Serenity Prayer, Whitney Houston style

Well there's a bridge, and there's a river

That I still must cross

As I'm going on my journey though I might be lost

And there's a road I have to follow, a place I have to go

Well no one told me just how to get there

But when I get there I know

Cause I'm taking it step by step, bit by bit, stone by stone,

Brick by brick, step by step, day by day, mile by mile

And this old road is rough and ruined, so many dangers along the way,

So many burdens might fall upon me, so many troubles that I have to face

But I won't let my spirit fail me, I won't let my spirit go

Until I get to my destination I'm gonna take it slow because I'm makin it

I know you're hurtin, and I know you're blue, but don't let the bad things get to you...

Things seem to build up, layer upon layer upon layer, and it is so easy to feel overwhelmed. I find myself pulled into the worry about tomorrow, the next day, and the day after that. As I head out to run on this perfect fall day, I hope that 6 or 7 miles will clear my head and renew my spirit.

I tackle a few hills and let my mind and body meander through the streets of Newton, ogling over the big Victorian houses and pristine gardens and wondering who lives in these mansions and what their lives are like. I run up and down hilly sidestreets, pushing myself up the vertical roads and reminding myself that what goes up usually comes down. As I've learned from a few hilariously grueling races, what goes up doesn't always come down... The houses provide a pretty distraction and a scenic backdrop for my wandering thoughts.

The usual assortment of music is on my ipod and it keeps me going, running through Newton, Brighton, Chestnut Hill, and Brookline. And then Whitney Houston comes on as I am trudging up what feels like the biggest motherfucking hill in the city. Step by step, bit by bit, stone by stone, brick by brick, step by step, day by day, mile by mile. And it occurs to me that this mantra is so appropriate for not only today's run, but my life right now. So much is beyond my control and uncertain. So many things are unknown. How far can I go? How fast can I get there? What lies ahead? How will things work out? And what can I do? The few things that are within my control, I aim to do my best. And the rest...in the wise words of another one of my musical idols, Kenny Rogers, "You gotta know when to hold em, know when to fold em, know when to walk away, know when to run." With running, as with life, there is only so much I can control. I can push myself and challenge myself and accept that my course will get tough - maybe tougher than I am prepared for at times - but beyond that, the rest is up to something far greater than myself.

So that's all I can do. Step by step, mile by mile. Don't get too caught up in the future, for it may or may not look anything like I expect. Don't fear the hills, for I will get up them somehow, even if I have to walk.

Twelve miles later I arrive at my front door step, energized by this perspective and the chance to take it step by step. Sometimes that takes you further than you ever imagined possible.

Running is a lot like life

Thoughts on running:
1) Train all you want; sooner or later the race begins.
2) You can be at the front of the pack or the back of the pack, but once the gun goes off you can't hang around at the start line waiting for something to happen.
3) Some runs are good. Some runs suck. Run anyhow.

Thoughts on life:
See above.

Ignorance is Bliss(ters)

Take the first step in faith. You don't have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.

- Martin Luther King, Jr.

Had I known what I was getting myself into when I signed up for Sunday's run, I might have backed out. I might have found some really good excuse for staying home, sleeping a little later, and enjoying a few cups of strong coffee over the Sunday paper. But then I wouldn't have known, I wouldn't have experienced, and I wouldn't have enjoyed the ass-kicking that was the Blue Hills Skyline Trail 7.2 Mile run. This rocky, unforgiving, relentless gauntlet of hills, boulders, and steep inclines kicked my ass, but it did not kick my spirit. Actually, it kind of renewed it.

It poured rain Saturday - torrential, Biblically-proportional rains that flooded streets and closed roads. My neighborhood was awash with puddles and small rivers, and the thought of a trail run (or, the thoughts of careening down hills of mud and rocks) wasn't really enticing. It didn't seem like the wisest idea and the notion of bailing out crossed my mind more than a few times. But I'd signed up weeks ago and done my best to train. Moreover, it would be my last run for a long while with my running buddy Sarah, who was scheduled to move two days later, and my first run in a long time with my friend Alex, who I hadn't seen in months. Sarah and I made a plan to check in with each other late Saturday night and re-evaluate the situation. Another check in Sunday morning. When my phone rang at 6 a.m. Sunday, I was awakened by Sarah saying, "it's not raining....", which could only mean one thing: the run was on.

Here is a quote from the guy with last year's course record: "You might think that anything a few miles from downtown Boston can’t be too difficult, but the Skyline has surprised many runners...this run was the most technically challenging run I’ve ever done. It is amazing how much climbing they fit into a nine mile trail in this part of the state that is so very flat. There are 6-7 stone staircases in both directions, and the footing is straight out treacherous over about 16 of the 18 miles. The feeling of crunching a foot between two rocks is all too common on the Skyline Trail, and there are few good places to fall. You will usually end up in a pile of very sharp rocks."

Terrified? Me? Yes. I thought about staying home, but knew if I did so I'd probably never forgive myself. And despite my anxiety about the insanity of embarking on such a treacherous run, I wanted to see my friends, spend time outdoors, and see if I could actually do this run. The doubting part of my ego questioned why I'd want to do the run, and what made me think I could even come close to competing in a field of lanky, speedy, agile runners. I imagined myself crossing the finish line - covered in mud, poison ivy, and various scrapes, bruises, and gashes - hours after everyone else had packed up and gone home. Not a pretty picture.

Fortunately, the somewhat kinder, gentler side of my ego stepped in, cheered me on, and told me to just do my best. If worse came to worse, I could just walk. It wasn't the most appealing option, but I could simply STOP RUNNING and shift into Sunday-hike-in-the-Blue-Hills mode. Not ideal, but not impossible. There was no reason for me not to finish - or for that matter, begin - this run.

By 8 a.m. 80 of us assembled at the "start line", a simple white line chalked across a path. The race director outlined the course, noting landmarks and land mines, and off we went. We hauled ass straight up hill and into the woods, still buzzing with excitement, nervous energy, and a recent breakfast. The pack of runners filtered out and I found myself in my usual place - not entirely at the back of the pack, but pretty darn close. The front of the pack? They were long gone.

People tend not to talk much on trail runs, which might be why I like them (the runs and the people) so much. If you talk, you risk losing the peace, serenity, and fragile silence that accompanies jogging through the pristine woods. You also risk slipping, falling, twisting an ankle, or doing a face plant into a mud puddle. I have seen it all happen, almost always to some loudmouth in an Ironman race jersey as he is yapping about his PR. As I allowed the silence of the woods on a Sunday morning embrace me, I let my thoughts wander. I began an inner monologue of positive thoughts and words, telling myself to keep going, keep breathing, and enjoy this beautiful opportunity, even when it felt like I couldn't take another step. Despite the rough terrain, though, there was never a moment when I thought I wouldn't finish or when I cursed signing up for this run. At times I even enjoyed it.

The course was beyond challenging - it was INSANE! Without a doubt it was the most grueling, exhausting, laborious, taxing, demanding run I HAVE EVER RUN. It was also the most exhilarating, rewarding, amazing, satisfying, beautiful ass-kicking to which I have ever subjected myself. 2200 feet of vertical incline. 12 + sets of rock "stairs". Boulders. Rocks. Pebbles. Gravel. Tree roots. Fallen trees. Stream crossing. Scrambling. Inclines so steep you couldn't run even if you wanted to. And quiet dirt roads, skyline views, crunchy pine cones and twigs underfoot. Nature at its most authentic.

I ran by myself for most of the time but for a few moments with a very special person - I didn't know who he was until I ran up right beside him and recognized his famous-in-running-circles face and sweet smile. Rich is a 78 year old man from Marlborough who has run in over 70 Marathons and 61 Ultra Marathons ("ultra" as in longer than 26.2 miles. MUCH longer.) He ran the Vermont 100, which is 100 miles nonstop, at age 72, becoming the oldest person to complete the race. Rich was 53 when he ran his first Marathon. It is not humanly possible to run next to this guy and not be inspired. We ran together for a couple of minutes, admiring the course and enjoying the morning, and eventually settled back into our own paces. For the record, Rich finished the race all of two minutes after me and barely broke a sweat.

Pretty soon The End was near. My clothes were drenched with sweat and my legs were caked with dirt. My sunscreen had by now trickled down my neck and a few little blisters had formed on strategically incapacitating locations on my feet. Several miles and hours were behind me and I was happy. As I trundled down the last 3/4 mile hill, dry grass and brush whipping against my legs, sun burning, and small pebbles pecking my ankles, I felt alive. The sky blazed with brightness and a slight breeze ruffled the trees around me. I could see the base of the slope. Alone, I took deep breaths and tried to fill myself with all the goodness and vibrance of this sacred morning. I wanted to breathe it all in and hold it in my lungs, in my mind, in my heart.

Sometimes not fully knowing what I'm getting myself into can be helpful. We can panic at the unknown or fear it, but ultimately the best we can do is simply take that first step.

“To climb steep hills requires slow pace at first.” - Shakespeare

I am on the brink of finishing my first full year of school. As I look back over the past ten months, I can hardly imagine what it was like to inhabit the world in which I previously lived and worked. It seems like another life, someone else's life. I remember writing last summer about how different it was to get up, throw on some jeans, and bike up to campus. Now, that's my life. That's my reality. And I love it. Had I known how happy school would make me, maybe I would have done it sooner. But no, there was a lot of learning that had to happen before I was actually ready to be in school.

I head out to run early on Sunday morning, letting the previous week filter through my mind and making room for the coming week to seep in. In preparation for an upcoming trail run, I set out towards the hills and it is less than a mile before I'm tackling one. It's early but it's already muggy and humid; as I take on the incline, I am sweating profusely. Soon enough I am rewarded with a sweet decline, a gentle reprieve. I coast a little bit and let gravity carry me, feeling the cooling breeze.

So many times this year have felt like the incline - demanding, exhausting, and challenging me to put in more than I think I have. How many times did the list of things to read and write and do seem endless? How many times did I let my worries get the better of me? How many times did I simply feel beaten down by the hill before me? Probably more than a few. I will admit that there were things I worried about that, in retrospect, I needn't have. And there were things I didn't think I had the strength to do but somehow found it, deep within a reservoir of something yet undiscovered.

Now is the downhill. There were a few of them during the year - moments of triumph, relief, comfort, or coasting. Moments when I exhaled and let gravity carry me. Moments when I inhaled the fresh air, felt the breeze, and enjoyed the moment with every fiber of my being. This is where I am, this is what I'm doing, this is who I am now. And I am happy.

It's hard to begin to quantify what I've learned this year, both inside the classroom and out. It's almost impossible to put into words how amazing, life-giving, eye-opening, challenging, exciting and rewarding this year has been. It has pushed me and pulled me into a new world. I have learned to listen, to pray, to be present. To push myself and to also let myself rest. To think in a new way. To challenge and be challenged, and to not simply hear, memorize, and accept without question.

As I finish my run, having tackled 7.5 miles of hills, I feel full of energy. I am excited about the upcoming run with my classmates, partly because I'm looking forward to spending time with them and running, but also because by then I'll be done with the semester. And what better way to celebrate it than by running through the woods and getting muddy with friends. Amen!

...Above all, trust in the slow work of God.

So many, many things to think about. Finishing classes in less than four months (and then??). My friend’s best friend passed away a few weeks ago, after a six month wrestling match with leukemia. I went to El Salvador; it changed me for life. Fr. Greg came to BC to read from his new book. I continue to wonder if I want to be a Catholic, if I want to be a chaplain, and if I want to be a Catholic chaplain. Highs and lows. Lots to think about. Run it out, girlfriend. Run it out.

And so that’s what I do, because when all else fails, when I am certain of absolutely nothing, when those feelings of confusion, impatience, faithlessness, and loneliness creep up on me, the one thing I know I can count on to lift me up is running.

I wake up early on Sunday morning and am having breakfast and reading the paper by 6:30 a.m. I have always loved this time of day. It’s my time. Though I spend a significant amount of time on my own, there is something very different about the solitude of the early morning. It is solitude by choice. It is peace. It is the feeling of knowing that while much of the city slumbers, I delight in the pristine morning light, cool air, stillness, and quiet.

Seven miles should do the trick and as I set out I mentally plot a tentative route, knowing I’ll abandon it in favor of hidden sidestreets, hills, and detours. Knowing that today the mileage doesn’t matter enough for me to surrender the luxury of losing myself in the reverie of feet pounding pavement, taking me where they will, leading me up hills, carrying me mile after mile. The sky is clear and almost technicolor. Crocuses have peeped out overnight. After the deluge of last week’s rain storm, the metaphor of new life is more than noticeable. I think about that for a while and it brings me new life. I have felt so jaded and spent the past few weeks; knowing that life will rise again from between sidewalk cracks and walkways, under shrubs and trees, and in small gardens…this is life-giving to me. The winter ice that has clouded my heart and soul begins to melt.

I haven’t run for almost two weeks and settling into a rhythm is like finding my way into the embrace of an old friend. It’s comfortable and reassuring; I feel at home in my own body, peaceful and happy.

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin was right.

Great Stew Chase - Lynn, MA

Running for stew? Beef stew, no less? Oh what the heck, why not.

When my phone rang at 11 p.m. last night, I knew I'd be running alone. Sure enough, my friend was calling to tell me she couldn't make it to the run. As I've previously written, going to a race alone is, for me, like walking into happy hour on Friday night alone. It's more fun when your friends are there! So I had a little pity party, got over it, and went to sleep. Running races alone is not my favorite thing, but sometimes it's just the thing I need.

Driving up to Lynn on my own, I called a friend who I know wakes up early. We caught up on each other's lives and chit-chatted a little. Then I called my sister and caught up with her. By the time I got to the race I'd had two really nice conversations. It was freezing, but the sun was shining brilliantly and the sky was crystal clear blue.

I checked in and got my number before spotting a few people from the team I used to run with. I caught up with them until it was time to head out. And then, out into the freezing cold weather we went. We lined up at the start, wind whipping through our hair and rustling our jackets. After a quick "ready, go!" we were off.

Hills. More hills. Cold wind. Two waterstops in 9.3 miles. Icy gusts of air. I reach back to pull my hair into a ponytail but feel something like twigs on my neck. It is my hair...frozen into icicles.

Today, I don't know where my thoughts are. I listen to my music and zone out, not really wanting to think about anything, not really needing to. The miles fly by. And then we're done.

Grab a water, stretch, and go. Nothing particularly memorable about this one. Not even an ugly t-shirt.

I killed the hill(s): Part II

Just. Keep. Going. That was my mantra last Sunday, as hill after hill after big, f-ing hill rose up before me, waited around the corner for me, and lured me forward with the promise of flaming quads on the way up and screaming hamstrings on the way down. After enough of those hills, I knew what I was in for. I knew what was coming, and I knew I could do it. I just had to tell myself over and over again: Just. Keep. Going. Don't stop. Don't slow down. Don't get sidetracked or slowed into inertia or overwhelmed at the prospect of what's ahead. It's there, it's ahead of you, and you can do it. I repeated this over and over in my head and somehow made myself believe it. At long last, after 16 miles of hills, I reached the finish line. For the record, it was at the top of a hill.

It's a good thing I did that run last week, because this week I don't know if I could even drag my sorry ass out of bed, never mind up to New Hampshire and through the middle of nowhere. Since I started school six months ago, this has been the busiest and probably most stressful seven days. Books. Papers. Residency applications. A two-day-a-week internship that seems to think I should answer emails and get projects done the other five days a week, too. A meeting with my advisor to discuss a synthesis project. A meeting with a colleague to work out details for a fundraising event in two weeks. (Wait a sec, didn't I run kicking and screaming from fundraising? Yeah, I thought so.) The realization that I might finish classes in six months. A meeting with my spiritual director in which I discuss my free-fall of faith and wonder aloud and tearful whether I should or even want to remain Catholic. An alarm that jolted me awake at 5:30 a.m. every day and found me, book in hand, moments later. On several occasions during the week, I literally had to stop and force myself to take a deep breath to release the knot in my stomach. Breathe, I told myself. Breathe.

How many times have I told myself that during a race? Breathe. Breathe. No seriously, breathe. Keep going, keep putting one foot in front of the other, keep looking ahead and just keep going. This week felt like a race to me, minus the gummy bears and sports bra. Several times this week I actually broke into a jog to make sure I got wherever I was going on time. Several times this week I kinda wished I had a cheerleading crowd or a bunch of drunk college students by the side of the road, cheering and screaming things like, "Lookin' good!! Almost there!! You can do it!!" Because really, several times this week I wasn't so sure. I wasn't feelin' so good, probably wasn't lookin' so good, didn't feel like I was anywhere near 'there', and definitely wasn't convinced I could do it.

When I felt like I needed those cheerleaders and words of encouragement, somehow they appeared. A call from my friend to tell me she's pregnant. A call from my Dad to see how I'm doing. A dirty joke from one friend and a funny post card from another. A cute email, a good workout, a strong espressso, a fun song on the radio, a moment of silence in the chapel. These little moments joined together to be my cheerleaders, my Gatorade, and my gummy bears. They sustained me during the race, propelled me up the hills and guided me safely back down.

Each time I felt like I was on the verge of slowing down, giving up, throwing in the towel and calling it a day, I reminded myself: Just. Keep. Going. Keep reading that book, keep writing that paper, keep working on that application. Don't quit yet. Keep at it. Keep going. No one says I'm gonna win the race, and no one says that getting to the finish is gonna be pretty, easy, or necessarily fun, but I will get there.

Derry NH, 16 Miler - I killed the hill(s)

Up at 6:30. Coffee. Clothing. Check email. My door buzzes at 7:10; Sarah is early. Soon enough we're heading North in the warmth of my car, catching up on talk of work and school and life and everything else that can be shared between two people who have commiserated over chafing, cramps, and porta potties.

The drive to NH is easy; it's early enough on a Sunday morning and no one's really out. The sun is breaking through the clouds, giving the sky an almost mosaic look. Blue patches push their way through the morning sky, illuminating the snowy fields on either side of the road. We cruise up 93 and reach Derry around 8:30, park the car and head to the gym. It's crowded and busy, buzzing with energy and excitement. We pick up our race numbers and t-shirts (a hideous cayenne-pepper red, seriously?!) and find a spot on the floor in the crowded gym.

I have been feeling apprehensive about this run since the minute I clicked 'register' on the website. It's the longest distance I've done in a while and I haven't been feeling particularly focused on training. Over the past few weeks my mind and my energy have been on a number of different things, running not being one of them. I've gotten in my normal workouts and a few good weekend runs, but have been almost lackadaisical about it. No training plan on the fridge, no countdown to race day, no protein shakes. Okay, I never really did the protein shakes to begin with, but I always meant to start! I hadn't even mentioned the run to anyone until yesterday at dinner when a few friends asked what I was doing for the rest of the weekend.

We have almost an hour and a half before the race starts and I know it's not in my best interest to get sidetracked by and sucked into the nervous energy around me. Though the room is full of loud chatter, laughter, and back-slapping guys who feel compelled to grunt, I do see a few wise folks chilling out in quiet corners, reading a magazine or book or just relaxing. I follow suit and sit comfortably with my ipod. Surrounded by hundreds of runners, I retreat to my quiet place, to my inner solitude. I remind myself to enjoy this day and this run, as so many people do not have the freedom, the resources, or the opportunity to get up and do the same. I remind myself to run my own race - it's not about the skinny chick in hot pink running tights next to me or the lanky guy in an Army shirt who passes me - they have their own race, and I have mine. I relax, I breathe and I pray.

After a short while it's time to go. I have somehow lost Sarah to the bathroom lines, so I head to the start, knowing we'll reunite at the finish. We gather at the start line and without so much as a megafone or whistle or horn, we begin. And we're off, just like that. The voices and sounds of the crowd buoy me along for the first half mile or so, then I put on my ipod and retreat to that inner place of prayer, affirmation, serenity, strength, and rockin' tunes. I keep the positive monologue going and remind myself to take it one mile at a time and to just. keep. going.

I pray, dedicating each mile to a person or a cause, remembering them, asking God's blessing on them, and, when I feel tired, just repeating the words or phrases in my head, reminding myself that whatever mile I'm running is for them. It gives me focus and perspective, and it makes my "job" of running a race seem a lot easier and more fun.

The hills are unlike anything I have seen before - constant, massive, and relentless. I wonder if my energy will run out, if my legs will be done before I am. I see people walking up one of the first hills and remind myself that walking is always an option. There is no shame in taking it a little easy on yourself when the road is tough. Metaphor for life? Perhaps.

There are mile markers every mile, a few water stops, a good cadre of volunteers, and that's it. I mean THAT'S IT. No timing clocks (woohoo!), no banners, and few people cheering. There was an older couple in lawn chairs, drinking coffee from a thermos and reading the Sunday paper and there were a few little kids throwing snowballs at us - I guess that could count as 'cheering'. In a weird way...

Miles 8 through 10, I don't even know what's happening to me. I keep going faster, passing people left and right. This never happens to me, and I'm sort of freaked out by it. Did someone spike my water? Did I OD on coffee this morning? I am actually picking up speed and enjoying it. I feel good. I pray that it will last.

The miles tick by, one by one. Every time I pass a mile marker I pop a few gummy bears, take a deep breath, and look around. Damn, New Hampshire is beautiful. Horse farms, rolling hills, winding roads. The fact that I cannot see what's around the corner (or, that I cannot see how big the hill is around the next corner) helps a lot. I just keep moving, moving, moving. I pass mile 13 and can't believe I've just run a half marathon. Just a few more miles. Keep praying, keep moving, keep breathing. Mile 14. Mile 15. I turn on my favorite song and let it propel me up and down the final hills. We are coming back the way we ran out, and the start/finish is just ahead. I can see the finish line timing clock and I feel really good. Sprint the final few hundred meters up the school driveway and I'm done. Just like that. Just like we started. It's over. Someone leans down and takes off my ankle timer. My hamstrings are screaming. But I feel good. It's done, and I did it.