CHICAGO; WIND, FREEZE, RAIN, FUN

Not even a two hundred member drill team or a Jamaican Reggae Band could do it. Neither Grammy-award winning singer, Chinese dragon dancers nor 1.5 million spectators could help take my mind off the 30 to 40 M.P.H. winds and temperatures which dipped into the mid 30’s during the 2006 running of the LaSalle Bank Chicago Marathon.

Early morning before the race, hundreds of runners gathered in the lobby of the Hilton Chicago Hotel, race headquarters. Karen and I sat, drank coffee and chatted with the other runners many of whom were from the area, locals. Several of the people we spoke to had done the race many times. “Always” they said, the temperatures were near freezing. I was trying not to panic. Quietly, I spoke to myself praying for some confidence that all would be okay and I wouldn’t suffer death by bone numbing cold. I couldn’t remember ever reading the headline “MARATHON RUNNER FREEZES TO DEATH”. At least, it wasn’t supposed to snow until the end of the day.

Two hours later we were off and I snuggled among some nearly 35,000 runners. I was determined to master my fear of the weather. The elements are supposedly mental, so I’ve been told by experienced racers. I surmised they must all come from Minnesota or Michigan. As the winds spiraled around Chicago’s tallest buildings and then picked up momentum as they came across Lake Michigan we were slammed repeatedly. At times I felt as though I wasn’t moving forward, and then suddenly the wind would die down. It always returned a short time later with more force and, after 26.2 miles of this kind of battering, I can honestly say I have never, ever been so glad to see a finish line. I was reminded of those silly old winter cartoons where the character runs out in the snow and slowly freezes into an ice statue in mid air unable to move. That was me. With every mile, my muscles tightened just a little bit more from the prickly, stinging cold. By mile 23, it felt as though I was moving in slow motion, each step becoming more difficult. I’m convinced that certain people are just built for running. Certain people are definitely built for speed. I am just as convinced that I am neither of them. Even in the best conditions my strong suit is endurance. I can talk myself into enduring almost anything. Running for me is a game of wits, me against me! It’s all about battling my own negative thoughts. Anything is possible; I do believe that. And with each marathon finish those sentiments are confirmed.

Having successfully talked myself into mastering the cold in the beginning of the race (the temperatures fell continuously during the day), I insanely yet confidently discarded my gloves and announced boldly to myself that this wasn’t going to be too bad. Not as Karen keeps asking me, “When will you ever learn to dress properly.” She couldn’t believe I had thrown my gloves away. During the last couple of miles, not only did I feel like I needed a rope to pull on to keep me upright, but I was certain if I had tried to bend my fingers that one or two of them would have surely broken off like frozen icicles. It mattered very little to me that my time was 5 hours and forty-eight minutes. What was paramount was that I was not one of the 5,302 no shows. I was not going to be intimidated by a little wind (what an understatement) and freezing temperatures. I was going to finish my eleventh marathon in eleven months. And no way was I going to let a little rain, sleet or HELL stop me from crossing the finish line.

I was bone chillingly and inconsolably frozen by the time 26.2 miles was behind me. The weather was so frigid by this point, like me, that I completely forgot about having my timing chip removed. I’ve never done that before. Stumbling past the finish line and never stopping, I slowly but determinedly made my way back to the hotel and into a steaming tub of hot water, soaking for more than an hour. For God’s sake what was I thinking? I am a Florida girl. Chicago in October, (painful, painful), the temperatures back in Florida were nearly fifty degrees higher, fifty degrees.

Karen finished happily around the same time, and didn’t seem to be bothered by the weather in the least. All she could think about while I was whining and shivering under the covers frozen blue lips and all, was how soon room service could deliver a New York Strip, (God, how I love traveling with that woman).

Although forever the completer, I have to admit the thought of running Antarctica was a little more remotely removed from my brain after Chicago. Had I been able to finish the race in 2 hours 7 minutes 35 seconds (maybe in my next lifetime when I come back as a Samburu warrior) like Robert Cheruiyot from Kenya, I might have beaten the falling temperatures. But oddly enough it wasn’t the temperature that made front page news. Cheruiyot inches from victory, slipped bizarrely, like a man tumbling on ice; as published by a reporter in the Chicago Tribune. The young Kenyan runner lay flat on his back. He skidded and went down on the red finish mat hitting the asphalt so hard that he cracked the back of his head against the pavement and had to be rushed to the hospital. Who would have ever guessed that crossing the finish line could be so dangerous? Wet conditions were blamed for Cheruiyot’s slip across the finish line. “Luckily for him, he slipped forward,” race referee Pat Savage said. Cheruiyot’s victory was the fourth straight by a Kenyan man, and definitely the most unusual in Chicago Marathon history.

Cheruiyot was held overnight for observation. I prayed that the $125,000 he collected for the men’s first prize eased his headache just a little. He did make national news after all; it isn’t everyday that you see a finish like Cheruiyot’s.

Jimmy Muindi, 33, of Kenya, was in contention for this year’s title until the final miles. Muindi according to the Chicago Tribune said the wind made it impossible to dip into the 2:06’s. “It was terrible,” he said. “I wanted to make a powerful move at 30 kilometers, but the wind would not let me. I would just mess myself up.” Muindi ran 2 hours 7 minutes 51 seconds and finished third behind Kenyan Daniel Njenga who crossed the finish line 5 seconds after the winner. This was Njenga’s fifth consecutive top-three finish. Both men had hoped to finish first.

Also big news in Chicago was San Francisco native Dean Karnaze’s completion of his 36th marathon in 36 DAYS. Wow, the obvious question is why any one would want to run 36 marathons in 36 days. But Karnaze had 14 runs left to finish his goal of 50 marathons in 50 states in 50 days. Known to runners all over the world as the Ultra Marathon Man, Karnazes would eventually complete his task by finishing his 50th race in 50 days at the New York City Marathon. I just love this guy. Why not set a goal that perhaps no one else in the world could accomplish even if they wanted to, but Dean’s goals are pure. He runs for many reasons, some are personal, but mostly he runs for awareness. His non-profit organization Karno Kid’s mission is two-fold. First Dean and his kids want to support, encourage, and motivate fellow youth to get outside and become physically active. Secondly, they want to restore and preserve the environment for future generations, (you can read more about this wonderfully fit human being at Ultamarathon Man Dean Karnaze). It is people like Karnaze who inspire and make you want to go out and do it all over again. I for one however, am extremely happy that my next marathon is in good ole sunny Florida.

One more race chillingly, but completely, completed.
Rhonda

RUNNING WITH THE SURF, THE WIND AND AN ANGEL IN BEAUTIFUL MAUI

Chadwick North Parker, 43, passed away on September 10, 2006. His life’s passions were music, art, reading, camping, motor biking, and above all surfing. One of his last life’s experiences before his death was riding the rising surf at his beloved Playalinda Beach on the coast of southern Florida.

One of my dearest friends (of more than 25 years), Tracy Parker Baxter called on Sunday evening before I was to leave to run in Maui to tell me about the passing of her younger brother Chad. I have long been attached and felt as though I was a member of the Parker family. I had honored the Parker clan by naming one of my beloved twins Parker Lee. It was a good choice because Parker has always exemplified some of the same traits that drew me to the family in the first place. Parker is a loving, respectful and kind hearted boy. He is always the first to help the underdog and never misses an opportunity to say ‘I Love You”. The death of Tracy’s little brother was both unexpected and devastating for the entire family. As I listened to the raw sobbing of my dear friend on the evening of September 10th, I couldn’t help feeling overcome by her pain.

My trip to Maui was to be two-fold. I was taking my mother to celebrate her 70th birthday (she had always wanted to go to Hawaii), and I had entered the Maui Marathon now in its 36th year. The Parker family had elected to hold a celebration of life in Chad’s honor rather than a customary service. This seemed appropriate since Chad was anything, but traditional. I had admired Chad for many years as a gifted young man who seemed to know at a very early age what was important in life. He had always known that life, living and loving were one in the same. I was often awestruck by the seemingly old and wise soul which lived inside of Chad’s body. He was loved and respected by many friends and family. He was the kind of guy that you always walked away from feeling a little better for the simple fact of having known him.

I was torn about missing his celebration. I phoned Chad’s father from the airport on Wednesday morning and told him how sorry I was that I couldn’t attend on Saturday. He laughingly reminded me that Chad would have wanted nothing more than for me to enjoy myself, and he would have especially wanted me to take in the surf in Maui. Mr. Parker suggested as a tribute to Chad that I dedicate this race to his memory. I felt better by the end of the conversation and it seemed fitting that I was on my way to surfing paradise. I couldn’t think of a better way to honor someone so full of life.

Concentrating on making sure the first few days to keep my mother’s mind off of my grandmother’s passing, I did what I so often do, I booked us solid for three days. We went to a Luau, flew by helicopter all over the island, shopped, skirted the perimeter of the island in a convertible and took a beautiful sunset cruise on a 60 ft. sailboat. By Saturday night, I asked my mother if she would mind terribly if we stayed in and ordered room service since I was to awake at 3:00 am for the 530am race start.

Learning a lesson in Brussels, early Saturday morning I had driven the entire race route from start to finish. I was surprised by the number of hills about half way into the race. They looked steep and they seemed long. The biggest hill went 200 feet up from about mile 8 to mile 12. Softening my concerns however were the 17 miles of beach front. There were hundreds of surfers along the route and I decided ahead of time that somewhere between mile 12 and mile 17, I would slow my pace and pay tribute to Chad as I watched the surf roll in and witnessed surfer after surfer riding the big wave. The beauty of Maui was a breathtaking, emotional experience. I could easily understand why people came and never left the island. I was lulled into a sense of tranquility driving along the beach.

So Saturday night, I planned to indulge in room service with my Mom and rise early to drive to the start of the race which was about a half hour away.

My Mom had complained of a stomach ache and not feeling well before we went to bed, but I just chalked it up to all of the excitement and we retired early.

At 3am I rolled out of bed and was slammed when my feet hit the floor by an overwhelming feeling of nausea. I chalked it up to nerves and had my usual pre race breakfast of bananas and coffee, having loaded up on a huge portion of pasta the night before. I climbed into the car and headed out into the darkness for what I was sure was to be one of the most gorgeous sunrises I would ever see. On the way to the race however, I was hit again by a similar wave of nausea and I felt as though my stomach was lodged in my throat. Still not worried, I resolved to eat again once I got to the start, and so I shrugged off my upset stomach.

The morning was cool with a nice breeze. Once in the parking lot of the shopping center where the race was to begin I met a great group of women from Minnesota. They were four school teachers and only one had ever run a marathon. I love first time marathoners and we became fast friends. We got caught up in a lot of chatter about why Maui and why do a marathon. The answers always vary, but I never tire of hearing about training, both physical and mental, and what the first timer’s expectations are of the race. Maui is definitely a great first time race. The location is superb, which is motivation in itself, and you can walk if you want; the last finisher came in at around 9 hours. The race was well organized, with plenty of water, sponges, Gatorade, port-o-lets and medic stations. One great relief was to learn start to finish was on one road. Not a chance of getting lost. I checked that worry off the list.

Ironically, I actually ran into one of my fellow racers from Brussels. He was shocked that I had remembered him, but I assured him there was no forgetting those shorts he was wearing. He had had much the same experience as I had trying to stay on course and finding the finish line. He actually had finished behind me and had to also ask that his time be recorded. I wished him well and lined up with the other runners.

We were a crowed bunch. About 1200 racers crammed into a three block area. Nothing broke free until after the first mile. I only pulled an 11:30 for mile one. Once I was free to run however and the sun had surfaced I wanted to pick up the pace, but by mile two my stomach content had seemed to become permanently lodged in my esophagus and I was fighting holding onto it. I pushed to a ten minute mile and by mile three I was completely drenched as though I had come out of a swimming pool. I started to realize that something was terribly wrong with me. As the miles ticked by my feet became as heavy as boulders, and by the time we hit the 17 mile stretch I was having difficulty staying under 12 minutes. I told myself the worst thing I could do in the heat (the temperatures eventually pushed toward the 90 degree mark) and the humidity was to lose my groceries. I continued to fight the nausea and kept trying to push the pace. At mile twelve I started to see the surfers and I willed myself to concentrate on Chad and how much he would have enjoyed being right there at that spot. For another five miles thoughts of Chad had distracted me. I thought about the years I had known Chad. I remembered him as a boy. I reminisced about the joy he always seemed to find in the simple things in life that so many others took for granted. I remembered how many times I had seen him hug and kiss the members of his family. I thought about his lack of concern for the material entrapments so many of us chase after. Chad always seemed to smell the roses while many of us thought only to cut them up and throw them into a vase. He always made me stop and think maybe his way of life was better. I grieved for his loss not only to his family, but to all of those he would have impacted with his spiritual understanding of life.

When mile seventeen hit, my bubble burst. I looked down at my faithful GPS companion and realized I was barely under 13 minutes. But no amount of effort was going to push me any faster. I gave up on the idea of breaking 5:30 hours and just focused on getting to the finish line. I began to get questioned at each water station; people were beginning to notice I was struggling. One gentle soul told me I looked really hot! Man was that an understatement. I was definitely having trouble staying hydrated and the heat was really getting to me. At least the toughest part of the race was behind me and I was now on the flat part of the course. My body continued to fail me however, and I began to question whether I would actually finish the race standing. I was definitely feeling light headed at this point. By mile 21 I focused on getting to 23. I told myself I could walk in the final 3.2 and that’s just what I did. There were lots of locals along this part of the route with water hoses and I have never been so grateful. I stopped each time and let the hose soak me before I tried to continue on. By mile 25 I could smell the finish and I only wanted to keep my time at this point close to 6 hours. I chided myself and said remember your goal is to finish. My pace had now fallen to 13:30.

I came under the clock at 6:04:00 and was grateful to be done. I thought going under the wire that the only thing that had gotten me through the worst of the race was thinking about Chad, Tracy and her family. Once again I found inspiration in the trials of someone else. If the Parker’s could face this challenge in their lives with such dignity then the least I could do was to finish even though by the end of the race I was looking for the closest place to collapse.

I now was faced with working my way through the crowd and finding transportation back to the start which was about an hours drive with the traffic. I tried to board the bus, but the heat hit me head on and I knew I wouldn’t last back to my car on a bus that was probably close to 90 degrees inside. I pulled out my credit card which I have learned to carry in case of emergencies and I tracked down a race official and told him I needed a taxi. I am sure that it was the most expensive taxi ride I have ever taken, but once safely inside with the air conditioning blowing, I collapsed. Then once inside my own vehicle I lowered the windows for the drive home and called my Mom. She informed me that she hadn’t gotten out of bed all day and that she had been sick through the night. She said she would explain when I arrived.

Once inside our hotel room, I slipped into a nice hot bath and was immediately hit with another wave of overpowering nausea. My Mother proceeded to tell me that she was convinced that we were both suffering from food poisoning. We had both eaten an appetizer portion of chicken wings on Saturday afternoon. Probably not the best pre race choice, but my Mother loves chicken. When I finished my bath it was all I could do to make it to my bed. No post celebrations for this race. The only thing I was able to consume until the next morning was water and ice cubes. My mother and I rested side by side and did an awful lot of moaning. I for one was grateful for not knowing the cause of my nausea.

The race of course was won for the third time (the first time in the history of the Maui Marathon that one man has won three times in a row) by a Kenyan, Jacob Rotich. His time was 2:33:44. Even Jacob lamented that the wind, heat and humidity had caused him to finish 5 minutes behind last year’s time. Other experienced racers who lost as much as thirty minutes agreed that the head wind, side wind, the heat, humidity and pavement contributed to a grueling and tough race.

I couldn’t help but thinking that somewhere between mile 12 and 22 where the side winds were the strongest and the views the most spectacular that I had had some help to complete another 26.2. I am absolutely convinced that somewhere along that stretch I was able to coast on the back of a surfboard with a marathon angel at my side, or should I say a surfing angel! I am convinced that without the guiding hand of Chadwick North Parker, I might not have been able to finish this one. Thanks Chad, I realized running along the beach that God must have had a plan involving a really good surfer in heaven. This 26.2 was for you!

Rhonda

Picture 1. A tribute to Chadwick North Parker. Picture 2. Hawaii's sheer beauty. Picture 3. Rhonda's new friends from Minnesota. Picture 4. Rhonda and her Mom, Sarah, sitting on deck of their sunset cruise.

STRONGEST DAD IN the WORLD

"Dad, when we were running, it felt like I wasn't disabled anymore!" Dick Hoyt gives his son that feeling as often as he can.

by Rick Reilly

TRY TO BE a good father. Give my kids mulligans. Work nights to pay for their text messaging. Take them to swimsuit shoots.
But compared with Dick Hoyt, I suck. Eighty-five times he's pushed his disabled son, Rick, 26.2 miles in marathons.
Eighty five times he's not only pushed him 26.2 miles in a wheelchair but also towed him 2.4 miles in a dinghy while swimming and pedaled him 112 miles in a seat on the handlebars-all in the same day.
Dick's also pulled him cross-country skiing, taken him on his back mountain climbing and once hauled him across the u.s. on a bike. Makes taking your son bowling look a little lame, right?
And what has Rick done for his father? Not much-except save his life.
This love story began in 'Winchester, Mass., 43 years ago, when Rick was strangled by the umbilical cord during birth, leaving him brain-damaged and unable to control his limbs.
"He'll be a vegetable the rest of his life;' Dick says doctors told him and his wife,]udy, when Rick was nine months old. "Put him in an institution."
But the Hoyts weren't buying it. They noticed the way Rick's eyes followed them around the room. When Rick was 11 they took him to the engineering department at Tufts University and asked if there was anything to help the boy communicate. "No way;' Dick says he was told. "There's nothing going on in his brain."
"Tell him a joke;' Dick countered. They did. Rick laughed. Turns out a lot was going on in his brain.
Rigged up with a computer that allowed him to control the cursor by touching a switch with the side of his head, Rick was finally able to communicate. First words? "Go Bruins!" And after a high school classmate was paralyzed in an accident and the school organized a charity run for him, Rick pecked out, "Dad, I want to do that."
Yeah, right. How was Dick, a self-described "porker" who never ran more than a mile at a time, going to push his son five miles? Still, ~1e tried. "Then it was me who was handicapped;' Dick says. "1 was sore for two weeks:' That day changed Rick's life. "Dad;' he typed, "when we were running, it felt like I wasn't disabled anymore!"

And that sentence changed Dick's life. He became obsessed with giving Rick that feeling as often as he could. He got into such hard-belly shape that he and Rick were ready to try the 1979 Boston Marathon.
"No way;' Dick was told by a race official. The Hoyts weren't quite a single runner, and they weren't quite a wheelchair com¬petitor. For a few years Dick and Rick just joined the massive field and ran anyway, then they found a way to get into the race officially: In 1983 they ran another marathon so fast they made the qualifying time for Boston the following year.
Then somebody said, "Hey, Dick, why not a triathlon?"
How's a guy who never learned to swim and hadn't ridden a bike since he was six going to haul his 110-pound kid through a triathlon? Still, Dick tried.
Now they've done 212 triathlons, including four grueling 15~hour Ironmans in Hawaii. It must be a buzzkill to be a 25¬year-old stud getting passed by an old guy towing a grown man in a dinghy, don't you think?
Hey, Dick, why not see how you'd do on your own? "No way;' he says. Dick does it purely for "the awesome feeling" he gets see¬ing Rick ,with a cantaloupe smile as they run, swim and ride to¬gether.
This year, at ages 65 and 43, Dick and Rick finished their 24th Boston Marathon, in 5,083rd place out of more than 20,000 starters. Their best rime? 1\vo hours, 40 minutes in 1992-only 35 minutes off the world record, which, in case you don't keep track of these things, happens to be held by a guy who was not pushing another man in a wheelchair at the time.
"No question about it;' Rick types. "My dad is the Father of the Century."
And Dick got something else out of all this too. Two years ago he had a mild heart attack during a race. Doctors found that one of his arteries was 95% clogged. "If you hadn't been in such great shape;' one doctor told him, "you probably would've died 15 years ago."
So, in a way, Dick and Rick saved each other's life.
Rick, who has his own apartment (he gets home care) and works in Boston, and Dick, retired from the military and living in Holland, Mass., always find ways to be together. They give speeches around the country and compete in some backbreaking race every week¬end, including this Father's Day.
That night, Rick will buy his dad dinner, but the thing he re¬ally wants to give him is a gift he can never buy.
"The thing I'd most like;' Rick types, "is that my dad sit in
the chair and I push him once." 0

BRUSSELS ING MARATHON: THE ULTMATE CHALLENGE

The Brussels ING Marathon was to be my first European race. I knew going in it would be a challenge, not just because it was my first marathon on the European continent, but also because there was an official five hour time limit (the finish line was to stay open for six hours for those who didn’t make the cut-off time).

I had done a great deal of training for this race. I had something to prove to myself this time. Not only did I plan to break the 5:30 mark, but I planned to push it to 5:00 if it killed me! What I didn’t expect was to be dealing with a family crisis of mammoth proportions before I boarded a plane to Belgium.

My ninety-eight-year-old grandmother had passed away just weeks before, and my 70-year-old mother had to have a very serious operation on August 4th. In addition, just a few days prior to my departure, my 17-year-old son had suffered a very daunting personal crisis of his own. I questioned the prudence of my leaving the country on the 22nd for Brussels.

Nothing zaps your energy and strength like having loved ones in trouble, but nothing also provides as much courage and determination when knowing others are looking to you for understanding and guidance. Off I went.

Being a single mother for the last several years has not been easy. Going through menopause has not been easy, but I can always look around and know that somewhere out there is someone else, some other family who has it a lot worse than me. Having gone to Africa, and through osmosis garnered some of the strength from the Kenyan natives, I knew the right thing was to go to Belgium and run the best race of my life. Even if I didn’t accomplish a personal best in this race, I felt it would send a strong signal to others that I was willing to belly up and go the distance, even though it was going to be mentally tough to leave my family at this particular time. A very close friend who I have a great deal of respect for convinced me to go by saying, “You will never accomplish what you want to in life if you become an emotional hostage to the failings or misfortunes of others.” I took him at his word and decided to follow that old adage, “Change what I could and accept what I couldn’t.”

I boarded the flight to Brussels a day late and arrived on Thursday morning. That gave me three days to survey the layout, get my gear and prepare to run my first foreign race. By Saturday I had decided I was running this race for three people I loved more than anything in the world, my mother, my grandmother and my first born child. My mother and my grandmother had always told me that anything was possible if you wanted it bad enough. At this particular time I wanted nothing so badly as to run across that finish line in the Grand Place located in the center of the city.

Race morning which had been predicted to be rainy was sunny and cool. About a thousand marathon runners had gathered to begin the race at the famed Jubelpark, under the Cinquantenaire arch, the grand city gate laying praise to Belgian achievement and history.

I looked around at the runners and instantly knew these people were serious marathoners. Every runner looked as though they had trained for the Olympics. I have never seen so many or such strong leg muscles. My legs paled in comparison. Also notable was the lack of women participants. I was clearly in a different league than what I had been used to. “Hakuna Matata”, I said to myself. “No Worries,” as my African friends would say.

I found the 4:45 pacer and was determined to stay on his heels. The race started and the course wound itself past the European Union buildings, the Parliament, Royal Palace and the Justice Palace. The view over the city was nothing less than spectacular.

The marathon trail then wound out to the leafy surround of Tervuren, passing through the Tervuren market square and past the Museum van Afrika. It was on this stretch that my mental toughness was to be tested.

At the first 5k mark, I was averaging an 8 minute mile and I felt really good, but sometime around the 10k mark I passed the 4:45 pacer and my timing was still averaging between 8 and 9 minutes. Out of nowhere a van swerved to the side of the road and a race official jumped out and waved me over. He didn’t speak English so I didn’t understand him, but he reached down and grabbed my foot. I didn’t understand what was happening. As I am trying to wrestle my foot from this mad man, another official comes up and tells me I have not qualified for the 5 hour finish and I must therefore forfeit my timing chip. I tried to explain to him, first of all, that it was impossible for me to be over the qualification time since the 4:45 pacer was still behind me. He didn’t seem to care but insisted I allow them to cut off my chip. I was becoming very upset at this point because one of the officials was attempting to forcibly remove my timing device. I once again tried to explain that my chip was yellow with a number on it (different from the white ones which had been rented by other runners). I had purchased it online and therefore it belonged to me. By this time a police officer had joined us. As I tried to explain to the English speaking Police officer what had happened, the 4:45 pacer passed me, along with many other runners. I was becoming quite upset and simply asked if I could please be allowed to continue on my way. The police officer asked the official to let go of my foot and he told me I could continue, but only on the sidewalk.

Far ahead I could see the 4:45 pacer. I ran hard and passed him looking for the guy in the red shorts I had been following for the past several miles. It wasn’t long before I realized no one was ahead of me and no one was behind me. I was lost somewhere in the city of Brussels and I didn’t speak the language. This had never happened to me in the previous twelve races I had run. It had almost happened in Albuquerque, NM, but I had been rescued by a marathon angel before I had run too far off course. This time there was no angel.

I finally found a police officer directing traffic and I told him I had lost my way. His mouth took in air and he simply pointed in the opposite direction and told me it was a mile or two in the other direction. My heart sank at that point, but I was still looking at 9 minutes for my average pace on my watch. “Okay”, I told myself, “this is certainly a bump in the road. But, I can still finish this race. I have six hours.”

I turned around at what seemed like more than two miles; it was a left turn towards downtown, and still no signs, nothing to indicate I was going the right way. I kept stopping and asking people which way to the Grand Place. Everyone I spoke to looked at me funny smiled and just pointed. I followed the hand signals and somehow found myself back on route.


By this time the half marathoners were passing me and their clock time read 35 minutes. I added an hour and a half (the full marathon started at 9am and the half was to start at 10:30am) to that time and figured I was somewhere near two hours into the race.

I kept running. After what seemed like many miles I hit the split for the half and full marathoners, and I kept running. No other marathoners in sight, still.

At the loop which turned the runners around to head back downtown, I caught the first glimpse of the marathon participants since losing them in the early morning and my heart soared, but the rain came down hard as I started to make the turn and in front of me I saw that the race volunteers were beginning to disassemble the course. “Hakuna Matata,” I chanted. I looked at my watch and I was still averaging 9 ½ minutes. Never in the previous 12 marathons had I been able to achieve much less maintain such a pace. I kept checking at the now broken down water stations and medic tents, asking for directions to the finish line, and all I got were blank stares and hands pointing towards downtown. When I finally looked at my watch at 28 miles I felt very overwhelmed. I wanted to cry, but I wasn’t willing to give up. I passed yet another medic station where no one spoke English. Frustrated, tired and showing signs of extreme fatigue, I was just about ready to call it a day when I saw a police officer. He saw me at about the same time, and I realized he was standing in front of the tunnel I had come thru at the beginning of the race. I quickly explained my dilemma and thank God he spoke English. He pointed straight ahead and I could see the Cinquantenaire arch. It looked like a halo. I asked him how much farther and he told me another 5 or 6k. “Just keep running,” he said. Could I make it another 3 miles? “Just keep running,” I chanted.

I looked at my faithful GPS watch and I was still under a 10 minute mile. No matter what, even if I had to crawl, I was going to run across that finish line. This race was for my grandmother, my Mom and Brady. If they could go the distance, then so could I.

My pace was starting to drag as I passed under the arch and headed for the Grand Place. I could see the famous buildings in the distance and man it looked far. I just didn’t know how to get downtown, but I kept running.

At some point near total exhaustion I began to see runners wearing medals. When they saw me they were all so encouraging. Finished runners stopped to show me the way, and even spectators started pointing towards the finish. Coming around the corner to the end of the race there were still hundreds of spectators. I looked down at my watch once more and I saw I had now passed 31 miles, but I was still under 11 minutes. As I hit the orange ING carpet the marathon volunteers were rolling it up. I jumped over the bulky orange roll and kept on going. I looked up at the timing clock as I ran under and it read 5:35. I couldn’t believe it. I looked at my watch and it read 31.81 miles with an average pace of 10:33. I knew I had just set all kinds of personal records. Not only would I hold the Brussels record for the longest marathon in terms of distance, but I had added almost six miles to the race and still finished in 5:35. I quickly did the numbers in my head and realized had I run the course straight, I would have knocked at least an hour off of my old time.

I experienced two very different emotions at the finish. I had a medal hanging around my neck and I knew I had finished my first Euro race, but I also knew that only I would ever know how far I had run and how good my time had been. I was truly learning something about myself and life this year.

I had just run nearly 32 miles. I had veered off course, I had suffered some minor misfortune, but I hadn’t failed to finish. I had stayed the course, and developed the mental toughness to go the distance even in the face of such adversity. I was absolutely gleeful that I had “COMPLETED” yet another 26.2 plus! This race was for you Mom, Nana and Brady.

Rhonda

Picture 1. The Cinquantenaire Arch Picture 2. Rhonda's watch showing 31.8 miles at an average pace of 10.33 minutes.


Note: As of the writing of this chapter I had been officially listed as DNF (did not finish) my timing chip having been disabled. After contacting the race administrator an apology was issued and my time was officially listed. I have been invited free of charge to run next year’s race again in Brussels, and have been assured that nothing like this will ever happen again. Thank you God, somewhere out there, there is a marathon angel!

RUNNING THE GOLDEN GATE BRIDGE IN SAN FRANCISCO

On Sunday July 30th, 2006 I would run my second San Francisco marathon. What made this time different however than the Nike Women’s Marathon last October was the run would take me across the famed Golden Gate Bridge.

The GGB, completed after more than four years of construction at a cost of $35 million, is a visitor attraction recognized around the world. It opened to vehicular traffic on May 28, 1937 at twelve o’clock noon, ahead of schedule and under budget, when President Franklin D. Roosevelt pressed a telegraph key in the White House announcing the event.

Linking San Francisco with Marin County, the GGB is a 1.7 mile-long suspension bridge that can be crossed by car, on bicycles or on foot.

I chose this race because the route was going to be familiar, and I felt that after running the mountains of Alaska and the foothills of Kenya that the San Francisco hills would be a cinch. What I didn’t count on, and what had never happened to me before, was that I was running with an unknown injury.

Temperatures were in the mid-60s Sunday morning and the skies were clear as we ran along the Embarcadero and looped across the Golden Gate Bridge and back. I could see for miles and the view was fabulous. I asked myself as I ran across the GGB, “How sweet is this?” I mean come on, how many people in the world recognize this particular bridge? How many movies has it appeared in? And I was running on it…. I couldn’t wait to get back home and tell my kids how cool it was to see thousands of people running (about 15,000 to be exact) on the bridge and know I was one of them.

I had already decided to just take it easy and enjoy the beauty of San Francisco. There was nothing to prove in this race. I just wanted another finish under my belt, so I started out with an even 11 minute mile and I had planned to keep it around 12 to 12.5 for the whole race, finishing somewhere around my normal time, maybe a little better. But by mile ten shortly after finishing the bridge I started to notice my ankle was swelling and I was having difficulty putting any weight on my left foot.

Feeling pretty worn out after getting back from Africa, I had decided to lay off running for a couple of weeks and just cross train. Having been an avid tennis player for years, I hadn’t touched a racquet in a year, I decided to go back to my old pro and hit a little. I also decided after a year lay-off to hit the water and ski a little. Having grown up in Florida, I could slalom ski as well as I could ride a bike. My ten-year-old twins had started wake-boarding recently and I just decided to tag along and see if I could even get out of the water. The first few tries were kind of embarrassing, but before I knew it I was up. The fresh water felt so good, and I told myself this has to be good for my leg muscles, so being the overachiever I am, I did it again the next day and the next day.

When I got to SF I noticed my legs were really sore, and I thought well it’s because I hadn’t skied in so long. I had four days to rest before the race. I stretched a lot, toured the city and waited for race day.

When my ankle started to swell sometime after I came off the bridge I knew something was seriously wrong. By mile 21 it had become impossible for me to run. I was now down to a hobble. There had been a lot more hills than I had anticipated and the race was much more difficult than I had prepared myself for, but the route was absolutely beautiful. I accepted the fact that it was going to be a very long five miles and I kept hobbling. By the time I reached the finish line I was dragging my left leg behind me. I felt fortunate to finish with a time of 5:57:45. One of my worst finishes, but I reminded myself my whole goal this year was to finish not to compete for personal best times. I found a taxi and headed home.

By the time I boarded the plane for Orlando that evening my left ankle was nearly five times the size of my right ankle. I couldn’t figure out what had happened. But my focus had been shifted because every runner in the airport was talking about William Goggins, a San Francisco resident who had run in the race. The 43-year old runner had a heart attack approaching mile 23 and had become the first fatality in the race’s 29-year history. No one really knew what had happened at this point, only that Goggins had not made it.

Marathon deaths are rare, but I knew they did occur somewhere almost every year. That’s why it is so important to check with your doctor before starting any exercise program. I have made it a habit this year to see my family doctor every three months for blood work, etc., just to play it safe. But I am sure this runner knew what he was doing, sometimes the cause is just unexpected and unknown. Paul Donald, a friend who watched Goggins pass the 21-mile mark in his first marathon, said he seemed to be in excellent condition. “He was in good spirits,” Donald said. I couldn’t help feeling really sorry for the Goggin’s family however, and I prayed for this guy and his family, and I made a mental note to take a more serious look at my own cholesterol levels. My blood pressure has always been on the low side of normal, but sometimes after a race it runs a little higher. It’s hard to believe that people who are so fit, apparently Goggins was trying to qualify for the Boston Marathon, could drop dead just like that during a race. It was truly an unfortunate incident.

After returning to Orlando the swelling continued to worsen, so I called my doctor and went in. He took one look at me and said I had overused my lower legs and my ankles and I had a mild, not severe, mild case of tendonitis. He prescribed a medication for the swelling and a salve for my tendons and he warned me that I had to stay off my feet for at least two weeks or else I could suffer something worse, like a torn ACL.

I left the office feeling a little defeated. It’s tough to realize that I am not a young kid anymore, and that maybe I was pushing my body a little too hard. “It’s those darn Kenyans”, I thought. They made me feel as though I could do anything, but I had to admit to myself that I am just not as strong and as fit as a Samburu warrior. I was a little concerned about Brussels being less than four weeks away, but I was more concerned about not being able to make the race. So, I committed to following doctor’s orders and keeping my tennis shoes off for two weeks, but man that was going to be tough. I have become addicted to the runners high. There’s just nothing like it.

Little did I know that the next challenge I was to face would be my toughest?

Rhonda

RUNNING WITH THE KENYANS

My daughter turned 13 years old on June 6, 2006, the same day as the Movie 666 was released. I was grateful it wasn’t a Friday.

From the very tender age of six, my only female child, Logan, had been magically drawn to Africa. While other children her age were glued to the television watching Scoobie Doo she would sit for hours totally absorbed in the world of Animal Planet. It started to become quite clear that Logan possessed a unique gift for remembering the minutest facts about animals from all over the world. She remembered names, species, characteristics and any number of fascinating facts about animals and reptiles across the continent. She began about this same time to also draw these animals, and soon it became her dream to someday go on safari to Africa. I promised her then, if she saved her money, one day we would go together. She did, and therefore we went in June. It all seemed to coincide with my goal to run 12 marathons in 12 months. I was eager to see for myself what made the Kenyans the fastest marathon runners in the world.

Half way into our flight to Africa our plane was forced to make an emergency landing outside of London (a passenger on board suffered a fatal heart attack). The crew for British Airways should be commended for their unbelievable efforts to not only save their passenger, but to keep all the remaining passengers calm until everything could be handled properly and we could once again be airborne and on our way. Logan and I said a silent prayer for our fellow passenger and his family. We were all emotional about what had happened. Because of this unfortunate event, Logan and I would miss our connecting flight in London. Wanting desperately to arrive in Nairobi on time, we agreed to be re-routed to Doha, Saudi Arabia, a sidebar experience in itself. Instead of arriving in Kenya on Wednesday evening our plane touched down on Thursday morning and, although we were incredibly fatigued, nothing could have invigorated us more than seeing our first giraffe up close and personal.

Our first stop was The Giraffe Manor, a famous shabby-chic colonial mansion situated on ten lush acres where endangered Rothschild giraffes are hand raised for re-introduction into the bush. When we turned the corner to enter this giraffe kingdom we were welcomed by the most handsome giraffe standing calmly in the middle of the road. We had time for a quick shower, a bite of breakfast (we fed the giraffes from the breakfast area as they stuck their enormous boney heads and long, slimy tongues inside the window) and then we were off to catch a plane to Borana Ranch in the foothills of Mt. Kenya, Laikipia. Borana would provide a unique look at 35,000 acres of diversified and preserved wildlife. There are over 3,000 elephants in the Laikipia area alone. I was also on my way to my first training run with a native Kenyan. I was both excited and extremely insecure.

At 7:00am on Day Two I met a young African male by the name of Jaron. Arrangements had been made ahead of time for me to be accompanied on a run at each location. I wasn’t allowed to leave camp without a guide not for fear of being lost, but for fear of being attacked by wild game. I wasn’t sure whether I had lost my mind or found it. I saw Jaron walking down the hill to meet me at the main entrance and the closer he came the more I chuckled. His belt buckle came up to my chest and I knew this was going to be a walk in the park for him or better yet a stroll in the bush. One of the theories behind the speed of the African runners is that they train in altitudes of up to 8,000 feet and therefore because the air is so thin they have tremendous lung capacity. I was now just sixteen miles from the equator and only a mere 6500 feet above sea level. Having lived in Florida since I was two years old, one inch above sea level was going to be a challenge for me, but I would soon realize just how much of a challenge that kind of altitude could be.

After only a half of a mile I was struggling to breathe. By two miles I was feeling light headed and a bit nauseated. I walked for a bit and asked Jaron if we could turn around. We made it about 4.5 miles that day. I had taken my GPS watch and felt good about my first run. Even on that first day, I couldn’t imagine running 26.2 in the mountainous, rock filled terrain, forget the fact that I couldn’t breathe. Later in the day we took our first game drive and for as long as I live I will never forget how in awe I was when we came upon our first herd of elephants.

I never realized the beauty and grace elephants possess until I saw them in the wild. They are hugely protective of their young and possess a kind of echo sound system which allows them to communicate with each other. Whenever we approached in our vehicle they would freeze as if posing until they felt safe to move again. It was one of the most fascinating things I saw while in Africa. If we remained quite still and quiet, they would come right up to the vehicle with their young. In most of the areas we visited in Kenya the wild life were quite used to being observed by humans and therefore it was easy to get very close to them. Until it happened however, I never imagined I would be sitting in an open vehicle just inches away from a leopard, cheetah or even in the middle of a pride of lions.

From Borana Ranch we were to travel to Sabuk, where Logan and I would take our first camel expedition and I would run with a nomadic Samburu tribesman named Gabriel. After running in 6000 feet plus altitude for two days I was sure my lungs and body would begin to adjust, but was I wrong!

By this time I had already begun to realize that I was falling in love. I was falling in love with the Kenyan way of life and madly in love with the Kenyan people themselves. After spending three days living among the Samburu people in Sabuk, visiting their camp, watching the sun set on gorgeous mountain tops, I fell hopelessly in love with the gentleness, the spirit and the warmth of the Samburu tribesman. My runs however continued to be laborious, but I began to notice one of the other theories about Kenyan runners. The tribesman had a certain build to them, a certain fluidness. Their legs could only be described as powerful and strong. They seemed to move effortlessly whether running or walking or carrying heavy loads back and forth from the lodge or camp. It was difficult to find one native born Kenyan who possessed any body fat. I also noticed that wherever I saw children, they were always running whether they were just barely old enough to walk or whether they were herding cows; they always seemed to be running. I began to formulate my own opinion that because of their native diet, the poor condition of the water and the lack of any foreign medical treatment that these people possessed an unbelievable immune system to survive in their country. It dawned on me that because of where they were born they were all natural born runners by the time they could walk. There seemed to be a mental toughness about the natives. One of the mantras from The Lion King, Hakuna Matata was used over and over by the tribesman. It means simply “no worries.” The African people I met seemed to have no fears. They seemed to be oblivious to pain and suffering although it was all around them. I began to understand that if they wanted to run 50 miles or 100 miles that it could be easily done. They possessed mental strength and courage that I believe could only come from generations of people surviving and living in a third world country. They were proud and I started to find a new inner resolve myself by just being around them. I liked them and they gave me strength. Even when I didn’t feel like running I ran, because I didn’t want to disappoint them.

Next stop Elephant Watch Camp. There our host would be the famous elephant researcher family the Douglas-Hamiltons. For the next few days I would run through the Samburu plains with one tribesman in front and one in back. I would be shown many times the tracks of rather large lions, and I would be told by my morning guide that we must hurry back to camp because “GAME WAS COMING”. I think I ran a six minute mile that morning!

It would be impossible to describe the experience we had when we were led into a local Samburu village by one of our guides. I couldn’t get over how welcoming the women and children of the tribe were to our invasion in their village. I politely asked if I could film this adventure and to my surprise the women were quite deliciously tickled at seeing themselves on camera. They surrounded me and filled the air with their laughter and delight at viewing themselves on video. We also made our way into one of the bomas, which is a hut made from animal dung and sticks. It was a humbling experience to see how these wonderful people actually live.

By the end of our trip we had made it to the Maasai Mara; the world’s largest animal playground. The Mara is 1,510 square kilometers of incredible wide-open game viewing. Millions of animals such as wildebeest, zebra, gazelle, lions, crocodiles, elephants and much more call the Mara home. Having run or hiked almost everyday in Africa, the Mara was to be my final frontier, but it was also to be the most exciting in terms of game viewing and running.

Serian Camp, home to Alex Walker, a 4th generation European-Kenyan safari guide and filmmaker, set alongside a secluded valley flanking the Mara River, was our final destination before heading home to the US. There I was to run with a wonderful young woman of German descent born in Kenya named Franziska.

Before retiring to camp our first day we set out on a game drive and just before night fall we returned to camp to watch the hippos frolicking in the river. This was also to be my first running water hot shower in almost a week. I was excited. But just before I got ready to walk to the tent, I was stopped short by the loudest and longest roar I had ever heard. Chills ran up my spine and I shivered. It was a lion, and it was close. Having already seen the shower and realizing it was wide open to the bush I was slightly tentative. I wanted to know how close the lion was and I was assured that although it sounded as if it were only a few feet away, it was indeed across the river. My need for a hot shower won out, but this was only the beginning of my close encounter with the lion prides of the Mara.

The first day Franziska and I ran and walked about seven miles. It was nice to be in the Mara because the terrain was much flatter and therefore easy to run, but I suffered my first nose bleed because of the altitude. I decided the next day I would shorten the distance.

The second day was to be our longest game drive and we were rewarded by finding a pride of lions who were feasting on a decimated hippo. I couldn’t believe how close we were able to get to the pride and how undisturbed they were by our presence. We sat for almost an hour watching the lions feast and then lazily roll and play in the tall grass beside our vehicle. They were fascinating and regal. I will never be able to go to a zoo again….

The next day Franziska and I started out at our usual time of 7:00 am. Close behind us was the guide with my daughter. After about five miles our group caught up to us. Logan had something she wanted to show me. She had become quite the photographer during our African voyage. She excitedly produced the camera because she wanted me to see the lion that Franziska and I had come within feet of as we ran out of camp. Logan and our guide, Lisa, told us that once we had passed the lion that she had walked behind us for awhile and disappeared. Lisa assured me that we were never in any danger because lions are night time predators and this particular lioness looked rather full from her prior evening’s catch. I wasn’t convinced so I asked Franziska if during the next couple of days if we could have a guide take us up to the top of the hill about three miles away, so we could run down. Once a vehicle had gone through the opening to the camp, whatever might be hiding in the bush would be frightened off by the sound of the engine, at least that was my reasoning and it made me feel better.

Another thought occurred to me the last day. Maybe if I had grown up in 6000 plus feet of altitude, maybe if I had been running everyday since I could walk, maybe if my ancestors had been people of great strength and courage, and maybe if I knew there was a possibility that I could be eaten by a lion, I might be able to run a marathon in less than two and half hours! But alas, since I was now going through menopause, I had started running marathons at the ripe old age of 47, and I had grown up in Florida, I thought I had a heck of a lot of guts to even think about finishing a 26.2 and I became deliriously proud to call myself a “COMPLETER”.

Rhonda

ALASKA, THE TRAIL OF BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

The majestic Mount McKinley, named for a former senator-president William McKinley, North America’s highest peak was renamed and redesigned in 1980 as Denali National Park and Preserve. At 6 million acres or 7,370 square miles, the park is larger than Massachusetts, (Karen’s home state). Magically, and it is, Denali exemplifies interior Alaska’s character as one of the world’s last great frontiers for wilderness adventure.

Denali and the millions of acres surrounding her remain mostly wild and unspoiled. The expansive landscape is home to large caribou, moose, grizzly bears, wolves, and more than 30 other mammal species. In addition, there are more than 650 species of flowering plants which grace its slopes and valleys. Deep beds of intermittent permafrost – ground frozen for thousands of years – underlie portions of the park and preserve. Only the thinnest layer of topsoil thaws each summer to support life.

But Denali is much, much more than just a 20,320-foot mountain. Its beauty is indescribably breathtaking, something that has to be seen to be believed. A surreal experience, a lifetime altering moment, and I knew the instant I saw her majesty I would have to get close to the top.

Two days before the Mayor’s Marathon I packed my camera and headed out to take a seaplane ride to Denali’s summit. I was to be blessed with a day which was very rare in Anchorage, a day in which the sun shone brightly and the great majestic mountain could be seen from miles away, free of her often closely guarded cloud cover.

It took nearly an hour to make the trip from town to the top by seaplane. My pilot, Letta, the only female among 12 seaplane pilots with Rust’s Flying Service was to be the guide for me and two other women vacationing from Scotland. Karen had told of her war stories about having flown to the top of Denali in very unsmooth air. In fact, she said the last time she made the flight, she jumped out of the plane the minute she landed and kissed the ground. I was ready for a bumpy climb, but it was to be a lucky day. Letta said with much enthusiasm, that we had been fortunate to fly on one of the most beautifully, clear days of the summer.

Once at the top, 20,000 plus feet, my mind could only wrap around the enormity of this mountain’s beauty. It felt like I was up close in a 3-D movie. Something definitely spiritual happened while we were getting personal with Denali. I realized that if I died before we got home, I didn’t ever expect to see anything again that would affect me in quite the same way. I realized how lucky I was to be viewing one of God’s most spectacular miracles and held my breath while we circled her peaks.


My camera snapped off thirty, forty, fifty pictures and I was sure I still hadn’t captured the essence of Denali, but I vowed to return soon with the rest of my family so they too could see the beauty of North America’s highest peak.

I returned to the hotel flying literally on one of Denali’s clouds, and I couldn’t stop talking about my experience to anyone who got within listening range, but two days later it was time to turn my attention towards another rather large peak, the tank trail in the foothills of the Chugach Mountains.

The weather was a perfect 52 degrees for the beginning of the 33rd running of the Mayor’s Marathon. Approximately, 2000 runners had gathered to participate in Alaska’s famous summer run, where the sun shines for 22 hours a day. They actually have clocks all over the city showing the exact number, down to the seconds, of day light hours. I talked to a great many of the locals about what affect the long daylight has on their lives, their sleeping patterns, etc., and most, generally everyone said it was their favorite time of the year. They gear up and are quite psyched for those few months of Summer Solstice. It is high tourist season (the Mayor’s Marathon alone generates an economic impact of $2 million) and the locals know they are going to work and play for long hours, sometimes upward of 16 to18 hour days. Sleeping, as one Anchorage born local put it is all about appreciating the beauty of Alaska during that time of year, “If you don’t love the daylight, then you put up blackout blinds and stay indoors.” But for the most part, everyone is highly motivated and it truly is a beautiful time in Alaska for anyone who is lucky enough to live or visit there. Most of the people we met had grown up in Alaska because their parents migrated back in the sixties when job opportunities in Alaska were high and people to fill positions were in great demand.

Fascinated by the local people and their customs, I read the paper from cover to cover every day. I quickly learned that Karen and I had not done our homework, and I was surprised to read in the morning edition the day before the race the work that had to be done to make part of the race route runner friendly.

The following are excerpts from the Anchorage Daily News. The article, “Army rides to rescue for Mayor’s Marathon,” was written by Doyle Woody and published the day before the race, June 16, 2006.

“When word trickled down through the running community last month that a four-mile section of the Mayor’s Marathon course was a disaster waiting to happen, Anchorage’s John Clark decided to inspect the evidence.” “It was bad….” Clark said. “You’re talking large, potato-sized rocks interspersed throughout smaller rocks.” “Lickety-split, the department of public works at Fort Richardson, a local army training facility, bolted into action. It took significant effort.” said chief of utilities and support operations for the post engineer on Fort Richardson.





This article made me wonder what the rest of the route was going to be like. I started to pour through other articles and the race route information which had been given to us at the race expo that day only to discover that approximately eight miles of the Mayor’s race was actually on an army tank trail, a rocky uphill climb used to train army personnel in the operation of tanks. Okay, I told myself, so it’s a tank trail, this obviously isn’t going to be the easiest race we have ever tackled.

Then came news from one of the hotel employees. He had run the marathon 5 times. He wasn’t going to make it this year because of an injury, and frankly he had to work. But my fellow runner went on to tell me that the climb through Fort Richardson was indeed a beast. At mile eight we would hit the trail and it wouldn’t be over until we climbed out at about mile fifteen.

“How hard could it be,” I asked myself. Famous last words, isn’t that the saying for people who usually have to eat them?

Karen and I were in high spirits that morning. So what if the bus driver had told us if we saw a bear during the run on the trail, which happened frequently at this time of year, to just lie down and play dead until the bear sniffed us and then the bear would most likely move on. I told myself it didn’t matter that he announced it over the intercom on the bus, he couldn’t really be serious, right?

The first seven miles were fairly mild, but by mile eight we were headed into Fort Richardson and the beast confronted us. The trail became really tight, and although my hats are off to the Army and the efforts of the Public Works department, I have to admit I was moving slowly, not only because I was working my way straight up a mountain, but because the trail was very narrow and their were still plenty of potato sized rocks, and slippery, wet terrain (I watched more than one or two people almost bite the side of the mountain, one over zealous runner almost knocked me down), but because in the back of my mind I was thinking, “Holy cow did he really mean what he said about the bears?”

This was Karen’s and my first official trail run. We both agreed when we returned to the hotel that it most definitely might be our last. We agreed to start checking a little more closely as to the rigors of the race route. We did finish respectfully for a race of this nature, around 5:45, coming in within ten minutes of each other. I for one was grateful the race was finished. I was grateful there had been no bears and no twisted ankles. I have to admit, I was also sorry to be leaving what turned out to be a rather beastly race, but yet one of such remarkable beauty. Alaska will long remain in my memory as a breathtakingly beautiful 26.2, and it will long remain as one of my favorite races.

Rhonda

Photos: 1. Alaska's wilderness and beauty. 2.Rhonda boarding the seaplane for her trip to Denali. 3. Majestic Denali.