Run, Julie, Run - Day-before-nerves!

I'm nervous. Tomorrow is my first attempt at a marathon, a trail marathon in January in New Jersey. It's snowing - because it's January in the Northeast.

And I'm feeling woefully inadequately prepared. I had a plan. It was an aggressive training plan, but it was a plan that would get me ready for my first marathon. But as happens in many areas of our lives, life got in the way of plans. I wasn't able to get in my final long run, and my training was somewhat disrupted the last few weeks.

So, I'm nervous. I know, this is just a race; it's not life and death. It's a race....But I've trained and I want to run well, for me.

I do know that, as important as training is, it doesn't account for that elusive quality called "heart". Heart can't replace training, but every come-from-behind underdog knows that it can't be discounted either. Heart is that thing that makes you take another step, go a little faster, a little further when others are prepared to stop. Heart is what leads you to your own little victories, no matter your speed or place.

I'm not a great athlete. I'll never set any records or win any race. But, I know what it's like to push myself beyond all that I thought possible. I know that I have that thing - that "heart".

I climbed Mt. Rainier (14,411') one year after finishing a full, punishing year of surgery/chemo/rads/chemo. It was not the hardest mountain I've ever climbed, but just a year after treatment, it was seriously tough. I was fairly sure a few times that I couldn't make it, but I managed to struggle on - one step, then another, then another. It remains one of my proudest achievements.

And I toughed it out on Aconcagua (22,841' - highest peak in the Western hemisphere). After our first supply carry to the first camp beyond base camp, I got sick - REALLY sick. As careful as I was, I got e-coli or some other nasty bacteria - never been so sick. I was sure I was done; I would simply wait at base camp as the rest of my team climbed. But with a lot of antibiotics and other drugs, and a huge amount of help and encouragement from my guides and teammates, I did manage to climb, 17 days on the mountain - throwing up the whole way. Every minute was a struggle.

But more than any of my climbing experiences, I know what it's like to stick it out from cancer. I know what it's like to cry every night, and go back the next day for more radiation. I know what it's like to throw up for a week, and still go back to get loaded up with more drugs.

I know.

I know that elusive thing called "heart".

But I also know that heart doesn't trump safety. If conditions, the day, or I am not right, I will pass. I've passed on climbs when things weren't right. It is just a race, after all. Just like they are only mountains. There will always be another; my safety matters.

Years ago, climbing in Ecuador, I had summited Cayambe and Cotopaxi. In my mind, though, those two mountains were just the warm-up to Chimborazo. Summit day arrived on Chimbo. I hadn't slept at all, not a wink - nerves, altitude.... I went out into the dark to pee (it was 11:30 at night - the start of our climbing day). I knew how hard the other mountains had been, and I knew this was harder. I knew I had had the flu, had spent my days off throwing up with a very high fever. I looked deep inside and knew I simply didn't have it in me that day. I knew I could start out and probably get pretty far. But I also knew that if I couldn't continue I could cause myself and my teammates problems or harm. So I went back in and announced that I wasn't climbing that day. I helped get them breakfast and saw them off - and then I cried.

But I have never regretted that choice. I have never felt defeated by the choice. It was the right choice for me that day. Part of the reason is that the summit is only a small part of the whole experience. Climbing a mountain, or running a race is just one of the steps.

So whatever happens tomorrow, it will be a success. If I can't finish, I am still in so much better shape than I was. I will learn a lot from the race, no matter my time. I'll be better prepared to take on the next challenge. And I've discovered something wonderful: I love going out into the woods, in all kinds of crazy weather, by myself to run - sometimes for hours.

I'm still nervous. But whatever happens tomorrow, good things have already happened as a result of this race.

And there's the possibility that it could be an extraordinary day - that I could be extraordinary!

Julie