The Fourteenth Mile and the Firefighter

5:30am the alarm starts buzzing.   It's time.   It's the day I've trained for.   My excitement is mixed with nerves as I press the button on the coffee maker.   On auto pilot, I take the mug out of the cupboard and the milk out of the fridge.   No day starts without coffee.   Including today.   Even at Angie's house.

I creep back upstairs and start to overanalyze my outfit.   Will I be too cold in shorts or too hot in tights?  I should've bought new shoes.   Maybe I need a better shoe.  I wish I had those pants I have at home.   Those would've been perfect this morning.   What was I thinking with what I packed.   "What if's" start to take over my brain.   

We head out the door at 6:05.   I am running with one of my best friend's (Angie) husband Mike.  Angie and Mike's son Brandon are coming to be our cheerleaders and chauffeur.  

We get out of the car and start walking over to the commotion.   My only ask is that I want to stop at the porta potties along the way.   All psychological, of course, but it was the first part of my day that didn't go as planned.

The moon is almost full.   

Daylight is breaking off into the distance and there are people everywhere. 

3,500 1/2 marathon runners

1,750 relay runners

1,500 marathon runners

2,500 5k runners

Over 1,000 volunteers and countless spectators

My goal is 130-ish minutes.   2 hours 18 minutes give or take to hit 13.1 miles.  Roughly a 10 minute mile.

We get to the start line and if it's not the biggest oversight in organizing, there are no bathrooms.   We walk 5 minutes away and there is a line up of over 50 people waiting for 2 porta potties.   No chance we will make it through the line up in 8 minutes before the race starts.   I call it.   Forget it.   I really wish I didn't drink a bottle of water on the way over.   Worst case scenario I will have to stop on the way which is not part of my game plan.

We weave our way in and out of the masses, trying to find our pace group which is organized in order from the most elite of runners to the "I just want to finish- ers".   

As with anything that happens in the US of A, it starts with the national anthem, followed by a prayer to God.

I cannot even tell you if there was a siren or a gun but slowly and surely, the mob starts to move.   

I look at Mikey.   "Here we go.   Let's do this".

And as I cross the start line with my phone in hand, I press the "start" button on my MapMyRun app.   I want to know every time my GPS lady tells me I've hit a mile and what my split time was.   I need her to keep me on point and keep my pace steady so I don't over or undo it.

It's important to note a few disclosures at this point.   

I signed up for Toledo for two reasons.   

#1 - "Run faster in Toledo".   This is the motto because the course is known to be FLAT. It is a Boston qualifier race for the marathons and known to be one of the "easier".  My training was flat.   Mike ran the course last year and it was generally flat.   I thought I would have the best chance of finishing my first half without any hills or obstacles.   Flat.   Straight.   13.1  miles.   Over a glass of wine or two the night before, he relived last year and told me that there were 2 hills he could remember and basically the last 6 miles was nearly all downhill.   This is what my mind was prepared for.   

#2 - I had Angie.   I had no worries about being dropped off or picked up or where to go.   My brain didn't need to think because they had done this last year and all I had to do was show up and run.  That removed half the anxiety of where to park and who would lug all my stuff around or what I would do if I needed to shed any extra layers.   She was going to be at mile 7 and anything I needed to throw at her, she would gladly catch and yell "you can do this" at the same time to mentally boost my second half of the race.  I had dry clothes and two bottles of water ready for me at the finish line.   Well thought out.   Prepared.

The first mile I had to remind myself to be mindful.   That sounds like such a business, meditative, trendy word but it carries a lot of weight.   Don't look at the ground.   Look around you.   Take it in.   What do the houses look like?   What are the other people around me like?   What does the sun look like as it rises and what is the temperature and when does the air start to change?   What are each of these people thinking as they start their journey?   How many are first timers and how many are veterans at racing a half marathon?   Who is in this for 26.2 miles and who is doing 13.1?  It's my race for sure, but there are loads of other people on this journey with me today.

The first thing I notice is the community.   Toledo SHUTS DOWN for this event.   Neighbours are on their front lawns in blankets and winter coats with mugs of coffee in support of all the runners.   There are kids and adults alike holding big signs at the side of the streets.

"If Trump can run, so can you".

"I just farted. Run faster!"

"All this for a banana?"

"You're almost there, perfect stranger.   You can do this!"

I was blown away by the local support and how they have embraced this event for 40 years.

Kids standing in a line holding their hands out so they can high five as you go past.

Truly incredible.

We twisted and turned around curves and bends in neighborhoods I never knew existed.   Some outstanding homes that belong on the equivalent of any city's Lakeshore Road, old historical houses with exquisite detailing.   I pulled my ear phones out at one point and asked Mike how much these homes would go for.   I was amazed at how gorgeous the area was.    This was the first time he said to me "This is Ottawa Hills" which I failed to understand at the moment that the key word in this town is "Hills".

The first couple of miles were ups and downs and rounds and bends.   And ahead of me, I could see hundreds of runners.   Dotted along the way.   Finding their groove.   Finding their pace.   Deep in thought.  Some in tutu's.   Some with weird headbands on.   Some looking like they were attending a costume party or a themed 5k not a half marathon or marathon.   

Around 4 miles in, I saw the firefighter running beside me.   Full gear, tank on his back, sweat pouring down his face.   I got goosebumps and hit Mike.   "Are you kidding me???  He's in full gear!"   As we faced the next turn, he crouched down to two kids holding a sign on the corner and gave them both American flags from his pocket.   By far, one of the greatest moments of my day.   Every single family with children along the way, he stopped and gave an American flag to and thanked them for showing their support.   Huge lump in my throat, my awe for this man and his message was something I will always remember.   There was only one photo I took while I was actually running and it was of him.   An image of a true local hero.  Pulling the community together.   

When we hit 5 miles and were running under our goal pace, Mikey high fived me and wanted to keep up the pace.   9:23, 9:37, 9:36, 9:16 - we were crushing it.  I was pumped.   I announced every mile and what my fabulous GPS lady said our time was.   Before I knew it, we were half way.

Somewhere between 6 and 7, Angie and Brandon were on the sidelines.   I had stripped off the outer layers to throw at them and I was so jacked.    "9.30 BABY" I yelled as I went past.   Meaning our times were so beyond my expectations of 10 minutes a mile.

Soon after, I lost Mike.   He nodded at me to go ahead and we both agreed that if this happened, we were running our own personal best and it was ok.

The hills continued.   Up and down we go.   Short step up, longer strides down.   I can hear Mike even though he is no longer with me.   "You gotta short step up these hills Sarah.   Short step up, long stride down or you'll tear a hamstring.   Short step."

Around mile 8 or so, I realized there was no part of this course I'd hit that was flat.   Turn, twist, bend, up, down.   ZERO part of this course had been flat.   Short step up.   Long stride down.   Breath through it.   Take your time.   Hill after hill after turn after bend after hill after hill.

I think the first time I cramped up was around mile 8.   Side stitch.   I'm very familiar with these after my winter training so I knew if I just took some slow deep breaths, I could likely breathe my way through it.   Soon enough, it was gone.

I stopped at every water station after mile 6.   Running and drinking water at the same time is an art I need to master because I take one sip and the rest goes running over my shoes and I end up chucking the cup.   It looks like land mines of empty cups littered all over the streets at the checkpoints.

Mile 9 and 10 go by and my times are bang on.   9:41, 9:43.   I'm still far ahead of where I thought I would be by this point.   I weave in and out of people across to the left and across to the right to maintain my spot in the pack.  I hit another wave of cramping and breathed through that one too until it was gone.   Try not to walk.   Try and finish strong.   Breath.   You got this Sarah.   Only a couple more to go.   I start telling myself how many songs I have left to finish.   

Mile 11 it gets dicey.   I would call these the "dark miles".   Things get tough at 11.  We are on a trail now that would equate to a waterfront trail.   It has enough room for bikers and walk/ runners, but it isn't a main roadway anymore.   It gets tighter.   The pack is thinning.  You get pretty familiar with the people still in your pace around you.

There is a girl, probably 20 or so, running in pace beside me.   She's been around the last mile or two and I look over at her and I can see she's struggling.   I have never run longer than 11.1 but I know she needs a boost.   I take one ear phone out and look over at her.   I said "These are the tough miles you know.   Most people would never run this.   Is this your first half?"  She nodded.   She said "it's really hard".   I said "6 more songs.   We are almost there.   You are doing amazing".   Her face lit up.   

The trail turned back into solid road again and we turned another corner.   

Another hill.   COME ON.   This was not in the cards at all.   My hip flexor on my right side was starting to ache.   My left shin was hurting from balancing off the right side.   The road wasn't flat, it was on an angle.   I could feel my body starting to break down.   I knew I'd passed 11 miles and I knew this was the time I needed to grind it out.   Not too much farther.   Short step up, long stride down.   My legs were getting tight.   I desperately needed to stretch them out.   I was thirsty.   I needed water.   I started talking to myself.   "Stop at every water station Sarah.   Stay hydrated.   These are the dark miles.  You are almost there.   If this was easy, everyone would do this.   These are the miles that count."

My GPS lady speaks up.   12 miles.   One hour 52 minutes.   For a brief second, I thought I might break 2 hours and it was another boost.   So I started anticipating my finish time.   2:02 or 2:03.   Not exactly the 2:20 I thought I was going to do.   Am I really doing this well?   The adrenaline starts to shoot.

Another hill.   Another turn.   Short step up, long stride down.

GPS lady says 13 miles.

My brain is in overdrive.   My thoughts swirling.  I'm almost done.   .1 to go.   I bet right when I turn this corner there will be an entrance to the field where we are going to finish.  Angie and Brandon will be there and my water.   Oh, that water is going to be so good.   Thank god I was so prepared and packed that.  I wonder how many other people thought to pack water and some friends.   Aren't I smart.   My dry clothes.   I cannot wait to take my shoes off and get my flip-flops out and put on dry clothes.   Yes, that's the first thing I'm going to do.   Get my dry clothes.

I round the corner.

And I see it.

I haven't seen one of these in 13 miles but I see this one.   And there is disbelief growing in my stomach.

A banner.   If you do what I do for a living, we call it a pillowcase banner because it slips over like a pillowcase.   It is over a lamppost in the street.   

It says MILE 12.

No, no that can't be right.   GPS lady just told me I hit 13.

It has to be wrong.   I start justifying to myself that maybe they count things differently on a race than the MapMyRun app.   Maybe it's the 12th full mile or something and the stadium will be around the corner.   Yes, that's it.   That can't be 12.   The GPS lady can't be wrong.   She told me I'm almost done.    That gut feeling grows.   

I turn the corner.

THERE IS A HILL.

No.   No.   No.    

Short step up, long stride down.

Feet hurt.   Legs aching.   Panic rising.   There cannot possibly be another 1.1 mile to go.   Ten minutes is ETERNITY at this stage.   

And here's where the story changes.   Because it wasn't a flat 13.1 mile course.   Because it wasn't the same course that Mike ran the year before.   It was a new course because the stadium was under construction.   And it ran through Ottawa Hills that was HILLS.   One year doesn't dictate the next.   Don't assume that someone who ran last year knows what is coming this year.

That moment that it hit me.   That moment where I realized the GPS wasn't accurate or I'd weaved my way in and out left and right and added mileage.   The moment I knew I wasn't done and I still had another 10 minutes of running to go.   That's where I had to dig the deepest.   

That was my mile 14.

I thought of Chris.   Chris is my CEO.   A year and a half ago, Chris went in for surgery at Thanksgiving on 4 vertebrae in his neck.   Chris was never the same after complications and surgery.   He is paralyzed from his shoulders to his kneecaps.   The most determined man I know relearned how to walk and miraculously still hobbles up and down the stairs to our downtown Chicago office every day.   He was a running back in high school.   He will never run again.   His pain is permanent.   He lives with rehab and painkillers and nerve pain beyond what most of us will see in our lifetime.

I thought of Angie's neighbor Nadine.   We saw her Saturday afternoon.   Talented creative lady who makes arts and crafts look like a natural ability.   She is bedridden.   Last week she was on a feeding tube.   She isn't even 50.   She has had a port put into her stomach and in two months pending how she heals, she will have her entire stomach removed and food will travel from her esophagus to her small intestine.   The way she lives will never be the same.   Her pain is permanent.

I thought of Todd.   Who would've been 46 on April 17th.   A week ago.   Who will never run.   Never have the ability to see another sunrise.   Another shopping trip with his sister.   Another season to decorate for on his desk.

I thought of my friends Paul and Tanya, who's 3 year old son was hit by a car last weekend and how their perspective has instantly changed.  That despite how he is ok, they are working through their emotions and grieving the process regardless to make sense of the unsense-able.   

I thought of Steve and the unfair tragic loss of his child, Kelly and her Mom fighting cancer, Michelle and her ribs failing to heal from a nasty Winter chest infection that she was unable to join me today.  

One by one, I went through all my close friends, colleagues and acquaintances and the pain they have felt.  A loss of a pet, a parent, a change of events so staggering, it forever changes your path moving forward.

Is our pain temporary or permanent?   

The ebbs and flows of life, represented today by the peaks and valleys of this run.   The darkest miles, the highest hills.   How long do the peaks last before they are replaced with the downhill run, the ease, the long strides.   Short step up, long stride down.   Trusting that after the next turn, it gets easier.   Up and down we go.   Challenges and land mines thrown out in our path.   Soon to be replaced with daffodils and tulips, Spring and brighter days.   So sad how many people give up, the journey too tough to bear.   Their faith in the lighter days so low there is barely a spark within their soul.  The heaviness masked with prescription drugs and dark rooms and a pillow over their head unable to see the light ahead.     

There is always a valley.   Sometimes it takes longer to reach than we anticipate.   But it is there.   And the greatest downhill slopes, the highest of highs, come after the toughest hills.       The upward climb.   The view from the top.

My pain is temporary.   

Ten minutes.   

One more mile.

Really should've paid more attention to the pillowcase banners.

As I'm approaching mile 13, a man is running beside me.   He is older and super skinny and I'm honestly sure he's done this more than today.   He starts joking with me and says he can hardly keep up.   And he to me, is what I was to the girl in her 20's at mile 11.   He is just what I need.

I see it.   Mile 13.   Another bend.   Another turn.

I see the stadium.

GPS lady has already told me I'm at mile 14.

I get my phone out.   This one calls for Taylor.

The last .1.

"Are we out of the woods yet?

Are we out of the woods yet?

Are we in the clear yet?

In the clear yet, good"

I start the final descent.

I'm in a complete zone.  

So deep in my thoughts I almost miss them.

There is Angie and Brandon.

Angie is waving her arms frantically and yelling at me.

"You did it Sar.   You're almost there".

I see the finish line.

There are people 4 deep on opposite sides of the path all the way down to the archway.

Yelling.   Cheering.   Waving.   Signs.

I did it.

I cross the finish line at 2:13

7 minutes ahead of when I expected.

One mile longer than I thought.

MapMyRun swears it was 14.18 miles.

Mile 14 was the best.

My pain is temporary.

Theirs is permanent.

***************************************************************************************************************

Showered and fed, I sit down on the couch, water in hand.

There is a live feed into the Toledo Marathon on the TV.

The time is clicking 4:45 and onwards.

They are trickling in. 

Some in costume.

Some from the 26.2 relay in teams of 5, all dressed in a team outfit, arms over their heads and hands held together as they cross the finish line.

Some requiring medics to grab them before they collapse, dehydrated and exhausted, emotionally and physically at the end of 26.2 miles.

I watch, entranced at the endurance of these driven individuals, all running for something or someone.

And then I see him.

5:13:04 it says on the digital scoreboard.

5 hours and 13 minutes.

The firefighter, in his full gear, crossing the finish line.

I have watched Mike finish, gone for breakfast, showered and watched 30 minutes of the  marathon finishes and HE HAS STILL BEEN RUNNING.

With all his gear.   Sweat pouring.   Tank on his back.

I can feel the tears coming.   Lump in my throat.  I can't even imagine how he sees that finish line.   

The stiffness in my legs is setting in.   

My pain is temporary.

5 hours and 13 minutes.   In full gear.   On a mission to engage the community.   Handing out flags to every child in his path.

More than twice my time.

My pain is temporary.

The memory of this day is permanent.

#76 - Mattingly Romanin

This post is difficult for me to write.   

It exposes my challenges inheriting a blended family and failures in my ability to step outside my own rigid routines and adapt.  My failure to ask the right questions and better understand the goals and dreams of a 23 year old.

I want to preface this by saying that Mal has 4 children.   And each and everyone of them is so completely unique and brilliant in their own way.   Mattingly is the oldest and pursuing his dream as a professional baseball player.   Casey is next in line and has ambitions of acting and has recently graduated from York University.   He is truly one of the funniest, wittiest and independent people I've ever met and adds so much character to whatever setting he's in.  Bailey is the only daughter and has this week graduated from ECE and is so talented with children that you would want her to look after yours.  She has the greatest smile, a contagious laugh and a heart of gold. And Keegan is the youngest - he's a character that combines a little bit of everyone.   He sings and dances and can crush Bruno Mars and throws a pitch that shows another baseball career ahead.  Not one of them is any better than the other and they all showcase their own individuality by their unique traits.  I may write about all of them in due time when I have the right depth to do so.

Today's story is about Mattingly.  

I'm not picking him over and above anyone else - I want to share that he has taught me a lot from the past Winter of living with him. I believe it sends a great message of digging deeper and judging less.

This is not the story of a Sports Writer on his journey, this is from a friend.   I think at 43 years old, it's somewhat ridiculous to think I'm a Stepmother-ish figure.   This "child" is 23.   He is old enough to drive, old enough to drink and has attended college.   He is an adult.  He technically could have his own children by this point.  Therefore, I am his friend.  His roommate.  Someone who happens to cook his meals more than not, not in any way shape or form a future Stepmom nor ever comparable to his Mom.  Someone who has a drink with him when Mal is at the park.   Someone who listens to him and his stories without prejudice and sometimes without response.  He's alive when he's talking to me and I am so very lucky for my relationship with him.

Last July, Mal and I bought our home in downtown Burlington.   And I'm going to be honest here and say, I'm not so sure we ever thought anyone was moving into it with us.  There are no walls, the whole house is a loft set up with open airways extending from the main floor to the upstairs.  There are two homes in one, which is hard to explain, but there is a breezeway that connects the original cottage to the addition.   It is not overly conducive to a family and some days I'm not sure what on earth we were thinking.

Last May, Mattingly was drafted to the Toronto Blue Jays minor league system.   The day will forever be crystal clear in my memory as we listened to the audio for his name to be called.   Emotions were sky high as he had a 48 hour time period to pack his bags and go.   I can remember tearing up when his name was called and seeing his complete elation.   The reality that he was going to play.   Years at Chicago State University playing ball and performing well and a shot at the big leagues.   We were all so high, phones ringing, calling him Mom and Grandpa and Grandma - sports writers calling.  Everyone wanted a story.

So, off he went.   

He played in Bluefield last year and came home in September.

I'm not focusing on his stats, he had a tough start and that is important in this story.   

Where I want to focus is this past 6-7 months.

Mal called me and said that Mattingly is coming to live with us for the Winter.   It's his kid, ya know, and he needs a good shot at this and we need to do whatever we can to support.   He's going to get a full-time job right away and contribute to the household and we will charge him monthly rent and it's only a few months and... and.. and...

I love my time with Mattingly.   He shows up and it's beers all around and I have a new roommate.   He's my friend, my buddy and it's amazing to have his company.

A few weeks go by and there is no job.   There is no rent.   There is no what I considered to be contributing to the household.   I'm trying not to be sour here but I'm spending $165 every 3 days feeding this future baseball player who needs to get strong and only eat organic vegetables and grass fed meat.  It's wearing on me a bit and somewhat pricey.

And it's wearing on Mal because I'm feeling strained.  

And I totally don't want to upset the apple cart or interfere.

I'm trying to work remote while the first few weeks Mattingly is lying on the couch playing MLB playstation.  To me, I can't comprehend why he isn't looking for a job.   

To him, he's recovering his body from the stress it has taken both mentally and physically and his results.   He is on his laptop analyzing players and pitchers and instructional videos and trying to figure out how he can respond differently. 

I see he hasn't moved.   

My solitary remote working world is interrupted.   And I don't know how to handle it.   I'm tiptoeing around trying not to wake him in the mornings and he is tiptoeing around our home, my office, not to interrupt me.

He starts with SST - sports specific training.   He pays his own way and busts all his efforts to build himself as strong as possible to be ready for Spring Training.   Every day he comes home exhausted, ruined from the pressure on his body.  Always telling me how tired and sore he is and how hard his workout was. 

I see that his bathroom isn't clean and his sheets need to be changed and how on earth does he not see this.

This goes on for ages and eventually he gets a job grinding at Porsche washing cars.

Let's fast forward to Spring Training 2016.   

He is called up to the big leagues to play against Team Canada.  

And my emotions are swirling as it all finally clicks.

This is Mattingly.   So unbelievably driven by his goal to play professional baseball that any outside world does not exist.   He doesn't care or see what needs to be cleaned, what needs to be paid for, any of my silly little stressors.   He sees baseball.   He sees his dream so clearly that everything else is child's play in comparison.  He sees a goal.   He is spending every waking minute visualizing what he looks like in that uniform, how his swing is, how he responds to the pitcher, how he can study for 5 more minutes and learn how he can handle the next year different than the last.   He stands in the living room taking mock swings in the air practicing.   Over and over.   Effort.   Practice.   This is his dream.  There is truly nothing else.  It is all consuming.   

Shame on me to worry about the house and the condition of the bathroom or what he contributes.   He's in a different world.  And it isn't right or wrong.   It's where he's at.  And domestically he's just not there yet.   So what at 23?   You can't force anyone to be where they just haven't traveled yet.  One day he's going to ask me for help buying linen.  And I will laugh.  But right now, he's swinging a bat.  He's living in the equivalent of grown up camp.   Restrictions on alcohol and girls that most people at 23 never have to deal with.   A per diem to get through the day that is lucky if it buys Chipotle.   And a goal so driven that that is his only focus.

I am in the bleachers at the Team Canada vs Blue Jays game.   My heart is in my throat.  There he is.   In a Blue Jays major league uniform.  #76.   Standing a few players over from John Gibbons.   Hand over his heart.   Cap in his hand.  The Canadian national anthem starts.   I am choking back tears.   I am standing next to one of Mal's best friends Dale.   I smile ear to ear.   He is doing it.   He is standing in that line up ready to crush it.  And he LOOKS like he belongs.   He belongs on this team.  He belongs playing baseball.  He is strong and well prepared and he belongs.  

My emotions are flooded as it all starts to make sense.   

The Winter Nonsense all disappears.

   

It's gone.  

I am holding back tears.  

Lump in my throat grows.   

I start taking photos for his Mom like a lunatic.   

What angle haven't I got yet?  

What would she want to see that I haven't captured?   

Because see - that's the other part of a blended family.   When you are blessed to figure it out.   We are all in this together - and how very much would she want to be there and see him play this game.

I still have my ticket from that day.   It is ready to be in a frame with a photo for his Mom.  And trust me, that this is no self serving notion saying this.   A Mom deserves that momento for her oldest son who she has watched since he was a toddler playing t-ball.   It's not about me. And for anyone who is part of a divorce or a new relationship, we have to find our place in the process.   I am Mattingly's friend.   Not his parent.  And I too have grown from watching him and learned about some of my own misconceptions along the way.

And as his friend, I am so very proud to see his effort and journey.   

As he rounds out his Extended Spring Training, there isn't a day that goes by, I wonder where he will go and what his season will bring.  

And my dear friend Mattingly Romanin, I acknowledge every ounce of your efforts and hard work.  And no question I underestimated so much of your studying and recovery.

And when the day comes,  I will have a cold beer ready for you when you come home. 

   

The View at 14,000 Feet

I flew home today on Air Canada from Chicago and the turbulence on the plane reminded me of a day that was one of my most defining moments.   

We all have those.   

If you find a long lost friend and try to sum up your last 10-20 years, you tend to step back and look down at yourself and think - what the heck has happened that is profound enough to make it into my recap to you?  What do I skip and what do I tell?   Do I only share the good stuff or do I show those dark days?   Do I show my weakest traits or portray life as a postcard?   How do we balance to be honest and show the highlights and lowlights and be real and genuine about our path we've travelled?   

This one is one of my highs.

I am close to 30 years old.   Just before or just after is questionable, but let's say around 30.   I agreed to jump out of a perfectly good airplane.  At 14,000 feet.  Twice it was cancelled due to high winds and both times I remember thinking it likely wasn't meant to be and I shouldn't get too worked up about it.   

And then it was on.

I woke up and I genuinely think I had thought so little about this nor done any research that I honestly had no clue what I was getting into.   I do remember that I didn't tell my Mother.   I'm fairly certain that she would have panicked for the whole day so I decided I would tell her after, once it was all over and I still was in one piece.

We got to Skydive Burnaby and I had to sign a bright yellow waiver that basically said "We are not responsible if you die".   In fact, that might have been the exact words on the fluorescent paper.   Only then did it start to sink in that this was a completely assinign adventure and I might not have life insurance.   

We were all ushered into a "training room" where they teach you "how to fall".   

Um, excuse me?   There is a skill to this?   

There were videos playing around the room with skydivers all over the place.   You can hear the screams as they fall out one by one out of the plane and into the great unknown.  I'm not sure this is a good sales pitch at this point for what is to follow after signing a death waiver.

I chose to do a "tandem dive" meaning that I was literally attached to another human being.   

I am not only jumping out of a perfectly good airplane, I am now attached to someone else and giving up complete control.   Control.   Like there is any possible chance you have any of that on a 14,000 feet drop from a puddle jumper.

The safety training begins but I am on such a state of disbelief at the time I'm fairly certain I heard nothing but white noise.   

Out comes Donavan.   Donavan, the Australian sky diver, who lives at Skydive Burnaby in a trailer.   Adrenaline junkie.   He has the strongest Australian accent you've ever heard, his hair is down to his shoulders and dyed bleach blonde and he has no shoes on.   

HE HAS NO SHOES ON.

He walks to up to me and says in his accent "Hello, are you Sarah?   I'm Donavan.  You're in good hands.   Today is my thousandth jump."

His thousandth jump?   Where are his shoes??

We walk over to the "perfectly good airplane" I was describing earlier and it is anything but.   It is a rickety puddle jumper and my Mother would've had a fit had she seen any part of this fiasco.   It has 12 seats.   We walk out into the middle of the airfield like we are part of Top Gun, sunglasses on, harnesses clinking away at our sides, the sound of the engine and fans in overdrive.   

Reality has just sunk in.   You have to be kidding me.   There are 12 people about to get onto this plane and I'm calculating in order in my head where I need to sit so I'm not the first person who is jumping. 

And along the way, a few of the other adrenaline junkie divers look over at me.   

"Oh, you got Donnie.   It's his thousandth jump today."

"Better watch out"

"Don't worry, he always lands on his feet".

Oh dear.

So, Donnie and I are now wonderful friends.   We get into this plane and I'm attached to this guy by a hook.   The engine is humming.   The nerves are taking over.   And I would say I'm starting to be somewhat concerned that this perhaps was not the best idea I've ever come up with.   

The Aussie says to me "How do you want to dismount the plane?"

Me: "Excuse me?"

Aussie: "How do you want to dismount the plane?"

Me: "You're going to have to speak English.   I'm not so sure I have any idea what you're talking about".

Aussie: "Well, do you want to somersault out, or dive, or go out backwards?"

Here is my answer.   

"If you get me to the ground in one piece and on my feet, I don't care how we dismount this plane".

Oh ... to change the clock back.

I'm standing at the door.  We are at 14,000 feet.   There is an open doorway and every intelligent thought in my head resists going anywhere near that door.   Who in their right mind jumps into nothing?  

All I can see is white.  We are above the clouds.  There is no ants, no people, no houses, no streets and highways.  NOTHING.  White space.

And we're off.  I dive out with him attached to me.

The wind is so cold.   I feel like my skin is separating from my face.   You know those air dryers in the bathrooms.   The dysons.   You run your hands under them in the mall bathrooms and the skin does funny tricks and looks like it's separate from your hands.   

THAT WAS MY FACE.   

The rush.   

It felt like 100 miles an hour.   

We dove free fall at 5,000 feet.   

The oxygen.   

My lungs.

It was taking my breath away. 

Fast.

Shot out like a cannon.

And then everything stopped.

I was floating.   

We were floating.

And we were rising.

I caught my breath and looked around.   

I could see the entire Toronto skyline and I was FLOATING.

I looked up for the parachute but it wasn't there.

We had done training on this and I didn't understand how there was no chute above me.

I was so confused.  

I think I finally found my voice and squeaked out "did you pop the chute?"

And he said "no, I will soon"

I said "um, we are floating??"

Beyond anything you could ever grasp was that moment.   

It was without question the most peaceful moment of my life.

Floating.  

In the air.   

Like a bird.

We could navigate left and right towards other divers and there was NO chute.

Bizarre.   

Still is bizarre to me this day.

The most breathtaking view of Toronto I have ever seen.   

My ears were ringing.  

The peace was indescribable.

And then the chute was pulled.

We dropped down for what felt like a minute and then popped right back up higher than where we were in the first place.

As we started to descend, I didn't want it to be over.  

I wanted to land and run back over to the plane and do it all over again.

And this crazy Aussie landed on two feet BAREFOOT.

1000th jump.

My first.

A day to remember for the archives.

My adrenaline was so cranked that when I went to get in the car, I slammed the car door on my hand.  My finger was bleeding and I should've got stitches.  I wrapped my hand up with paper towel and stopped at Tim Horton's for cold water and gauze.  

I jumped out of a rickety plane and landed on two feet but needed stitches trying to get into the car.   

And I called my Mom.

"So, do you want the good news or the bad news?"

I still have the scar on my left index finger to prove it and a memory for life.

    

Nothing Half About It

In 5 days I am running my first half marathon. And let me tell you - this whole "half" thing is misleading. There is nothing "half" about it. It sounds like it is only half the work but I can assure you if you have never run it before, it is more than a "half marathon". It is a "holy crap, 13.1 miles, 21 km is a long freaking way half marathon". 

2 hours and 20 more minutes of running at a 10 minute mile pace. If I'm lucky, 40 or 41 songs. Notta half nothing. It's a whole lotta running. 

3 years ago I was one of those people who would not have read one word about anything to do with running. My story still surprises me and I'm not sure that even today I consider myself a "real" runner, although I suppose somewhere along the line I probably did become one.

In high school, I was part of a cross country team. And this term I would use extremely loosely. What this means is that I had the gear - hot pink tights and shoes - and showed up. And most times, barely. I had sports asthma as a child and I carried this inhaler like an excuse of why I could never be good. I didn't want to do the work - it was pretty much that simple. I thought anyone who was great was gifted and put no effort in. It just came naturally to them. I just wanted to wear the pink tights and say I was part of the team. And so I did. I went to the meets and I showed up. In awe of the good runners. And I carried that inhaler throughout the whole course and used it as a crutch for my performance whenever things got hard.

Because they do. 

Running is not a sport that can be done without effort. It is hard. Mentally and physically. And the setbacks are real.

Highschool was, um, a long time ago. And now we are fast forwarding 20 years later and at around 40 years old, I decided I should take this up. And totally by default. 

One afternoon I got suckered into a 'let's go for a run'. 

Again, the marvelous idea of how it sounded appealed to me. 

Well, aren't we going to be the ideal couple? It's so cute, right? Two people going for a run, perfectly in sync, the fit people. Pacing down the sidewalks, laughing with their earphones in, all dressed in running type stuff and smiling. Off for their healthy dinners and a good night's sleep.

HA. Couldn't be farther from the truth. 

Geared up as I always am, I lasted about 9 minutes. Panting, out of breath before the warm up was over, I had all the excuses lined up. "This isn't for me", "I'm not built to be a runner", "You're on your own" and "I'm out". .25 of a mile. OUT. Not interested. 

And if you've followed anything I've previously written -
I DON'T LIKE DOING ANYTHING I'M NOT GOOD AT. 

Period.

After that day, I randomly bought a book. It was called "Running Like A Girl". I read it on the train into the city every morning. It was about a girl who struggled with her weight who decided she was going to run. And from mile zero to a marathon. This was her story. And I was hooked. She was funny and it was inspiring and I decided I could do it.

I ran 1 mile.

And then I started to run multiple days.

I learned how to listen to my body, when I'd put too many miles on my legs, when I needed ice, when I could start again, when I could increase the distance, how the temperatures affected me.

And then I signed up for a 5k Reindeer Run when I lived in Chicago. I was terrified. I had never run 3.1 miles, I didn't know anyone in the city and I didn't even know where to park. My emotions were swirling fearing failure. 

It was -20 C on that Saturday morning and ridiculously cold - but I showed up. Carb loaded (which is very funny now since that run was 30 minutes and slightly over exaggerated to needing a carb load). 

But here I was. 

The atmosphere was amazing. Runners congregated in corners and in Starbucks staying warm talking about doing another "3" after the 5k. 

(WHAT??? You want to do more??) 

I felt so out of my element and my only goal was to finish. 

The race started. 

There were people in antlers and Santa costumes and I thought they were all seriously mad. Who sweats like this and dresses like a lunatic out there and how on earth are they comfortable? 

Do you people know this takes ALL my effort and I cannot fathom how any of you could dress up for a serious time like this??

I crossed the finish line in 34 minutes, about half way through my age group. BUT I FINISHED. I was over the moon. I can remember it like yesterday. 

To me, this was my marathon. 

I ran.
The whole way.
Without stopping.
With no inhaler and no walking and no excuses and a little bit of Bruno Mars, Keith Urban and Tesha (sad but true). 

Somehow that lit a spark. And I've run ever since. I've done some short races, raising money for different causes I'm proud to support. And so this year was time to raise the bar.

I wouldn't say my training has been most ideal. I wouldn't say it's textbook or follows any of the Running Room or Runner's World programs. It has been what I've felt I've been able to accomplish based on numerous circumstances.

Saturday I ran my last prep.
11.1 miles. 

U-N-H-E-A-R-D O-F 

My toes were cramping, my brain was in overdrive, I saw the same runners up and down the Burlington riverfront that I knew were doing the same thing and we all gave each other the "runner's nod". The "I know this is as painful for you as it is for me but we will all push each other through" nod.

- one more lap, 3 more songs, one more step in front of the other, two more minutes, almost there.

And this Sunday is 13.1 

I think it's important to not just write about that day. Because there will be adrenaline and energy that carries those last 2 miles beyond what I've trained for and a story in itself.

The hard work gets done before. The effort is over the past few years. There is nothing natural or gifted about this. This is the progress from running around the block and thinking I was going to die to building to 13.1. 

That 1 mile that was completely unattainable.
The huffing and puffing and red face after 9 minutes.

But here I am.
Against all odds.
Packing my bags this weekend and hitting the border.

For Toledo. 13.1. Glass City Half Marathon.

And there is nothing Half about it.