. Then there was the young girl with leukemia that I saw in Nashville two days before the race. I think of her often and wonder how she is.

Fund-raising was tough this year for everyone. I didn’t come close to my goal. But I gave it a good shot and had a lot of fun with it. I really enjoyed executing my fund raising campaign as if it were an election: kicking off the campaign, the press conference, the attack ad and so forth. And I really liked the campaign buttons that my friend Lissa did for me. Even though I didn’t make my goal, I still passed 40K for total fundraising since I started doing Team in Training, so that felt special.

A few other special moments was the fun of training with the Charlottesville Team, running the Monument Avenue 10K, and seeing my friend Susan go for the Triple Crown in the Fletcher Flyer Century. Then of course, the surprise of being chosen for the LLS Winged Victory award a couple of weeks ago was a tremendous honor.

And finally, it has been a lot of fun blogging about my fourth TNT campaign. I’ve really enjoyed that, and plan to keep right on writing about it right along into my fifth campaign sometime next year.

Anniversary of my First Marathon

Four years ago today, I became a marathoner in the Mayor's Midnight Sun Marathon in Anchorage, Alaska! I walked it as a member of Team in Training and as a cancer survivor, but it was a marathon all the same. A couple of years later, I wrote a story about it for the TNT “Team Ties” e-zine, and in memory of this day, one of the most amazing days in my life, I decided to post that here, with a few modifications. I've also thrown in a few photos from the day, which don't always occur exactly at the point being discussed.

My First Marathon

In May of 2002 I got the shock of learning that I probably had lymphoma, then confirming that I did indeed have Hodgkin's lymphoma. I started chemotherapy that June and went into remission on December 9. During that time of much illness and physical misery, I had a chance to meet a lot of others who were even more ill than I was, with even less certain futures. I reflected a lot on the many things in my life that I was grateful for, and tried to stay positive from day 1, determined to recover and try to make a difference somehow. I read a number of inspirational books, including Lance Armstrong's story "It's Not About the Bike", one called "Cancer Combat", and another called "Chicken Soup for the Survivor's Soul".

About the time I went into remission, I learned about TNT and The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, and thought that this would be a great way to give back something for the things that helped to save my life. I was too weak for a while to consider it, and then, truthfully, kind of forgot about it. My interest was renewed in 2004 when I was in the National Susan Komen Race for the Cure, only a 3.1 mile race, but still a first step to giving something back. I learned about and thought about doing the Komen Breast Cancer 3-Day the next year, but then in January 2005, I remembered TNT and got in touch. Being a lymphoma survivor, that was a pretty natural fit. After going to a meeting about TNT, I signed up for the marathon in Alaska, and dove right in with fundraising and training.

At this same time, a friend was losing his six year battle against renal cell cancer. His name was Allan Bernstein, and he was always very courageous and upbeat, and thinking of his suffering - he was going through an especially difficult time in January - and his great spirit helped give me the resolve to train hard and persevere. He was my personal honoree for the race, and he was so touched and excited that his birthday was the same day as the race, June 18. Sadly, he died about 2 weeks before the marathon. Along the way, I was also touched and inspired by our two team patient honorees. They were Emma McFeely, a little girl who survived leukemia at age 10 weeks, and Ed Stone, who survived leukemia as a young man and has gone on complete marathons and triathlons for TNT. As I fundraised, I offered to write the names of donor's honorees on my shirt, and learned about many of their stories as well. During the race, with all of these names on my shirt, I felt that they were all right there with me every step of the way. It was just a fantastic experience, a lot of work of course, but for all the effort I made, I got even more back. After the Midnight Sun Marathon, I wrote my mile by mile thoughts as best as I could remember them from the race. So I will close my story now by sharing my memories of a few of these miles:

Pre-race: This is exciting but the weather is iffy, plus one thing we never trained for was standing for two hours prior to doing our miles. Coach Bob gives us last minute instructions, everyone braves the porta-potty lines, we line up and at 8AM, we step off. I will walk the first 17 miles with Cheryl from Virginia. Happy birthday, Allan – this one’s for you, big guy!

Milepost 4 – Porta-potties with short lines! Great, I was about to stop along the road (no privacy at all but getting desperate). The first mile post where the rain has stopped, and there is a little sun. Maybe the weather will improve. Feeling good, walking along. Mountains are so pretty. How amazing to be doing my first marathon in Alaska – I feel so grateful.

Milepost 11 – Solid rain now, forget about pictures. The trail climbs and is narrower now, very slick and muddy. We spray mud with each stride over ourselves and each other. Mood is high, the few spectators cheer us on and the adrenaline rushes, all along the route, when this happens. There is a man, maybe older than me. He has an artificial leg but is laboring along, slipping on the steep, muddy parts of the trail. On his back is a picture of a woman and the words “For Tina” – actually I can’t remember what the name was but you get the idea. Someone tells me that he has done this race every year with his wife along to help him over the rough spots. This past year, his wife died so he is doing this alone in her memory. This is so inspirational but so heart-breakingly sad. I cannot imagine what he is feeling.

Milepost 15 – legs are sore now, getting tired. Slowing on the soaked and muddy, narrow downhill sections (they call this part the Ho Chi Minh Trail). I almost fall several times – it is so slippery. How did the runners do it? Feel so cool, worried about hypothermia. Everything is soaked, but still I am in Alaska in a marathon – how bad can that be? Have not even had to use my mantra yet (“Each step saves lives”). Where the hell is this midnight sun we have heard about – will the damned rain ever stop?

Milepost 23 - It stopped raining and I finally get my third mile post photo. I start thinking of my friend Allan, who's birthday is today and who died 2 weeks ago of cancer. "Help me out here, Allan - give me a little shove." I feel a wave of emotion thinking about him dying and nearly cry. I think of his widow, Marcia. I think about all of the names on my shirt, those who have died, and those who have beat this thing, including me. I will finish and honor them all. It is pretty here - what a gorgeous wild area near a college campus!

Milepost 24 - Oh, my God! I know I will finish now. I do two miles all of the time. I will be a marathoner today. The blisters will heal, the cold and wet fade, the sore muscles recover, but I will always be a marathoner. I feel a huge smile. Now it's raining again. What is this? A single spectator, standing in the rain with a big sign: "Leukemia Survivor - Thank You." I stop, point to my chest with pride and say "Lymphoma Survivor". We chat for a bit, and I give her a hug, say "God Bless You" and go on. I am so appreciative for her waiting out in the cold and rain to thank us and cheer us on.

Milepost 25 - A mile to go is nothing. Rain coming in sideways; the path is going along a lake, heading around a little bend and up "Insult Hill". This is not such a bad hill at all, and I start really hauling ass. A coach yells to slow down on the hill, risking a muscle pull. I slow down. At 25.75 Coach Bob meets me with his moose head hat. I start talking, then babbling. I tell him about Allan and his birthday today, how he just died. I tell him about some of the other names on my shirt. I start talking about how I swore I would do something like this when I had cancer, and now I was doing it. I realize that I am close to tears and tell him that I may cry. He says to go ahead, I've earned it. But I stop babbling and get it under control.

Milepost 26 - My God, thanks for this. I am nearly a marathoner! I feel strong. Everything hurts, feet, legs, but the feeling is great. I see Sarah Clarke, our TNT Staff person, screaming my name, jumping up and down, yelling "Go Art, Go Art"! I take off my soaked hat and wave it to her. The finish is just ahead. Bob stops and congratulates me, and we bear hug each other. My smile feels a mile wide as I leave him and cross the finish line. Three years, two weeks, and one day after starting ABVD chemotherapy and feeling so scared that day, I became a marathoner! I hear them announce "Art Ritter, Glen Allen, Virginia" over the PA. I hoped those poor, cold photographers got a good photo of this, because this is one moment I wanted to capture. What a great feeling, one of the great moments in my life.

I’ll Take the Fifth!

I got out of a long meeting today at work, returned to my office, and flipped on my radio. Set on NPR, the familiar strains of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony coming from its speakers instantly made me smile and forget about stressful meetings. And it reminded me of a chapter in my battle with Hodgkin Lymphoma seven years ago.

When I was a kid, I didn’t listen to a lot of music. Given how much I love music of so many kinds now, this is actually amazing even to me. But when I was fairly young, my sister gave me her old beat up record player and a few records that she no longer wanted, one of which was this incredible symphony by Beethoven, the 5th. Even if you do not listen to classical music, you will probably recognize at least the opening part of the first movement:


Da-da-da-daaaaaaaaah! Da-da-da-daaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh! I have loved this music since the time of hearing it as a boy. It is heroic and beautiful, triumphant and moving, passionate and serene all at once.

Long before I had cancer, Mary and I had bought tickets to hear the Richmond Symphony for a late May, 2002 concert, the program including Beethoven’s 5th. As it turned out, two days before the concert, I had my biopsy, which involved cutting deep into my chest to snag a chunk of this large tumor that rested silently and ominously near my aorta. I asked the surgeon the morning of surgery whether I would be in pain when I woke up. He looked at me and said with a chuckle, “Oh, you’ll know that I paid you a visit!” Was he ever right about that!

When I woke up from the surgery just before noon Thursday, it felt like a dozen very mean little guys were hacking away at my chest with saws, axes, and knives. It remained fairly painful that day and all night, and also Friday, and I remember telling Mary that there was no way I’d be going to the concert. But by Saturday, because the surgeon had done such a skillful job, I felt well enough to go. Most of the little guys had reluctantly packed up their saws and knives and gone home. The few remaining ones half-heartedly sawed and stabbed away, but it was nowhere near as painful. So I knew that I would be fine for the concert.

It was a great performance, even though the man sitting in front of us was clearly not moved by the music. He would often lean in and say something angrily to his wife – at least I assumed it was his wife. At the end, when everyone else began rising and applauding, enraptured by the magnificent music, he stood, said something to her, and stormed out, leaving her there. I remember so clearly thinking “What the hell is wrong with this guy? I have cancer and I could not feel happier at this instant. And he just seems pissed at the whole world!”

By that time, I knew I had lymphoma for sure from the surgeon’s report, and knew that I would be facing months of chemotherapy. I really felt as if it were fate that this piece of music, one of my all time favorites, was on the program at a time when I was learning about my illness. I decided that night that this composition would be my “theme song” during my treatment.

During my long period on chemotherapy, I would listen to this symphony at least once every week, never failing to be inspired and encouraged by it. The fact that Beethoven was almost totally deaf when he wrote it makes it all the more incredible and inspirational. Legend has it that the composer described the opening notes as “Thus destiny knocks at the door.” Whether that is so or not, apparently my destiny was to have lymphoma, survive it, and end up being motivated and determined to train for marathons while raising money for cancer research and outreach.

And so, whenever I hear this music, I gratefully think of the time when its heroic and triumphant nature helped me to take heart, fill my soul with courage, leave the misery of sickness behind for a little while, and ultimately triumph over a deadly and remorseless foe.

Four Marathons and Seven Years Ago...

Four marathons and seven years ago, I started chemotherapy. OK, OK, I know that really it was three marathons, one half marathon, and seven years ago, but that doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?

On June 3, 2002, I got up early, ate a breakfast of oatmeal, and – fearful that my oatmeal would end up all over an oncology nurse in a few hours – went in for my first chemotherapy. It was a daunting experience, and I had a lot of trepidation and fear about the whole thing, but I also knew that it had to be done. The alternative would be a slow and pretty awful death from lymphoma. I learned that day that chemo will not make you sick the first day you get it, so cleaning up half-digested oatmeal was never an issue. Later in the week, after going in each day that week for more chemo, I felt sicker and sicker, so it was more of a concern. But as it turned out through six months of chemo, I never threw up in the chemo room. In a neighbor’s yard once, but that is a different story.

I got four drugs that day in my brand new portocath, which had been installed only the previous Thursday, so that area of my chest was still very sore from the surgery. The first drug, Adriomycin, is a beautiful red color and I came to nickname it “Jonestown Cool Aide” for its awful side effects. I’ve heard other people call it “The Red Devil”. One of the interesting and rather funny side effects is that you urinate orange or pink for a few hours as your kidneys work desperately and unsuccessfully to get this poison out of your blood stream. The other drugs, Bleomycin, Vinbastine, and Dicarbazine are all clear like water, and all very toxic. I have blogged before about Vinblastine, which is a true miracle drug. Bleomycin caused lung damage later and came fairly close to killing me. But all four of them saved my life.

Now, I am a seven year survivor and a four time TNT marathoner. OK, OK, three time marathoner, one time half-marathoner! Geez! Seven years ago, I never would have envisioned getting to this point, and am very grateful for it. I had never done a marathon, or even really given it a thought. I had never fundraised. Now I have done both, multiple times, meeting many truly incredible and amazing people along the way. As people in the past helped make a difference in my life, helped me to survive, I am trying to do something to make a positive difference in the lives of others now and in the future. And to increase their odds of survival.

If you read this and are a TNT alumni or are currently doing Team in Training, Light the Night, or something similar, then you are making a difference, too. I thank you for this, in a sincere and heartfelt manner. Like thousands and thousands of others, I am living proof that we can go through something like cancer and its pretty awful treatments, and come out even stronger than we went in. Even strong enough and lucky enough to do a marathon.

Maybe this time next year, or close to it, my topic will be “Three Marathons, One Half Marathon, One Triathlon, and Eight Years Ago.” What would Abraham Lincoln think? But for now, I will just rejoice in being a seven year survivor, and be glad that the most toxic thing I am likely to ingest on this seven year anniversary of my first chemo is a beer or a glass of wine, if that.

Seven Memorable Hikes

It has been a while since I have written anything in my “surviving seven years series”, memories and things in my life during the seven years since I got diagnosed with cancer. In this post, I will discuss seven memorable hikes, presented in the order that they occurred.

My previous posts in this series are seven amazing experiences, seven great Team in Training memories, and seven cool wildlife experiences.

# 1 – First Post-Cancer Hike. Riprap Hollow, July 2003. Riprap Hollow, reached by way of a 9.6 mile circuit hike on the Appalachian Trail, Riprap Hollow Trail and Wildcat Ridge trail, is one of my favorite spots in Shenandoah National Park. It is a moderately difficult hike, especially when one is recovering from the ravages of chemotherapy. This was my first post-chemo hike, and although tiring, it was just incredible to be alive and hiking again. I saw two black bear cubs, one of which shot 30 feet straight up a tree. I took a cool dip in a beautiful pool in the stream. I slowly hiked uphill for nearly 3 miles on the way out, several young people passing me like I was standing still. My pictures from that day, in a standard film camera, were somehow ruined, but you can see photos from last year’s hike to this wonderful spot here.

Riprap Hollow

# 2 – A Promise Kept. Tumbledown Mountain, Weld, Maine, August 2003. I have written about this hike in detail here, and won’t repeat the story. But I will never forget this day. It fulfilled a promise I made the prior summer while I was so ill – that by the summer of 2003 I would be well enough to hike to the top of Tumbledown Mountain.

With my friends Chip and Amy near the alpine pond on Tumbledown Mountain

# 3 – A Branch Snaps in Grizzly Country. Ptarmigan Falls, Glacier National Park, Montana, September 2005. We had already done a seven mile hike, through prime grizzly country, that morning, on full alert with each step. That afternoon, I took off, alone, on a 5 mile round-trip hike up to Ptarmigan Falls. It was beautiful, hiking along an open ridge with spectacular scenery all around and great views of the massive Ptarmigan Wall straight ahead. I lingered at the falls for a while, then headed back down in late afternoon. Suddenly, the sound of branch being broken just off trail rang out like a pistol shot and I froze in my tracks. Other branches snapped – there was a very large animal very close by and I stood there for several minutes scanning down the slope with naked eye and binoculars. It was the tips of the antlers sticking above the saplings and brush that gave away the animal and its location – a huge bull moose. His antlers reminded me of an Irish elk! My adrenalin level dropped a bit when I discovered it was not a grizzly bear, and I watched him for about 20 minutes before reluctantly hiking the remaining mile or so back to base.

View towards Ptarmigan Wall

Ptarmingan Falls

A huge moose that gave me pause when he snapped a branch

View from the ridge that I hiked along

# 4 – The Mountain Goats’ Realm. Logan Pass, Glacier National Park, Montana, September 2005. Located off the incredibly scenic Going to the Sun Highway, this hike is one of those where the scenery per effort ratio is very high. Lots of scenery for minimal hiking effort. There was lots of wildlife to see, including Columbian ground squirrels, marmots, and mountain goats from near and afar. I put mountain goat pictures on this post so won’t repeat most of them here.

Columbian ground squirrel

An alpine meadow at Logan Pass

Amazing geology in these landscapes

Alpine lake

Bearhat Mountain

Mother and kid

# 5 – That's A Lotta Bull. Cascade Lake, Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming, September 2005. You ever run into a situation where the biggest impression is a lotta bull? Well, that was this hike. The hike itself was not spectacular, but a lone bull bison was about 100 feet from the trail on the way towards the lake and we gingerly tiptoed past him. As we got about a half mile from the lake, a good sized herd of bison was scattered all about. We decided that discretion was the better part of valor and that hiking through a bison herd might have negative results and we turned back. We watched bull elk bugling from afar and kept our ears and eyes open for grizzly. We were also aware that we would have to slip past the bull again, and were shocked to find that he now stood nearly on the path, right where a little log bridge crossed the stream. We bushwhacked up through the woods to get a couple of hundred feet away from him and then crossed the stream – better wet boots than facing down a large bull bison. He was fine as long as we didn’t invade his space, and we completed the hike with no further adventures.

The hike was through open country for the most part

The bull bison kept getting closer and closer to the trail...

Until he basically blocked it

# 6 – Remembering 40 Years. Mount Washington, White Mountains of New Hampshire, July, 2007. In August 1967 my Dad took my brother Nur and me camping in Vermont and New Hampshire. The highlight of the trip was a hike to the top of Mount Washington, the highest mountain in the Northeastern US. My brother and I decided to do a 40 anniversary hike, and spent three days hiking in the Presidential Range of the White Mountains with my 83 year old friend Dick. We stayed in the famed AMC huts – backpacking in style! We “bagged” five tall peaks on the hike – Pierce, Eisenhower, Franklin, Monroe, and Washington.

View back to Lake of the Clouds

The summit of Mount Washington looms just ahead

My brother and me near sunset on Mt. Monroe

Sunset from Mount Monroe

The moon over Mount Monroe on the hike back to the hut

# 7 – A Beautiful Hike in New England. Bald Mountain, Southern New Hampshire, August, 2008. This hike was on my sister-in-law Martha’s birthday, and she, my brother, and I celebrated by hiking up Bald Mountain. I have fully described the hike here with many photos. A few highlights were watching and hearing a loon – one of my favorite birds – at the start of the hike, the many incredible and vividly colored mushrooms that we saw, the beauty of eating lunch on cliffs overlooking the pond, and having a cool dip in the pond at the end of the hike.

View from Bald Mountain

Honorable mention would be last fall’s hike up Old Rag.

Run or Limp, Rain or Shine, it Will be Monumental!

Tomorrow will be my fifth Monument Avenue 10K race, sponsored by Ukrops Supermarket. The race always occurs near the date when I first learned I had cancer, so it is a great reminder of my good fortune to live and to be healthy enough to race in a 10K. They were calling for rain earlier, but now it looks like the rain will end in the very early morning hours, and it will be low 50’s (F) and cloudy for the race.

A bigger issue than whatever happens with the weather will be my left foot. My miracle cure is not working. I have tried to rest my foot since Tuesday’s 5 miles caused so much pain, only doing some walking and elliptical. Last night, I ran (with a little walking) for two miles on a treadmill, and the pain started after 1.5 miles. At the end of the two miles it was quite noticeable – although not nearly as bad as after the five miles Tuesday morning. Today at work I am trying to stay off my feet as much as possible, even taking the elevator – which is sacrilege for me! I have iced my foot 4 times this week. I am wondering if my fairly new orthotics are just shot and may try to replace them tonight.

Anyhow, I am going to do the race tomorrow. If the foot pain is too much I will stop running and walk fast. If fast walking still hurts too much I will slow my pace. Unless I feel like I am doing serious damage I will finish the race. I wanted a PR but it is more important to have fun and not get hurt.

I have great memories from the last 4 races, but this one will be really special – I will explain why in a minute. In 2005, I was training with TNT to walk the Midnight Sun Marathon in Anchorage, and we walked the 10K to get race experience. I walked with teammates Michal, Janice, and Mary. Michal and I walked 4 miles to the start of the race, did the race, then walked 7 more miles for a total of 17 that day.

In 2006, I was training for the San Diego Marathon with TNT but also mentoring, so I walked with a couple of my mentees to encourage them. The next year, Michal and I walked the race together, doing the 10K in about 1 hour 21 minutes, which is a nice walking pace. I also was a member of “Team Tommy” that year to honor Tommy West, a local man with incurable liver cancer.

Last year, it rained steadily but I ran and walked the race, again as a member of “Team Tommy”. It was poignant because Tommy had died from his year-long fight with cancer just days before the race. I wore my orange “Team Tommy” race shirt, and it was the first time I ran some of the race – about 4 miles of it – so I set a PR.

Tomorrow, I will wear Tommy’s “Hope” bracelet, and also Nicki’s “Decade of Strength” bracelet and my purple TNT “T.E.A.M.” (“Train, Endure, Achieve, Matter) bracelet:


But more importantly, I will be wearing my purple team shirt from the Arizona Marathon, covered with the names of people who have had cancer. And we will have a team out there on the race course! These two things make this year’s race really special.

Sprinkled among the 32,000 or so runners and walkers tomorrow will be Team in Training’s first official Monument Avenue 10K Team of about 35 people. And those of us currently on the spring and summer teams will wear our shirts, plus I hope TNT alumni will wear their purple from the past. We won’t paint the race course purple but we will at least speckle it purple, and there will be a few TNT cheerleaders out there.

So rain or shine, run, walk, limp, hop, or crawl – I am doing this race. I will have 4 weeks to figure out whatever this foot issue is – metatarsalgia, Morton’s Neuroma, whatever – before the Country Music Half Marathon. But I am in this 10K, and I will try for a PR if my foot miraculously holds up. If it doesn’t maybe I will have my worst time in the race while having a great time at the race. But regardless, I will wear my purple with pride, and I will wear a big smile!