Remembering

Alright, start of the long holiday weekend - Memorial Day Weekend! (at least here in the U.S.) I went to the grocery store this morning, and it was CROWDED - everyone gearing up for picnics and outdoor fun.

Just a few thing to remember:
If you're heading outdoors, slap on some sunscreen, wear a hat, or stay in the shade. It's a simple thing, but it's one of those really easy lifestyle choices that can have a big impact on our cancer risk.

Stay well-hydrated. It's pretty warm and humid here in the Northeast, and weather reports sound like it's toasty in a lot of areas across the country. Stay hydrated.

If you're going to be running, riding, or walking along roads, be safe. Yes, cars need to avoid you, but don't make it easy for them to hit you. Ride single file, not in a bunch across the road. Stay aware of your surroundings; don't turn the music up so loud you can't hear an approaching car. Pay attention, your life depends on it.

If you're driving, it's your responsibility to avoid runners, riders, and walkers. SLOW DOWN! Give them plenty of room - at least 3 feet. Trust me, it will totally mess up your weekend if you kill one of us! And if you hit us, who are completely unprotected, with your big car, even going 20-30mph, there is a very good chance that you will kill us. And that will really mess up your plans....

And if you're out at a picnic, or soccer game, or the beach, and are drinking, DON'T DRIVE! This fits in with my previous point. Just don't do it. It's stupid, selfish, and dangerous - just don't do it.

And finally, take at least a few moments out of your weekend to remember what this weekend is really about. Remember the name of this holiday - Memorial Day. It's not just about picnics and races and games.

To the men and women who have lost their lives in battles far from home - I hope you have finally found peace. To their family, friends, brothers & sisters in arms - I wish you blessings and peace.

Julie

6-Word Memoir

A short while ago, Marie over at Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer issued a challenge: write a 6-word cancer memoir. The challenge was taken up across the cancer blogasphere, to wonderful effect. I'm late getting to this (she's already moved onto other challenges and topics), although I loved the idea. There are a lot of reasons I've chosen mine, and cancer is certainly one.

I run because I still can.

Julie

From Black To Green

A few weeks ago, actually the night before I flew to my hometown for my 100-mile race, I spent the night making escape plans - which things we would take first, how much we could load into our cars, where we would go. Our neighbors had said there was no need to worry until the helicopters were directly overhead. I found that of little comfort. The hills, just over a mile away, glowed in shifting patterns of yellow and black.

Fire!

Like much of the country, the Northeast was experiencing a severe drought in early Spring. And, in spite of fire warnings, people continued to do stupid things, like light camp fires and throw cigarettes out their car windows. The New York region was awash in brush fires. A brush fire had started up on West Mountain in Harriman State Park - my back yard - and was spreading rapidly through the tinder stick forest.

We slept with the windows open - to hear the helicopters, to smell the smoke, to hear the calls of forest rangers fighting the flames, to know if it was time to leave.

Luckily, the winds and temperature died down, and swarms of hard-working rangers and DEC firefighters got the flames contained. Rains a few days later finished the job. Over a hundred acres burned, but no people or property were lost.

I cried at the sight of such devastation last week when I walked back in that area of the woods. Over a month later, the acrid smell still hangs in the air, stings the nostrils. The forest floor is a carpet of black and brown, dotted with tree trunks turned to charcoal - the charred remains of a vibrant ecosystem.

But as my footsteps crunched along the scorched earth, I began to notice bits of green highlighted against the black. Small patches of life had inexplicably survived; bushes and patches of moss stood like verdant oases. Overhead, the canopy was filling in, leaves growing from the tops of charred trunks. And already, just a month later, blades of grass were sprouting up through the ashes.

I realize this may sound terribly cliched, but I am astounded by nature's tireless urge toward life and renewal. The landscape may be altered, the devastation severe, but there is always an effort toward life.

I find that comforting.

Julie

Trying To Chase Away The Bad Things

I have a cold. Not particularly bad, but still a cold. It's a drag.

Also, in the last few days I've been flooded with bad news from friends. Most of it normal life sad news.  But one piece of news was unimaginable tragedy. Thinking of the horror that my friend and her family are currently living, combined with sad news from other quarters put me into a bit of a funk - feeling profound sadness for some people who are very dear to me.

So I went running. Not a big run, just a couple of miles each day.

Chasing away the bad things.

What I wanted to do was curl up and pull the covers over my head. But I know that a little exercise is good for fighting a cold and the blues.

Light to moderate exercise boosts immune function. David Nieman, PhD discovered in his 1997 study, "Moderate Exercise Boosts The Immune System...", that moderate exercise causes a temporary boost in the immune system. It lasts only a few hours, but it is also cumulative. Therefore, regular exercise prolongs the boost. A more recent study by researchers at Appalachian State University found that regular exercisers reduced the risk and severity of colds by 43-46%.

It's so easy to just lie around the house and feel miserable with a cold. The last thing I want to do when I'm sick is exercise. But if I can potentially boost my immune system and lessen the length or severity of my cold, then a little light exercise is what I'll do. Of course, if I have signs of respiratory infection - severe cough or fever - then rest is the better prescription.

Mind you, this is moderate exercise. The Nieman study found that extreme exertion had the opposite effect. Very intense exercise did boost the immune function, but the positive effect was short-lived. After the boost, immune function fell to even lower levels.

And mood? There are numerous studies showing that the hormones produced by exercise help boost mood. Aside from the physiological changes, I also believe that the simple act of choosing to exercise - choosing to do something positive - can affect how we feel for the better.

A new study looked at differences in walking in a busy urban setting and nature for people suffering from depression. Researchers found that people had improved cognitive function after walking in nature as compared with an urban setting. What was interesting was that there was no difference between the groups for mood changes - walking in any setting increased positive feelings and lowered negative feelings.

So I went for some easy runs.

Did it help? Yes. My sinuses and chest felt just a little less congested (and I didn't have any of the nasty side effects of cold medicine). I had a little more energy. And I was a little less sad.

Did it make everything go away? No. I still have a little cold. I'm still sad for the tough times my friends are going through. A little run does not solve all problems. But if it helps even a little, I'll take it.

Chasing away the bad things....

And, to borrow words from a friend, If you have a child, drop everything RIGHT NOW and tell them you love them. This is an order. GO. NOW!!

I wish solace to all who need it, and I'll continue running to try to chase the bad things.

Julie

Why? (the big question)

Why? 

That's the biggest question I get in response to my attempt to run a 100-mile race. And that's the question I've been struggling to answer for myself. 

In my mind, running ultras is completely wrapped up in cancer. After all, I ran my first 50-mile race (the North Face Bear Mountain Endurance Challenge) as my way of celebrating 10 years of survival. I ended up having such fun with it that I continued running ridiculously long distances.

Although I had spent most of my adult life thinking that I hated running, and therefore refused to do it, I had long been very active and outdoorsy. It's entirely possible that I might have eventually found my way to trail running without cancer. 

So what's the reason? There must be a reason. 

Lots of people offer their own ideas about my psychological makeup that makes me inclined to do this. One person thought I'm overcompensating for having had cancer. (Not sure I really get that one.) Another wondered if I'm trying to hold on to my cancer experience by giving myself such high hurdles to overcome. (Definite NO to that one. That is not a part of my cancer experience I want to hold onto.) One of the reporters who wrote about the race thought maybe I keep pushing myself to find out where the edge is, what is too much. Ron thinks I feel most alive when I have a really big challenge, a really big uphill struggle. My coach just thinks I enjoy having a goal that is just a little out of reach - it makes me laugh at the absurdity.

Me? I just think it's fun. I stumbled my way into something that I really enjoy. All the various psychological reasons are interesting and possibly all part of it. But in the end, it's just fun. All aspects of it: the goal, the planning, the mental challenge, the focus, the thrill of doing something I never imagined I could.

Well, that's not quite all. I also love it because I can. I am capable of running - and running really far. And that capability is really important to me. You see, I have had 2 major experiences in my life that put that capability into doubt: my fight with an aggressive breast cancer; and my accident, when I was run down by a taxi as I was crossing the street, leaving me with a damaged spine. 

I know what it's like to be unable to force my limbs to raise my body off the ground. I know what it feels like to need help to get out of a chair, or struggle to walk to the next room. I have been that person who could not pick up a dinner plate. I have struggled to climb the stairs out of the subway. I remember when walking to my mailbox was a major goal, and how it took me a couple of weeks - each day going just a few feet further. 

I know. 

I remember.

I also remember how liberating it was to just keep trying. To just keep moving forward. To refuse the limitations of my body, in whatever tiny doses I could muster.

And so, here it is, 2012, and I can simply enjoy trying to run a stupid-long race. 

And I can enjoy hearing the other runners' tales. How one was smoking 2-3 packs a day until a year ago, and then started walking on the treadmill.... Another was obese and decided to change. He started working out, tried to eat more sensibly, and then started to run...and kept running. I met a man whose father and uncles had died early. He simply decided he didn't want to be like them. There was the mother of 3 small children who just wanted to get back in shape and have a little time to herself. And the man just diagnosed with MS....

I love that they are all just ordinary people, trying to do something better. None of us are great athletes (they all finish in the front). We're just people who set some goals, made some plans, made the time for it in our too busy schedules, and tried.

One of the most meaningful things to come out of my race came from someone else - someone I didn't know until my last visit home. When I got home to Pekin, I went for a massage to brush off the stress of travel and watching forest fires burn way too near to my house (I almost had to cancel my trip to my hometown & the race). The massage therapist was young and strong, but quite overweight. She talked about how she had started running a little, and was thinking about trying her first 5K, but wasn't sure she could do it. I saw her again after the race. She had the article about me from my hometown paper, with my picture on the front page. She talked more about running. She still thought running 100 miles was plenty crazy, but she was so inspired that she had signed up that morning for her first 5K.

I still don't have an answer to Why? That didn't seem to matter to her. And I don't think it really matters to me.

Julie

If you're interested, there are links to the newspaper articles about my run on the Life-Cise News Page.

Mom - Off To The Races

My mom worries about me. Actually, she worries about all of us - my sister, my brother, my dad, the grandchildren, her sisters, her brothers, friends, their children....

This is not a bad thing. She worries because she cares about us (and we sometimes do give her cause).

And that is a good thing.

But I know that sometimes my antics have caused her excess worry - climbing mountains, backpacking alone, traveling around the world (often alone). I love these activities, but they do make her nervous.

So, as I mentioned in my last post, I was slightly uneasy about how she would react to my 100-mile race a few weeks ago in my hometown. Would she freak out when she saw me looking exhausted? Would she panic if she saw I had taken a fall? Would her need to be a mother and take care of me overpower my will to continue?

The short answer is no.

Mom was actually quite excited about the race. She made sure the house was well-stocked with whatever food and drinks I wanted. She hosted a pre-race pasta dinner for a few of us. And she was up well before the sun to get me fed and off to the race. And then she really began to shine.

I am a pretty independent kind of person. My parents love to remind me that one of my first sentences, oft repeated, was "no, I do by self!"

I had my race bag packed and knew what I needed to do to get ready. This was the first race where I've had any support; Ron has never been able to make it to any of my races. So this time, I didn't have to do everything myself. It was nice to have assistance, but it was strange for me. I hope that the strangeness of it didn't make me seem too gruff or ungrateful.

But there was Mom, offering food. Wanting to help. Asking what she could do to help.

And then I was off.

And Mom was cheering.

And 2+ hours later, when I finished the first loop, she was still there cheering me on.

She brought a thermos of chicken broth from home (there was soup at the aid stations, but I wanted plain broth). She brought some chocolate cake and a thermos of coffee.

And all through the day, at the end of each loop, she was there. All day.

And she was having fun.

My parents chatted, they cheered, they laughed, and they waited.

They did finally go home sometime around midnight. I couldn't believe they had been there the whole day. They were back at daybreak.

This was the first time my mom had witnessed any of my adventures. I've climbed and hiked with my dad. But Mom has only waited for the phone calls that I'm safely home, and afterward listened to the tales.

If she was worried, she did what I had asked and kept it to herself. She sat quietly when I took my break at 50 miles and examined my feet. She never expressed any concern as I came into the finish area dripping with sweat or caked in mud. She just asked what she could do and cheered me on. She didn't freak out after 80 miles when I took off my socks and discovered the mass of bloody blisters. My brother, the former Army Ranger, was a little horrified by them. The only time she faltered was the next day when my brother drained the blisters and injected them with tincture of benzoin to prevent infection. Mom teared up at that - I just sweated. (BTW, benzoin in a blister is a sensation I hope to never experience again, but it was very effective.)

Thank you, Mom. It seems like an odd kind of event for Mother-daughter bonding, but it was really fun sharing my craziness with you! I'm glad you were there.

Let's do it again sometime!

Julie

Run, Julie, Run - 80 Out Of 100

Lack of success is not the same thing as failure.

Alright, I've been having an awful time trying to write this post - hence the delay on my 100-miler update. Any of you who follow me or Life-Cise on Facebook know that I did not run 100 miles. I tried. Instead, I ran 80.

I'm not sure why this one has been so hard to write. Yes, since I've been back I've been wildly busy with LONG rehearsals, concerts, recording projects, and an MTV Unplugged appearance. But, that's just an excuse - surely there was a half hour somewhere in the last week and a half in which I could have written.

There's also the inevitable slump that follows a big challenge. I had some pretty intense recovery - sleeping a lot, eating and drinking, pampering and healing (mostly my poor, swollen, sore feet). And then there's the comedown from the mental excitement and nervousness before the race, and the focus during.

But there's something more, as well. I really wanted to figure out the why. I wanted a few days to recover and process what this all means to me. It was a crazy-huge challenge; it was my first race that I didn't finish - what does it all mean?

I'm still working on that. But in the mean time, here's my account of my race.

The rains had stopped by morning. The 150-milers had started the day before our race - in the rain. It had rained most of the day before and through much of the night. But the rains had stopped by morning for the start of our race.

I was up at 4am to get ready. We were at the start by 5:30 - my brother, my mom, and my dad. Racers and family nervously joked as they got ready. Silence would fall over the crowd as a few 150s came across the line, and continued yet another 10-mile loop. Silence, except for respectful applause and a few shouts of support and encouragement.

Check the pack one more time. Stand on line for the porta-potty. Pin on my number - 125. Talk with a reporter. Check the pack one more time.


We're off. Family and friends cheer.

The course is a 10-mile loop through the woods of McNaughton Park, just outside of Pekin, IL - my hometown. The loop begins with a downhill to a field. We round the field - about a mile - and head up a hill to pass near the Start/Finish again. We spread out into a long line during that first mile, each of us finding our own pace. As we climb up that first hill, we're greeted by a line of our people cheering us on. Then it's into the ravines. The next 4-5 miles are filled with steep hills, up and down through sharp ravines. One hill, Golf Hill, has a rope attached to help us pull ourselves up. Later in the race I will come to really enjoy that hill because it gives me a chance to use different muscles. I take high steps and pull myself up, using all my upper body strength. I keep picturing the old Batman shows with Batman and Robin walking up the side of a building, pulling on a rope. Unfortunately, that is not the end of the steep hills. Finally, we climb out of the steeps to another field, and the next aid station. We then pass along the other side of the field, past an old cemetery, to the Heaven's Gate loop. At the turn into Heaven's Gate (no, I don't know why it's called that, other than it's near the old cemetery), race directors have placed a sign, which I will pass each loop, that announces "Heaven's Gate" with an arrow. The thought enters my head that I have worked so very hard to avoid heaven's gate, and here I am running to it, again and again and again. I am amused at the thought. The final 2 miles are mostly flatter terrain, but still with some steep hills. Finally, we run through some bushes and emerge on the edge of a field, greeted by a homemade sign cheering on one of my running companions. We cross the field, pass a collection of tents, and run over the Start/Finish line.

And then we start another loop.

The rain returns sometime during the first loop - or was it the start of the second? It will continue to rain fairly steadily for about 6-7 hours. The trails, already muddy, become treacherous. There are downhills where every single person falls. Except for those who avoid falling by sitting down and simply sliding on their butts, trying to keep their feet in front of them. I nearly slide over the edge into one of the ravines. Others do the same. We offer a hand whenever we can, but mostly there is nothing we can do for each other. The uphills are even worse. There is nothing to hold onto. Uphills become a wall of slide marks in the mud, with signs of desperate clutches in the mud to keep from sliding back to the bottom and knocking down everyone behind.

Trails slide away. Wooden bridges feel like ice-skating rinks in the mud. On the first loop, I thought the early part of the course was the toughest with it's steep hills. As the day wears on, I change my thinking. The flatter sections of the later course become nearly impassable. Mud is so thick that even walking is difficult.

Into the afternoon, we all begin to talk nervously about certain sections of the trail. The 50-milers are hoping to be off the course by nightfall, but those of us running the 100 know we have a tough night ahead. Trails that are difficult during daylight will be scary and dangerous by headlamp.

Quickly, time ceases to pass in minutes and hours; it flows in miles. Distance becomes the measure of my day. As the miles stretch on, I begin to count only loops.

At the end of each loop, my brother, Mike, is waiting for me. And my parents. I am surprised to see them each time. I thought they would tire and go home, but they are still waiting. They seem to be enjoying the whole event. They chat with runners and with the others who are there to offer what support they can. On the trail, I meet runners who have been talking with my parents - "Oh, you're Julie. Great parents; I was just talking with them."

I have told my family they cannot question me about whether I should continue. They are only allowed to be there if they can encourage me. I worry that my mom will be a mother and worry about me. This is my first race with any support. I know how to run and keep myself motivated. I don't know how to manage anyone else if they express any doubts.

Each loop, Mike refills my pack as I eat something from the very well-stocked aid station. He checks with me to see if I need anything new in my pack or if I need any first aid. He tells me I'm doing great. My mom offers treats she's brought from home - chocolate cake and chicken broth. If she's worried, she never shows it. As I head out down the hill to the next loop, my parents cheer. The last words I hear are my mom saying, "Run, Julie!"

At the end of my 5th loop - 50 miles, I take a break. I change my soaking wet socks, dry my feet, and re-lube them. I put on a long-sleeved shirt for the night. And then I say goodbye and congratulations to some of the 50-milers who are now finished.

Night falls. The rain stopped a few hours ago. The trails are still muddy, but some of the steepest hills have dried enough to be slightly tacky instead of dangerously slick. Unfortunately, the flats are in even worse shape.

At first, people talk constantly, hoping to stave off the dark. Runners group up to find strength and support in numbers.

After a while I begin to grow more quiet. I separate from the groups, preferring to run on my own. I run  a little more slowly and carefully now, but steady. The light from my headlamp flattens out the contours of the trail. I see only a few feet ahead as I launch into hills, not seeing what lies beyond my light. My eyes grow wider; I hear more intensely. I have begun my transition. I am shedding the skin of a person of the sun and becoming some creature of the night. I love running in the dark. I am frightened; I am exhilarated. I feel happy to see other runners on the trail, but feel oddly relieved when they or I pass and I continue alone.

By this point, time means nothing to me. I try to figure out how I'm doing - if I can finish by the cutoff. But I cannot figure it out. There is no deadline. There is no pace. There is only an expanse of darkness that is strangely comforting.

Time exists only in landmarks. Tree - I know this tree; it it time to pass this tree. Stream - it is the time of wading - again. This hill - I remember this hill; I must climb this hill before the loop is finished. Stream - it is time to be wet again. I no longer know how long a night is; I only know trees and hills and streams.

At the end of loop 7, I am resigned to not finishing. At my current pace I am sure I cannot finish by the cutoff. The condition of the trails is too difficult; I am too slow.

While refueling at the aid station, two women who I have run with for short periods on and off during the night come in. We chat as we eat. Laurie asks if we can still finish. I say I'm sure we cannot. She says we can if we run 3 hour loops. By this point, we have slowed to around 4 hours per loop. Bonnie says we should run together, help each other out, and simply run faster.

Bonnie leads out, taking a strong pace. She runs the field quickly. She still walks the steep hills, but as soon as it flattens out, she is running again. I keep with her, right on her shoulder.

Daylight breaks. I am exhilarated. Light has returned to the world and I am running. And I am running strong. I am running fast.

Until I cannot. At mile 7.5 of that loop, I suddenly and without warning cannot continue running. I slow to a walk and watch my companions disappear into the woods. I try to force myself to run, but my legs will not. It is as though I have run into a wall; I cannot go over or around it. So this is what people mean when they talk about "hitting the wall." This is a new experience for me. I have gotten tired; I have run out of steam. But I have not experienced this.

Of course, I still have 2.5 miles to go. I walk. Those 2 1/2 miles seem endless. The effort to walk out of the course feels equal to what I have expended during the entire rest of the race.

As soon as I stop running I begin to feel just how much my feet hurt. They are destroyed. They are shards of glass in my shoes.

I calculate the pace. We had been running a pace that would be a 3-hour loop. Over an hour faster than the previous several loops. In order to finish, we knew we would have to run hard. I had. Until I couldn't.

I know when I eventually finish that loop I am done. I will finish this loop. I will not finish this race.

Strangely, I am not upset. I have run the best race I could. I chose to take a risk and run all out instead of running a safe pace that would have given me another loop, but not a finish. And I ran out. I had nothing left. I gave everything I had.

Finally, I emerge from the bushes into the field, past the tents. I try to stride smartly - I will finish strongly. My brother runs out to meet me. I tell him I'm done.

And then I start to run. Well, more like a shuffle. But I run across the Finish.

80 miles.

Some of the young guys who have already finished encourage me to rest a little and eat some food, then continue. They tell me I can still finish.

But I know I am done. I tell the I ran all out on that loop, and I have nothing left. They respect that. I am happy with my race.

80 miles.

Julie